Hi and Sorry for all the Links.

So, I’ve been busy. There’s the Naked Bits gig, which I’m totally loving, and I hope you are, too, so while you’re sitting at your computer anyway, send off a little note to the Village Voice telling them how hard Audacia Ray’s Naked City rocks. Michael Musto shouldn’t get all the glory. Loveyoumichaelloveyourhairmwah!

Turns out that regular writing for the above has given me back the “huh, I should maybe blog about something” bug again, which is good, because blogging or rambling or digital diarrhea or whatever you’d like to call it, serves as a kind of warm up for better stuff. And I’ve been doing better stuff.

Like, hey, I wrote a book! Okay, not my own concept, and not Pulitzer stuff, but writing for hire is writing for hire, and I got paid to write a funny, silly, sexy little book. Often I found it more funny than sexy, but that’s partly because I laugh a lot while fucking. Actually, probably because the process of the book was pretty hilarious. I don’t know what it’s called yet, and the last I heard it’ll be published, like, Spring of 2009. That seems forever from now, but then I’m still unpacking from my summer vacation last year, so I think we can all guess how the time will go from here. I will, of course, post more when I know more, but hey, I thought that was kind of fun. Also, there are lots of hilarious naked photographs on my computer now that I desperately need to drag over to the external HD. No, I’m not getting rid of them, they turn me on and make me laugh simultaneously. That’s good stuff, folks.

Also, hey, I’ve got a story in the Rachel Kramer Bussel’s forthcoming anthology Spanked: Red Cheeked Erotica, available for preorder here. Check out the blog here. My story is called Laser Tag. I think it’s funny. Rachel apparently thinks it’s hot, and it’s based loosely on events from a Flaming Lips show last summer. So there’s that. Order the book! Get it in July! Imagine the poolside/seaside conversations you could be having once you’ve been spotted reading it. (Uh, seriously? I’d buy it for the cover alone. Yow.)

I’m working on another nameless writing project which I hope will garner more coinage, contacts and constructive criticism (unless said criticism finds fault with my rampant and mostly unintentional use of alliteration), because I’m really kind of digging this.

Um, what else?

My ex still thinks it’s okay to be superbly behind on his support for our children, so that’s a nice constant, but I believe I am steadily making strides toward not totally relying on him. Like, omg, what if he made a ton of money and decided to all of a sudden write a check for everything he owes? Dudes, I would skip my happy ass to the bank, wait cynically for five business days to make sure it cleared, and fucking go to Disneyland. Or Canada, because I think that overall, Canada’s a pretty happy place and giant mice pretty much eliminate the fun factor for me.

Okay, so let’s recap: I’m doing well, not flush enough to attend Pilcrow and support my ladies Amy Guth and Leah Jones (Wah!), but things are moving and I’m doing pretty okay. I could stand to exercise more, to look awesome for my future book signings, so I’ve set myself up an online running log. If you’re on Active.com come over and say hi. Apparently I can’t get enough of the social networking doohickie. Though I’ve heretofore resisted Facebook, my sense is that eventually I will crumble to its will.

Along the same lines, Twitter seems to have taken over as my preferred method of disseminating awesomeness across the interwebs. So easy to just pick up my Blackberry and go “woah, check this out!<< Link>>” (Seriously, check it out.) You can follow my Twitter updates if you want. Probably I won’t insult you or anyone you know and if I do, probably you/they are mean and deserved it, and/or it’s funny.

Let’s go have some fun.

I Have a Secret Heart

Feist

C’mon, secret heart, tell her how you feel.
I love this song. Feist makes me want to fall backward onto my bed and hug a pillow and Ron Sexsmith is an awesome songwriter. Elvis Costello says so.

What’s so Funny ’bout Peace, Love & Understanding?

You know what would make my holidays happier? If people would stop wishing me a Merry Christmas wherever I go. I mean, for seriously.

Yesterday I was shopping with my mother who, as it turns out, is not Jewish. Hey, you just learned something about me. So anyway, we’re at this clothing store where we know the owner, who is a dumbass and a flake, and “sharon” says to me, “Oh, Madeline, I bet your kids are getting so excited for Santa Claus! Have they been making their Christmas Lists?!”

This is one of my favorite conversations to have because I like watching people backtrack and squirm.

“Well, no, they’re not, because we don’t celebrate Christmas at our house.”

“Oh . . . oh, right. Well, they must be excited for Chanukah, right?”

My mother, who can’t stand squirmage, jumped to Sharon’s rescue. “Miles and Jack actually say that: ‘We don’t have Christmas at our house; we have it at Grammy’s house.”

“Oh! So I’ll bet they’re giving their Christmas lists to Grandma!”

Fuck me, man.

“Actually, since Chanukah is a relatively minor holiday in Judaism, we keep it pretty low-key. They don’t make lists of things they want.”

The lady looked like she was trying to comprehend this information, while at the same time thinking how deprived my poor children must be that they don’t get to experience sticky-sweet excessive consumerism. I shot my mom a look.

“It’s really very refreshing,” she said, “I’ve never gotten a list from them.”

Then I told my mom, since I didn’t feel like talking to the lady any more, but I wanted to make sure she heard me, about what Miles had said to me on Monday night.

“I remember when we had Chanukah at our old apartment: we played dreidel on the floor and got chocolate gelt and we each lit our own menorah and I got a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle on a Motorcycle! That was awesome. I still have that turtle.”

We left that store and popped into the grocery store across the street. On the way out the bell ringer called out, “Merry Christmas!” and I just held my head up and kept walking. Because I know that, in my town at least, the Salvation Army INSTRUCTS their ringers to say that. But I also know that, where Disapproving Maya works, the management asked the bell ringers to say “Happy Holidays” instead.

See? Nice, easy, inclusive. And I know that the Salvation Army is a Christian charity, duh. But charity, acceptance and coexistence are all Christian tenets, right?

I guarantee you that Jews would throw lots more money into those red buckets if we didn’t feel marginalized by the assumption that we believe that Christ was the only son of God/Eternally begotten of the Father/God from God/Light from Light/True God from True God/Begotten not made/ of one being with the father/through him all things were made/for us and for our salvation he was conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit and born of the Virgin Mary and was made man/For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate, he suffered death and was buried.

How about some Latin, yeah? Just to keep things interesting? You bet.

Crucifixus etiam pro nobis sub Pontio Pilato, passus et sepultus est, et resurrexit tertia die, secundum Scripturas, et ascendit in caelum, sedet ad dexteram Patris. Et iterum venturus est cum gloria, iudicare vivos et mortuos, cuius regni non erit finis.

Et in Spiritum Sanctum, Dominum et vivificantem, qui ex Patre procedit. Qui cum Patre et Filio simul adoratur et conglorificatur: qui locutus est per prophetas. Et unam, sanctam, catholicam et apostolicam Ecclesiam. Confiteor unum baptisma in remissionem peccatorum. Et expecto resurrectionem mortuorum, et vitam venturi saeculi. Amen.

Whoa. Like, don’t assume we believe that. Just because some of us know it by heart, just like we know “Away in a Manger” and “Silent Night” because our orchestra and choir programs apparently weren’t subject to the whole “separation of church and state” thing.  And please don’t assume that, just because your response is, “but it’s a seasonal greeting/I’m not talking about religion,” it makes any difference to Jews or Muslims or Pagans or Atheists or Wiccans or any other minority faith. We really don’t care.

As my friend Amy Guth put it (far more eloquently and less rantingly) on her blog, it’s not my birthday, it’s yours, and it feels oogy when you keep wishing me a happy one.

I came home and called the grocery store manager.

Guth. Guthier. Guthiest.

I bet you didn’t even notice I was gone, did you?

For eighteen hours I took up residence in Chicago, one of my favorite cities. Sixteen of those were spent in the company of Kelly, a boy I haven’t told you about, but whom I like immensely, at a swanky hotel near Water Tower Place. The remaining two were spent at the Argo Tea Cafe with the ginormously funny and cool Amy Guth.

We sat outside on a beautiful, sunny day and traded stories of cats and dogs, siblings and well, the things that kids do and say. It will be a while before I can hear “vagina” and not scream in a fit of laughter. Seriously, it’s good we were outside, because we have very similar laughs: a hearty “HAAA!” followed by peals of giggles.

It was great fun, and I thank her for taking the time to meet up. Next time I’m in town, the tea will be replaced with respectable amounts of wine. Think about it, Guthieroo: When we’re old ladies in Boca and we want to get the gang together to play mah jonng, it can be a three drink minimum and then all the altecockers will get ripped and then everyone gets laid. The end.

Origin of Love

So, over at The Fuck House, my ex-boyfriend marcus and our mutual boyfriend Jefferson have been having a discussion of sorts about Hedwig and the Angry Inch, John Cameron Mitchell and (ugh) Rufus Wainwright.

You can track the jabs and insults here.

I wanted to post this version of one of my favorite songs ever, because JCM is my bf, too, and I actually did blow him in the ladies’ room right before this in-store performance and then he went out and sang this song.

That boy loves to makes me cry.

Eat Me, You Shall!

Hah!

Miles wants this cake. I saw the instructions and went, “Dude, I am not an artist.”

“But you’re a baker,” he countered, “you can bake anything.”

Not this, Young Skywalker, not this.

Via GirlFarts.

Pour Some Sugar on Me (Madeline in the Mirror)

Okay, pour it on the Sugarbutch herself. I mean, you could pour it on me, and I’d like that, but she’s actually invited it for herself.

See, Sinclair at Sugarbutch Chronicles has this nifty contest going on called Be The Next Sugarbutch Star which involves collecting scenarios from readers suggesting an erotic encounter, with the five winning submissions being featured on her site. From the five, a winner will be chosen by readers, with the winning participant, um, winning something.

Because everyone wants to be a star.

The rules are simple: Sketch out a rough (heh heh) outline of a scene you’d like Sin to write. And if you read her blog, you know that lady can write one hot fuck. She offers a sample submission (heh heh) for the contest here. The best part is that you don’t have to write anything particularly hot or lyrical; that’s her job. Though, that didn’t stop me from going full-on crazy with the details when I started writing mine.

Sinclair just gets me hot like that.

Not to worry, I pared it down to essential info and I’m all aflutter wondering what she’ll do with it if she chooses to use it.

So, come on! You’ve got until the calendar turns (That’s midnight Tuesday, sweeties.) to get yours in. Read the details, jot off a few sentences and send them to Sin at aspiringstud(at)gmail.com.

Man, now I have the Mary Katherine Gallagher “Superstar!” thing in my head.

Catharsis

They come out of hiding as soon as my children are gone. Friends and lovers calling to check in. I am grateful for the contact, as it is much too quiet here.

Over the next two days I have plans with nearly all my friends (and several lovers, two of whom I’ve already seen since returning). Here’s hoping the activity level can be sustained and continued over the next two weeks.

I’m busy working and writing, too, and doing big projects in the house, so to all of you who said, “Just keep busy, Maddie. It’ll help pass the time,” check my shit out, man.

Oh, I got another phone call from Jack yesterday, and one this morning at 6:19. Gack. I’m sure the hushed tones as I hid in the bathroom piqued the interest of the person half asleep in my bed:

“Baby, I love you. You are my brave, sweet boy. I know you’ll have a good visit. I saw your photos from day camp and it looks awesome! Take hugs and kisses, and call me whenever you want.”

Almost Famous

Whenever the news hits the innernets that I’m coming to New York, the requests for an audience commence.

I’m not being conceited; it kind of boggles my mind that I have a full dance card and invitations that i have to turn down in order to remain semi-sane and spend enough time with my boyfriend. It’s totally bizarre and I like it, for the most part. Because, for the most part, my NYC friends are cool about giving me space when I’m in town.

I was all over the damn place last weekend, from Jefferson’s apartment to Viviane’s, concerts in Central Park and barbecue in Madison Square Park, double-team flogging by Lolita and the blond, followed by a little knife play, holy ass. We walked through the Puerto Rican Day Parade and stopped by a Shortbus-esque sex (?) party in Brooklyn, running into people wherever we went.

I enjoyed a hardcore show in the East Village, kissing my favorite queer butch top in an elevator, shopping for floggers and lunching in Chelsea, shopping for pretty shoes and discovering the Organic section of Jefferson’s supermarket which is much, much nicer and mellower than the big, scary section for the masses. I would happily pay 50 cents more for a bell pepper up there if it means I get to keep my sanity. Seriously.

The weekend culminated in Monday evening’s Naked on the Internet book panel at the Museum of Sex, where I joined Ellen Friedrichs, Lux Nightmare and Marie Lyn Bernard in a discussion about women and the Internet, moderated by the fierce and very lovely Audacia Ray. Photos were snapped. Feels were copped. I didn’t wear underwear, and the whole lot of us went to Shilla in Koreatown for a late dinner.

My new shoes were complimented upon by a group of women walking past. That was worth the price of the footwear. Seriously, when a woman walks by, points and says, “Those shoes are fanTAStic!”, one’s buyer’s remorse suddenly vanishes.

So much to do, and not enough time, plus my nerves were a bit frayed in preparation for the panel, which was the first time I’ve appeared in public as Madeline. I didn’t wear a disguise, brilliant or otherwise, and it was actually kind of awesome. The other women were amazing and funny and smart and there were many familiar faces in the sold out audience. I could have/should have talked more about myself as a woman who blogs about sex, and what that’s like, but I’m not that adept at the personal promotion. Working on that.

Also, marcus and his boyfriend Seamus came up and stayed with us and it was a little weird. With marcus. Not with Seamus, who is so cool and beautiful I would like to lick his teeth and put him in my pocket. I think marcus and I’ve got the weirdness sorted through, though, so that’s good.

I brought a gift of makeup to Lillie, we painted our nails and made ourselves up like Terri Nunn on the cover of Berlin’s Pleasure Victim. Also, Miss Mary Mack is the best clapping game ever.

Also, Audacia and I exchanged gifts: I gave her a wide black headband with white Jolly Rogers on it and she gave me a big purple dildo.

All in all, a banner visit.

“I Know All the Words to Every Charlie Daniels Song”

Someone’s mother commented a few weeks back about how I am like part of the family, because I’m a redneck, too.

She said this as a compliment, and I took it as one. Because, while I am not a “Redneck Woman,” I certainly live in that part of the country where one is more likely to hear that song on the radio than, say, Soundgarden. It’s not who I am, but it’s part of my existence. I understand it culturally and frankly, I am nothing if not chameleonic. My redneck mama gets this about me.

I can sing that Gretchen Wilson song, thanks, followed by a serpentine, choreographed Shirley Bassey number. Hey, hand me that cello and I might play Shostakovich for you. I will discuss public health policy on a date and diss Jeff Gordon with my brother. I don’t tolerate narrow mindedness and the fact that Miles describes his new friend as having “dark brown skin and her hair in braids with lots of beads” makes my heart melt.

I’m on the PTA and I like getting it up the ass.

I had my abortion and my children by choice.

I don’t spend time with mean people. Excellent choice, that.

Perception’s a funny thing. I’m glad when it works in my favor, like with my redneck mama.

When I told a friend about that comment, she cackled:

“Dude, how can she think you’re a redneck; you have multi-hued hair and a nosering.”

Hell, yeah.