The Return of the Failing Boy!

So, I started class at the community college for the second half of summer, and I started extra shifts at work. Combine this with shitty computer service, and Failing Boy fell to the wayside.

Fortunately, I'm getting better at this whole time management thing, so maybe I can actually post now and again. Plus, since I'm now a local college student, I have unlimited access to fast internet on campus, rather than relying on the *coughshamefulcough* dial up I have at home.

So, I decided to restart my posting by talking about a girl I know- personally and biblically.

See, you take one emotionally burned budding lesbian virgin, drive her an hour south to another college town, and introduce her to a grad student girl who thinks the budding virgin is an experienced old dyke. And cue sex.

And, because it's two women, cue emotional hang ups. See, recently deflowered dyke doesn't want committment, and graduating grad student does. And now friends, she has it.

With a wonderful guy named Michael. And the aforementioned deflowered (erm, me), doesn't know how to feel about it.

I mean, I'm elated that she's found someone who can be what she needs; I've spent way too long trying to hint around that I don't have a U-haul to bring into the mess.

But I can't decide if her settling down with a man is better or worse than if she had met Ms. Right.

Prior to my burgeoning whore phase, I was head over heels for a now-reformed-straight-girl. And she was (emotionally, at least) head over heels for me, in a way filled with teen angst and closet case freakouts. Once, while she was dating some scenester boy who pissed me off, she asked me never to date a girl; she couldn't handle seeing me with another woman, but a guy was okay. Well, unfortunately I don't like penises, but fortunately at the time I was the ultimate in awkward nerdy closet case, so I didn't really date at all. And I couldn't understand how seeing me with a woman was worse; the way I saw it, it hurt like hell either way.

And now, hearing my one night stand turned semi-relationship talk about this guy, I see her point- to a point. Yeah, if she was with another woman, I'd feel like it was my appearance or personality that wasn't good enough, not my parts.

But her being with a guy has it's own faults, because it makes me feel like I fall short biologically, even though logically I know it's because I run from commitment like I run towards an ice cream truck.

In our conversation, which was mostly friendly, she also idly suggested that I was player, which I'm okay with for now. I see her point, and I mostly feel bad that I wasn't more up front with her.

And I feel bad that, though I knew she was bi, I'm still acting a little betrayed. I tell everyone that I'm not attracted to women who are attracted to men, and yet I just keep sleeping with them. Conclusion:

I need to get out of Arkansas.

Profile: Athens Boys Choir

Reasons to love Athens Boys Choir:

1. He's a hot, out transguy
2. He doesn't take himself so seriously that he can't write songs such as "EZ Heeb."
3. He toured with Ani Difranco
   
4. He's a southern boy.

While visiting some friends a couple weeks ago, I got the chance to listen to some more songs by Athens Boys Choir than "Fagette," which I first heard earlier this spring.

God help me, the man makes me like rap.
I don't have a lot to say on this subject because, frankly, I'm still getting familiar with this artist. Six months from now, I may hate him.

But right now, I kinda love him. He's an awesome, notable transguy who talks about being trans in his music. And he's not half as depressing as Lucas Silveira can be in his lyrics at times.

I mean, just look:
I rest my case.

"I Never Met a Man"

"I never met a man I liked as much as my horse," the old cowgirl told my mom our first year at the rodeo. Years later, my mom is still convinced she's a lesbian, and in my mind I've rewritten her whole life into some kind of lesbo Brokeback Mountain.

The rodeo is an odd experience, filled with dirt, earthy smells, and acne and muscle-covered cowboys who wink at you or- literally, now- tip their hats to you.

It's a flustering, if entertaining experience. I'm not used to getting a lot of male attention these days, but then, I'm not used to dressing quite like this: long sleeve western shirts, push up bras, tight blue jeans and boots. Hair down and curly. No think glasses.

God help me, I looked like a girl. And I had a little fun getting the stares, not gonna lie. Not too mention the fact that, for all my ranting against animal cruelty, I still really love the rodeo. It's what I was supposed to grow up in.

I should've been a cowboy- or girl, rather. And that's the big problem with the rodeo for me. I talked earlier this week about being dropped into banjo-land and having to pass.

I just went to the equivalent of a banjo-land convention. Everyone is heteronormative, right wing (one more Obama joke...), and incapable of pronouncing the country's name any way but "Amurica." I fit in that night, and I admit that the rodeo gets me a little hot (and gets that damn Garth Brooks song stuck in my head), but I know better than to look too long at the pretty cowgirls.

Which brings me to the IGRA- the International Gay Rodeo Association. Apparently, gay rodeos have been around awhile, offering a place for the country queers like me, since the traditional country lifestyle isn't too accepting. I mean, look at the shit that Chely Wright went through.

Well, I missed most of the IGRA events around here, but it looks like there'll be a couple in Dallas and Kansas City in September. Here's to hoping that my college schedule doesn't interfere with my travel plans, because butch girls + rodeo = I may never come back to Arkansas.

It's just a reassuring feeling, knowing I can return to my redneck roots and still be who I am. Plus, I feel like, for other rural kids, a gay rodeo offers a chance to see gay rolemodels who belong to a world they can relate to.

In short, IGRA = awesome.

Profile: Tegan and Sara

So lately my blog has been devoid of pictures- as well as profiles, as I'm trying to keep up with everything after the tire accident of doom.

Plus, I was having trouble picking a group/person to profile this week. And then I stumbled across this picture:And I squealed like a fan girl. The thing I like about Tegan and Sara is that they are big- an internationally known band that gets their music on TV and in the movies. A band that has sold out shows.

And they don't have their asses hanging out of miniskirts to do it. In fact, most of the time, they look a bit like androgynous indie boys. Which, you know, is kinda my ideal image.Plus, they've never made any exceptions for themselves in their music and have been open about their sexualities. They're lesbians, and they admit it without guilt. They have cds that you can buy even in little podunk towns like mine, and open the case to find pictures of women who are not femmed-up, eroticized superstars. Hello, role models.

I had a couple songs off the "So Jealous" album, but it wasn't until I read Tegan's introduction in Kate Bornstein's Hello, Cruel World that I began to take an interest. She discussed growing up feeling different, being bullied, rising above it.There's a reason for all the hype around these ladies. And, if nothing else, if you can't handle the PC idea of them being *gag* role models, remember: pretty twin lesbians singing pretty awesome music. Enough said.

Role Models

So, like I said, the bff and I went to the Pride parade this weekend.

That is, the end of the parade, because everyone knows that twenty years can a. not go to bed before two on a Friday night and b. are damned if they'll wake up before nine.

The important thing is, we were at the rally afterward. In Arkansas heat. In June. On asphalt. We didn't stay the whole time, but we did see one girl pass out. Oh, South, we love you too.

It's always unsettling, not necessarily in a bad way, to go to Pride. I look around and wonder where all the pretty queers crawled out of the wood works, and I think I just need to get out more.

There were feminine girls, hot hot butch girls, a boy in a bikini, a former cheerleader from my high school holding hands with another girl, and then there was her.

I don't know this woman's name, and I never have. Let's just call her D, since she looks and acts like the forty year old Daria I aspire to be.

She works at a notorious used bookstore in the city near where I live, and she has since I was about fifteen. There's nothing about her that screams "Lesbian!" She's just a sarcastic, feminist bookstore employee who didn't bat an eye when I purchased books from the GLBT section, and actually recommended to me, after learning I was a musician, a songbook for Indigo Girls' "Nomads Indians Saints."

Still, in those five minutes I checked out at the bookstore, she would be my role model. Confident, swaggering through the bookstore, unafraid, grinning in her long shorts and wife beater without a bra.

Saturday we saw her at the rally, holding signs and holding hands with a pretty butch woman. I grabbed the bff's arm and pointed, saying "I knew it!" This woman, who I barely spoke to, was my role model that I only hoped was like me, when I only knew one girl like me (the one then standing next to me).

Later in the day it hit me. This woman has no idea what she meant to me; to her, I was probably another bratty hippie-looking kid coming into the bookstore to soak up the A/C and spend ten bucks.

And I wonder now if there are kids somewhere looking up to me. Makes me a little more nervous about my actions, to be honest, but also a little more determined. This woman was out there and confident and unafraid to offend because of who she was. So I should at least pay it forward to the teens now who look around, hoping to see someone else like them.

Passing: Banjo Edition

I started this week on an off note.

The weekend previous had been awesome, mostly because:

1. I hung out with my bff from high school and realized I was no longer in love/attracted to her at all (huge milestone)
2. I got to stare at pretty butch girls at the Pride parade (including a used bookstore employee that fueled a lot of my adolescent fantasies)
3. I went swimming in the rain with my best friends at school, one of whom is moving forever away this week.

And then I ripped up a tire driving home. I was barely out of town and scared shitless when it happened, though there are much more desolate, Deliverance-esque areas on my journey.

After I calmed down, I called my friends to come help me try to change my tire or at least follow me back to school, and then managed to park my car outside a little country store/gas station where I stayed.

Never have I been so glad to be wearing pink. This was the podunk that makes my podunk look like NYC, complete with a table of old men drinking coffee and gossiping.

The men were sweet, and used to work near my home town, so we talked for a good half hour. All the while, I was so happy that I wasn't trying to pass that day, that I was in pink tie dye with girly hair, jewelry, and women's jeans.

And I really felt ashamed afterward. I mean, to them I just looked like a little funky college student, but I amped up the Southern accent and talked at a higher pitch, trying to say "Look! Normal, heterosexual girl here! Sweet as sugar!"

I was stuck in a town with a population of like 400 with sketchy cell phone service and no one that I knew. And then I realized how important passing can become.

My bff transman came in to get me, and I'm pretty sure he just registered as "guy" to them, because, well, he passes pretty damn well. But, had I been dressed more masculinely, I think I'd come off more as just a dyke to them.

Dyke + small Southern town full of strangers = B horror movie or Dateline Hate Crime Tragedy

I shouldn't care what strangers think, and I should be able to defend myself if need be. But sometimes, I just want to be a sweet Southern girl who makes old men laugh, rather than stare.

I just don't know if that feels right or not.

Vestlove

I have a love affair with vests. Long vests, short vests, crochet vest, cargo vests that make me look like I should be hosting some wildlife/nature show.

I love them all, and I have for some time, despite the removal efforts of the unofficial queen of my college band. Apparently I looked frumpy in vests.

I like them because they're dressier, but still cooler than a blazer or something.

Anyways, I was reading some old stuff on the What is Gender? forums that I lurk around, and I found this conversation about using vests as binders. I'm excited, though none of mine are really appropriate.

One of the posters makes an excellent point about the nature of vests, a point best taken into account by those vest virgins.

Women's vests are cut for women, while men's are cut for men. I own a couple women's vests, and they are most definitely tailored, however subtly, to accentuate the curves.

Plus, they often come off looking horrendously ugly:
I'm a big fan of men's waistcoats though- the kind of thing worn under a suit. One of these over a band t-shirt with jeans is my favorite outfit right now. The only thing to remember with these is that they often have some sort of cinching mechanism in the back that conveniently hits where a female person's waist would be.
Resist the urge to cinch up your vest (I know, it's hard for me too). It'll only emphasize your natural curves.

I'd like to start a movement creating more unisex jersey vests, like the one seen on this woman:
Only, you know, not girly. I have one that I sewed from two t-shirts (Woo reversible!) and I think it "passes," depending on the right clothing that it's worn with.

Anyways, if all else fails, there's nothing sexier/trashier than a good ol' fashioned biker vest:I like to think fringe is coming back in style.