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Showing posts with label Pervertable Tongues. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pervertable Tongues. Show all posts
Last night at the empty Empty Bottle I had quite the interaction with a couple from the band that opened the show. The band had nine members in it, one of the members, a standard white dude, wore plaid pajama bottoms and an oversized shirt, (I mean really, PJs? he could have at least wore those pajama bottoms that look like jeans). Another musician, an Asian woman, actually dressed for a show, she wore a cloudy white-bridal-dress-esque skirt, ablack sequined top, and a purple 50’s style hat, feather and all. These two people PJ man and Cloudy Skirt Girl were either engaged or married to one another. Either way, they made a “great couple” a great couple "meant for each other", a couple "destined to be".
So, we were playing to a crowded room. Okay. There were four people. Two loyal followers of Pervertable Tongues, Elizabeth and Monica, and that Meant-to-Be Couple. (I’d like to address the lack of audience, but that’s for another time.)
PJ Man and Cloudy Skirt Girl had been drinking half-priced band beer all night. By midnight they were completely obliterated. It was around song number 4 that PJ Man decided to come to the front of the stage. It was song number 5 when he started yelling obnoxiously about rock and roll. Cloudy Skirt Girl soon joined in and they began heckling together. Telling Ryan he needed to play “more rock and roll” and calling me “Sequin Girl” and “Mermaid Girl” and informing us that we were “rock stars.”
They were really pissing me off. Which actually improved my growling. I felt compelled to change my lyrics while I was singing. Instead of “Nightmares can be a reality, you’re reality could just be a dream” I wanted to say “Nightmares can be a reality, you’re reality could be a guy in PJs” but I refrained. I REFRAINED DAMNIT.
The show ended. I stepped off the stage. Cloudy Skirt Girl then had the nerve to compliment me by saying, “I really like your dress, I couldn’t wear it because I don’t have big boobs or a big butt.”
A big butt? Excuse you. I have a generic white girl butt. Please, I am no J-Lo.
I walked away attempting to avoid them. I said goodbye to my loyal fans. Then, the Meant-to-Be Couple cornered me. Cloudy Skirt Girl continued on the big butt rampage. PJ Man continue drinking heavily. Both keep going on and on about my curves. Talking about how well I fill-out the dress. Talking about my monstrosity of a butt. Talking about her lack of va-va-voom voluptuousness. Eventually they mention their enjoyment of the band, eventually it comes up that I have interesting/amazing vocals. Eventually I find my way out of that horrendous conversation and back to my beer, where I belonged.
Out of her mother’s womb Irene she was born. Her mother, a communal hippie reared Irene in an all-natural environment—organic food, the light of the moon, soy milk, free range chickens’ eggs. Irene loved the natural world, the smell of wet grass after a dewy evening, the cows mooing songs in the bright sunrises of her mornings, the waterfalls, the juicy wormy apples, The beauty of our planet surrounded Irene.
Then one day her mom, walking along the highway picking out ditch-weed was violently struck by a car. Irene witnessed the entire event and was completely mortified.
The commune did not know how to take care for Crazy Irene so they sent her to MeadowlarkMentalHealthCenter.
All Irene did day and night was cry cry cry in her little room. One morning she woke up to the strangest of sounds. She thought she herself had died and gone straight to hell. The noise just kept ringing and ringing. Bbbbrrriiinnnggg Brrrriiinnnggg it went. She looked out her little room window and saw who was making that annoying sound. It was such a small tiny contraption. Then one of the nurses picked it up and started talking into it. Irene was stunned. She though she had really truly gone mad.
When the same nurse came into check on her, she asked, “Nurse, why were you talking into that box?”
The nurse, confused for a moment looked at Crazy Irene and her hairy armpits, mangly long hair and patchouli scent and started laughing. “Oh, Irene, you crazy gal, that’s a telephone.”
“A telephone?”
“Yes. Irene, it’s to talk to people with.”
“But can’t I talk to you right here?”
“It’s to talk to people who aren’t right here, Irene.”
Irene’s eyes grew huge and she became incredibly excited. “Oh! Do you think I could call my mother? She’s not here anymore and I would love to talk to her.”
The nurse sighed, “No Irene, I don’t mean “not here” as in dead, I mean not here as in not in the same building, like someone in New York to someone in Los Angeles.”
“FFFUUUCCCKKK” Irene said. “I get it” and she started sobbing all over again.
The nurse finally noticing her distress took Irene into the commons area. There she sat her in front of an even larger box full of colorful images and conversations.
Irene was immediately Bewitched. In this box that she soon found out was called a television, she discovered Glee, she made Friends, she learned The Facts of Life.
Irene turned on. Irene plugged in. To a cyborganicfem.
Irene was mesmerized with television and couldn’t get enough. She met Steve Colbert, Jon Stewert, Conan O’Brien. She learned about the mating rituals of every animal in existence, she learned how to cook and build houses. She gained an understanding of social rituals in areas like Melrose Place, 90201 and the Hills, found out that it is Always Sunny in Philadelphia as well as what housewives do when they’re desperate in Wisteria Lane, L.A., Atlanta and New Jersey. Some nights she got Lost, some nights she found her Heros, other nights she found solace in the dedication and strength of Ugly Betty, Maude, Mary Tyler Moore, The Golden Girls and Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Eventually Irene was socialized enough to leave MeadowlarkMentalHealthCenter.
Before she left, the nurse noticing Irene’s enthusiasm in the outside world sat Irene down in a desk chair, she then turned on another box Irene imagined was a different type of television.
Two minutes later, Irene was in cyber space, floating along in the world of google and yahoo.
She found an apartment on craiglist, including a roommate and furniture. She got a job off of idealist.org and was set in a matter of moments.
She left with her one suitcase, $50 and a piece of chocolate cake.
Within 30 seconds of starting her new job Irene had a facebook page.
Irene could not live without her internet.
Within days she had 500 facebook friends.
She started blogging. She started twittering. She even got a myspace page.
Irene got tired of her hands not typing fast enough. She read online about a new invention coming to the market—they were looking for test subjects.
She wanted to be the first to have the operation.
Irene cut off her hands and got metal ones sewed back on.
These metal hands could without even using a keyboard write exactly what Irene was thinking every second of the day. Her twitter group expanded. Her ideas flooded the wires. Everyone wanted to meet
Cyborg Irene. The official first volunteer woman/machine.
Irene plugged on. Irene turned in. To a cyborganic fem.
Cyborg Irene was a techno-fiend.
Cyborg Irene was a natural Machine.
Cyborg Irene was an eco-fetish blogger
Cyborg Irene was a treadmill jogger.
Eventually Irene could not shut off her hands; they exposed her inner secrets desires and fears. One of her twitter followers, jealous and angry of Irene’s sudden fame, used this knowledge to dislodge Irene from the online world. He hacked in and hacked her off. Her arms became useless… or so she thought.
Upon being hacked off of twitter her new metal arms mutated and turned into hands of crushing steel, she gained super-human strength and could shoot fire out of her left pointer finger. Irene used her powers to change the world. She dismantled patriarchy with a flip of her wrist. Everyone loved her and she became a goddess symbol amongst her kind.
Irene plugged on. Irene turned in. To a Cyborganicfem.
NOW is YOUR chance to VOTE for your favorite outfit that I will wear to Pervertable Tongues' Thursday show at the Bottom Lounge, 1375 W. Lake Street, (October 1st). Doors Open at 8. 4 Bands. 21+.
Please add your comment below by selecting one of the four options. The top vote will be worn.
Make it to the show for the reveal. If you're extra special Ryan will lick you...
Cds will be available there for $10 with $5 going directly to the Feminist Creative Alliance.
Take a listen at www.myspace.com/pervertabletongues
Also available on i-tunes.
Please come support local (feminist-inspired) music.
If you have any questions email Krystal at stalher03@yahoo.com
Last night I realized what has been missing since I moved to Chicago. A stage. All week I wasn’t sure if I could get back on there again. I heard somewhere that your body changes about every 7 years, and I though perhaps it had altered already and all my confidence and rock energy had disappeared. But, no. It was just bottled up ready to escape from my inner being and greet the world with entertaining vibes.
It was actually rather comfortable up there and we had a nice crowd of beautifully loud lively people to help cheer us through. The whole band did amazing and I am hoping they all got that shot of stage adrenaline to want to keep going (because I did). I think we may have all forgot what it was like; Ryan and I had been away for 2 years, Michael 7 and Timmy 11, but it really didn’t feel that way at all. We were right where we needed to be.
Thanks everyone for the support.
We’ll let you know as soon as we do when our next adventure will be.
I have my Master of Arts degree in Women and Gender Studies as well as a Master's in Writing and Publishing from DePaul.
I'm currently living in Boulder, CO working for a non-profit called Fertile Action and writing about visual arts (and more) for the Boulder Weekly.
Why blog?
I think too much, hence I decided I need a space to get it all out; and there is no better space than a virtual one.
