Pristine Angie’s Good Homemaker Adventures at www.d332.com

For those of my gentle readers who may not be familiar with the term “Tranny Chaser,” it is a term that is used within the mutual symbiotic parasite-host system of straight male-to-female crossdressers and their straight male admirers, or chasers. Because I don’t mind calling myself a transvestite, I’ve had to run in these circles for years. With benefit of observation then, I’ve compiled a list of ten oddities concering this species of males.

• 1. Trannychasers have a curious way of magically transforming into MEN in trans-oriented bars and clubs. The moment they are in public, they apparently get tinkled by the heterosexual wand of conformity.
• 2. Trannychasers hold doors open for their ladies, but then ask them to “split a motel tab.”
• 3. Trannychasers like calling us trannies, but get insulted when we call them “Sweet N’ Low Daddies.” Wonder how we could have arrived at that conclusion?

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One of the things I often get quoted on is the appreciation of a piece of artwork as a sole entity in and of itself. A friend once asked me to recommend a bio on Carson McCullers. I replied that the story of her life is her work : That’s what separates an artist from a professional biographer. With the exception of Vincent Van Gogh’s Complete Letters, I can’t think of an artist or writer whose life supercedes his or her work.

Certainly in an era of paparazzi and completism craze, where box sets of musicians scratching their armpits -between unacceptable takes- are presented in excruciating high definition super dvd-audio, it’s not difficult to understand how we may want a 500 page hardcover liner notes to enhance the experience of listening to a recording where a 5 track vinyl LP was once adequate.

I feel similarly about all the writers and artists who went through times of adversity in their lives. That’s not to lessen their suffering in any way. It’s just that the creative output is the ends, the product, the perfection, the ideal in a world that would otherwise be flawed. It’s difficult for me to relay this notion, because I’m sure people who have a feel for a particular medium of expression can derive a deeper insight into an artist’s work of the same milieu: A poet, for example, will have great difficulty in conveying the ecstasy of an iambic trimeter, to a cook who derives satisfaction from a tender morsel produced sous-vide. It is then, the public domain of mainstream consciousness, that most of us look to, to act as a common denominator, which then substitutes insight into an artist’s work.

An insight to one’s private life, however, is not equivalent to an insight to a piece of work created for public presentation.

When we buy into the completism of box sets and the tell-all unauthorized biographies of artists, what we are really doing is eradicating the editing decisions an artist has made.

It’s been an insane week. I drove out with Boobsie to Long Island University to give a talk about prejudism within the GLBT community. Arriving there, I was told that I was the sole guest speaker for the entire evening. Good thing I prepared a seven page presentation in lecture format beforehand. The topic tied in Zimbardo’s Stanford Prison Experiment with transferrable prejudism learned by the previously-oppressed / nouveau-mainstream from their oppressors, which they then apply to the next group beneath to reinforce insider status. Then I went on to argue the semantics of prejudism as discrimination as discriminating, and finally, as “taste” which the society puts such a high value on. I also spoke of the syllogistic mistake in the belief that education will eradicate bigotry. Finally I closed with a bit about my life. The part that I found deeply satisfying was my ability to give some encouragement to my audience members to be daring and to take no bullying from anyone- including parents - for their decision to be who they want to be.

Nobody should have to suffer when they find something that is so difficult for the rest of us to discover in a lifetime: love.

Last night, FM and I went to Philly to catch, in my opinion, the best DJ I’ve heard: Carl Cox. After driving around and not finding the hotel we reserved (turns out the address was listed incorrectly, so our hotel was 30 minutes outside of the city), so I summoned my last memory cell and recalled the next hotel on the google list we found three weeks ago. It was a Hyatt around the corner.

Carl did not disappoint. One slamming tune after another with sick bass drops, weaved adroitly by a man who I feel has a comprehensive understanding of the origins of trance music in Indian ragas, Sufi chants, and African tribal drum patterns.

Plus, some club kids left a diamond tiara around, so I promptly crowned myself princess on the spot, and another X-boy surrendered his glo-sticks and handed me a lollipop.

So, this is what it’s like to be royalty.

I have received emails a few years back, asking why I do not have any photos of myself in public. It’s not that I don’t go out dressed. I do. I just don’t have the space and ambition to tote a camera along. For all my straight readers out there, how many times has that galpal of yours asked you to carry something in your coat pockets for her? Combined that with the fact that women’s clothes are designed with small pockets, you can see the technical difficulties.

What’s more, it’s a tad bit offensive to run around in public enthusiastically screeching “Ooo, take a picture of me here! Now here! How about another one here!” Even Narcissus’s reflection would pause from staring back at his original and look in your direction with an: “Oi! What’s all that racket over there?”

Then on several occasions where I have brought a camera along, whoever took the picture didn’t have sufficient skills to get what I would consider an acceptable shot.

Being an indoor “studio” photographer, I can’t envision lugging equipment around dressed the way I do. Don’t get me wrong, it would be nice to get some outdoor shots once in a while, but I’m not missing it. Transvestites tend to like recording their adventures of going out in public as an event. After all these years of doing it, it just doesn’t seem as if it should be an event. So if you wanna see me dressed in public, you’ll have to do it in person.

Autumn’s here, and I long to wake up before the sun rises and listen to piano music, or walk in the woods as the sun sets. Some songs I hold close to me. And listen during these times. What I listen to when the sun rises will remain private. But here are the ten love songs I am listening to at dusk this year. There is a sadness in each of them. I don’t know where it came from. I’m still trying to find out, so I can fix it.

1. Club 8. When Lights Go Out
I’ve always considered this my beloved love song. Something that I would pick as that one song that I am particulary close to. It has everything I would ever want to say in a love song. Just listen to it, the words, the music, the tone, and everything will unfold before your ears.

2. Cowboy Junkies. Mining for Gold / Misguided Angel
There are certain songs that need to be listened to as a couplet. These two by Cowboy Junkies, recorded in the Church of the Holy Trinity in Toronto, is the closest I’ve come to experiencing that rare magical feeling when I’m around a man I am attracted to. The chemistry creates an electrical sizzle in the air. There’s that special quality of a true love song, where Mr. Right isn’t always Mr. Winner. And I think it’s this quality of human imperfection that makes any love song shine.

3. Francoise Hardy. Dans Le Monde Entier
I’ve always adored Francoise Hardy’s singing in this song. One day, I came upon the full English translation of this piece, and it’s so gorgeous, I think I’ll post it here in it’s entirety.

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It’s been raining so heavily that I have been thinking about the nightmarish years of continuous deluge described in Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s 100 years of Solitude. I went to Pennsylvania with a friend and stayed at his cabin by the Susquehanna River. It was lovely, peaceful, and most of all, quiet.. After several days, I am back home, shut indoors watching films by Bergman. Persona is a fantastic series consisting of one masterful composition after another, many of which - taken separately - could easily be exhibited as black-and-white stills. A shot from the opening sequence presented a warmly lit body sleeping by a wall, evoking a seed of David’s Marat in the portable Corbis catalog in my head. A stray hand touching a face on the beach recalls some of Ralph Gibson’s work. I’ve always love disjointed narratives and the jarring sense of the Bunuel. I equate surprises to the wonder in discovering. For that reason alone, I never read book covers or lyric sheets when exploring a new piece of work. I see that as a form of treachery equivalent to bringing a score to a recital and flipping the pages along with the pianist as the work is unfolding. Why? We’re there to experience the storyteller! Let the storyteller work his or her magic and craft!

A long interview with the filmmaker in the Wild Strawberries dvd extra revealed a utilitarian view that was curious enough to send me reaching for my notebook. I jotted this quote of Bergman’s down: “I’m so 100% convinced that I produce goods for everyday use, in both theatre and film….I make a product to be used. It’s like a good article for everyday use - like a good table or a comfortable chair.” It certainly puts into recess all the pompous artists who whine about being misunderstood and go on a thirty year rampage of self-indulgence, or in modern terminology: A Blog.

1. I loathe spending time online and I hate sitting in front of a computer. I plan my online usage to an absolute daily minimum. I think the internet is a wonderful tool to initiate real-time friendships with real-time friends and partners (and if one is located in a remote region, I can understand it’s usefulness in eradicating solitude), but a virtual online-relationship strikes me as the lowest possible form of human communication that robs all the wonders and expressiveness of being alive. The day will come when someone has perfected a programming code compiled from all the typical questions and answers between online suitors and damsels. Then what?

2. I got pulled over while dressed in my schoolgirl outfit. I got off easy even though I did not tell the two officers I had a date with their sargent the following day.

Having lived in the States for some years, there are things that have become increasingly apparent to me. Americana items such as a race problem, how people really behave behind the doors of a local suburban social club, class prejudism, and a childlike faith in the palliative effects of consumption.

But then having been here for several dozen years, there are still things I observe with a sense of amusement. Not quite comfortable and assimilated in that “having to talk about sports on Monday morning in the office louder than everyone else” way in order to belong. For example, I have written about the phrase “Been There, Done That.” One of those bitter dismissals cut and promptly sent from old age as if it were a rebate coupon to redeem a few wasted years.

I love being with a man, and I still hope to find one that I can call mine someday. That man could be bi or gay, or one helluva open-minded straight guy! But I love whatever is original-factory-equipped on my body and have absolutely no problems with having fully working parts. I’d like to get implants someday after I settle down with someone. But I love being with a man and putting on a dress supercharges that feeling even more so. The act of behaving girly and being a man’s steady girl, looking after each other in every way (not just a sexual thing), is a peachy idea that I’ve done some time ago, but it still gets me dreaming. Since I only do what girls do behind closed doors as well, everything fits neatly into place.

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