The Bend Of My Gender

I'm going to start this post with a short anecdote. Not long ago, Jen and I went to birthday party with an Adam Ant theme. It was fun! We dressed up for it and as part of the ensemble, Jen painted my nails. I got lots of compliments on them and I found that I enjoyed having them painted.

A month or so later, and they're pretty much painted all the time now. For a good number of you, that might seem strange. But I've tried hard in my life not to attach gender to anything outside of itself. If that makes sense. Cooking isn't for girls, football isn't for boys, yadda yadda yadda. I don't expect my view on these things to be the prevalent one, but I'm also not interested in siding with the majority just for the sake of being in the majority.

Then last week, Jen and I were at a restaurant and there was an older couple sitting a few seats away, maybe late 60s. After about 10 minutes, the guy leans over to me and says, "I really like your nails." I was a bit taken aback and my first thought was that he was being sarcastic. It turns out, he really did like them. More than that, he told me that he enjoyed painting his toes. They both told me that they hadn't run into any other men that painted their nails and I thought that was kind of sad.

The other day, as part of a package deal that she'd gotten awhile back, Jen took me to Aveda where she got a massage and I got a facial. I've only had two other facials in my life, both gifts. They aren't really something I can normally afford. My esthetician complimented my nails, my eyebrows and my overall skin care.

This of course got me to thinking. From somewhere deep within the recesses of my brain came voices that said things like : "Painting your nails and getting a facial are so gay" - and gay sounds like in insult when I hear that voice.  There are other more (seemingly) rational voices that ask if this in some way effects my gender, my sexuality, my masculinity. Thankfully, there's one voice that always rises to the top and drowns out the others. "If you like your fucking nails painted, then paint them. It doesn't mean ANYTHING expect that you like your nails painted!"  I like that voice.

My personal gender and my sexuality are, to me, a sculpture that I continue to refine and chisel at. I sometimes glance around to see what the other sculptures look like, but I'm trying hard to remain true to what I feel is the truth of my own personal sculpture.

Which leads me to some other things. Lately amongst my social circles and the news at large, there have been a lot of articles and conversations about sexism, feminism, misogyny, female body image, rape culture, sex workers and the list goes on. Something in me is telling me that my attitude about my nails and all of that external stuff is connected. I don't know how exactly. I'm still working that out.

I don't have any deep answers (and I've commented on many of these social issues in previous posts). But what I will say is that I like my nails. They look awesome.

Fuck Your Cover Letter

With over a year of unemployment under my belt, I've had quite a bit of experience in applying for jobs. I've read the websites, watched the videos, reworked my resume multiple times and even attended the Washington State mandated seminar for the perpetually jobless.
Over this last year, I've learned that most of the time, somewhere around 90%, I get an auto-reply from companies, acknowledging they've received my application. Somewhere around 3% of the time I get either something more personal or an auto-response saying that I've been passed over. Around 1% I get a call or a follow up email or an interview. (Around 6% I just never hear from at all.)

The company I really wanted to work for was Hasbro, specifically, Wizards of the Coast. I somehow actually landed myself an interview with them last year and it was awesome. I didn't get the job and I can live with that. But since then, my enthusiasm has gradually waned. Yes, I want a job. Yes, I want something that feels 'right' and fits me well. More than anything though, I just want to be able to pay my bills and get on with things.

So, when I read a job posting that says: "We are looking for a thoughtful, personalized cover letter that demonstrates your qualifications," my response is, "Fuck you and fuck your cover letter." I'll spend an hour being witty and smart and trying to figure out all the right key words and phrases to make sure you notice my cover letter. I'll hit send. Then I'll get an auto-reply. The end. You know what I won't get? That hour back. Or the countless hours I've spent doing the exact same thing for every other company in this state that I've applied to.

I want to work but, at this point, if my resume isn't enough to get your attention, then you don't deserve me.

"The State Of My Modern Music" or "Technology, Bitches!"

I began DJing in 1998. By 2004 I'd amassed a pretty sizable music collection, most of it in CDs, but plenty of vinyl and mp3s too. Katrina wiped that clean except for the mp3s.

I slowly began collecting tunes again through various channels, but buying CDs and vinyl was quickly becoming bulky and too expensive. I was moving toward digital.

When I lost my job last year and decided to move in with Jen, I got rid of my old desktop. I saved numerous large playlists to Spotify and decided in the spirit of trimming my possessions a bit, that I'd go even mp3 free and try to subsist entirely through Spotify. But Spotify doesn't have everything and once I started considering DJing again, I saw the flaw in that plan.

So, a few months and a lot of research later, I have this stuff MASTERED. My music collection isn't just back, it's dynamic, accurate, accessible and so 21st century that it should glow Tron blue. It is full on bad ass. This is how I did it:

An Amazing Photo

So, this picture is definitely Not Safe For Work. It's also probably not for those easily offended, although I think it's beautiful.

With that warning, let's proceed:

One Year...Of Unemployment

Tomorrow marks one year of unemployment for me. It's the longest stretch I've ever gone without work as an adult and it's had a profound impact on me. Just go look at a few of my previous blog posts.

Sitting here a year later, still uninsured, using up the last of my super-extended federal unemployment insurance, I'm amazed at what I have and haven't done.

It's surprising that I haven't found a job, that's for sure. I did get a wonderful $5 gift card from Pagliacci's Pizza included with my letter from them telling me they'd gone with someone else for their PR/marketing position. I even got a few dozen 'thanks, but we're going with someone else' emails. All very kind.

On the other end of the spectrum though, I've written not one, but two books. And I'm damn near finished with a third. They aren't going to give Hemmingway a run for his money, but I'm proud of them and I've seen my writing drastically improve in the last 365. What's more is that I've gotten an amazing sense of satisfaction that I've gotten to feel a few other times in my life. When I opened my nightclub, when I got my degree, when I shot and created my TV pilot, I felt the same sense of accomplishment.

I expect to finish a third book this year and start on a fourth. I don't know if I'll be able to convert my career into being a working author, probably not. But if I can keep writing and find a way to pay my bills, I think I'm going to make it through okay.

Back to writing.

Paint Shaker

The lightning strobed across the endless blackness.

I was sitting at a table. It was small, wooden, round. The chairs were plain and matched the dull, cheap look of the table. I was wearing the same clothes I'd had on just moments before. The table was illuminated by a light source that seemed to come from nowhere, above our heads in some impossible place. It's light carried no farther than a few feet from where we all sat. Beyond that lay an inky void.

The lightning strobed across the endless blackness.

There were four men at the table with me. Three to my left, one to my right. The three men to the left were nearly identical. Aging, thinning hair, narrow faces. All wearing ill fitting black suits with white shirts. Their neck waddle hung loosely in their collars.The only way to tell them apart was that they sat in descending order of height from right to left, each a half a foot shorter than the last.

To my right was Paint Shaker. He was shirtless and hairless. His skin was a mottled gray. Over his eyes and mouth, heavy iron plates had been riveted. I called him Paint Shaker because every few seconds, his head would shake inhumanely fast, vibrating until it became a blur.

The lightning strobed across the endless blackness.

The tallest of the three men had dealt a hand of poker and I realized that I was in. All four of my opponents looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to pick up my cards. Paint Shaker's head shook violently.

I reached down and picked up what I'd been dealt. But when I saw what was on the flip side of the red Bicycle backs, I knew I was doomed. They were all coupons. Just coupons. Not even able to beat a simple pair. I considered throwing my hand to the table.

The lightning strobed across the endless blackness.

There was a ringing. A second ring. It was a telephone. A man approached in a suit. He had a fish head and was dripping wet. His suit was soaked. He held the telephone in hands that were human, but covered in scales. He reeked like a pier. The telephone was an old corded rotary number. A faded pea green, its cord trailing off into the dark infinity.

Fish Head ignored the ever growing noise from my opponents who seemed annoyed at my delay. Fish Head brought the telephone to me, its receiver still in the cradle, it's body still ringing loudly. I picked it up and put it to my ear.

The lightning strobed across the endless blackness.

“Hey. Are you okay?” It was Harry. I glanced around and looked to Paint Shaker. Was I okay? Harry repeated his question. “You alright?”

The lightning strobed across the endless blackness.

I opened my eyes. “Yeah, I'm okay.” I was in the passenger seat. Harry was driving. Matt was in back. We were heading out to the theater. Tom Cruise in Mission: Impossible.

The above story is true. Sort of. I'd written a version of this quite awhile back and it got lost so I thought I'd give it a go again in honor of my being a bit loopy from my current bout of insomnia.

The reason I say that it's sort of true is that it's my memory, in exact detail, of what happened to me over the course of a few seconds of being unconscious. I sometimes have a vasovagal response to drugs or needles ( the reaction forces blood toward the center of the body, away from the brain, sometimes causing the person to pass out). I don't consistently have the response and have learned to control it a bit as I've gotten older. In this case, I was trying a particular recreational drug for the first time. Based on my response, I never did the drug again. However, I'm the only person I know who has ever reported vivid memories during unconscious periods. This is not my only memory of this sort, but it was certainly the most extraordinary.

I'm an Author, SHHH, It's A Secret

I wrote a book. I'm a published author. But I can't share the title with you or even the subject. Here's why.

So, about 11 months ago, I was laid off. More accurately, I was unkindly and unceremoniously dumped on my ass by my former employers, may they spend eternity in a very warm heaven.

About 8 months ago, in the midst of still looking for work, I started a blog. It was a lark, not a joke, but meant more as an experiment. It was never meant to go anywhere or become anything. I was mostly writing it as a way to keep up my writing skills, have a creative outlet, and pass the time with something that wouldn't cost me money.

For the sake of explaining why I can't tell you the title or the subject matter of my book, I'm going to create a fictitious example of what my blog was all about. Let's pretend that I pretended to be a Los Angeles police officer who's name was John Smith. John Smith decides he's going to write a blog about being a cop in L.A. and all that goes along with it - the politics, the racial tensions, the brutality. But, John Smith realizes that if he puts all of this out there on the web with his name attached he'd be fired at the very least. His whole life could be turned upside down.

Instead, John Smith decides to change names and dates around so that no one can guess who he is in real life. He uses the fake name of Frank Jones. He changes around just enough information that he knows that no one will be able to trace it back to him. John Smith writes this blog because it makes him feel better to be able to vent about some of the tough things he has to deal with.

But something unexpected happens. His blog becomes popular. Not LOLcats popular, but he has regular followers, who question him, prod him, support him, chide him and encourage him. Soon, the blog has taken on its own life.

John Smith started out his blog talking about things in his past. Eventually though the events in the blog have 'caught up' to present day. John Smith decides that writing about present day events are too hard to disguise and instead sort of wraps up the blog.

Someone suggests to John Smith that his harrowing stories should be assembled into a book. That's when I, Connor, in real life, decided to compile all of these blog posts into a book.

Without intending it, I had created a complete arc for my John Smith character, starting with how and why he became a police officer, what happened to him and where he is today. As a book, it's more than 400 pages.

But...The book had to be published with John Smith's 'nom de plume', Frank Jones. Since the book is written as the events were real, to use my own name would be to undermine the very authenticity the writing strove for. Knowing the true author's name would endanger 'John Smith' and out me, Connor, as fraudulent, since I'm not a cop.

So, there you have it. It's published, I can call myself an author now and I'm very proud of the book. But I can't tell you the title, the subject matter or my nom de plume.

On the plus side, back in November, I participated in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) and I got a great start on a book that I'd been wanting to write since 2004. I've gotten more than 70000 words in and I'm about 3/4 of the way through the book.

This book, a speculative fiction/fantasy book will have my name on it and I'll let you know as soon as it's available. So, Connor Alexander doesn't have a book out yet, but he's an author.