Bang Bang

Bang!

Bang! Bang!

Curiouser and Curiouser. What's happening to Alice? She's burned her gingham pinafore, sold out the Mad Hatter and bought herself a Che hat... in the name of art.

We support.

(ps This image has nothing to do with the Pink Terrorists... but we are asking ourselves this question: What's going on in Vancouver? What's up with the byatches taking up graffiti all of a sudden? What inspired this mass movement?)

Pink Terrorists Attack!

Do you know that Pink Terrorists are sundering various Vancouver statues, swathing them in hot pink fabric, cocoons of beauty, warming their cool stone features with the prettiest terror we've ever seen.

Who are they? And what's their mission?

Check these radical byatches out for yourself here: Pink Terrorists

We ghetto bitches support this kind of terror. We like their style, and their mandate: “If we can’t take over the world, we can at least make it a lot more pink.”

(Before the sun rose, I was sent on a rivulet mission that delighted my divaness. I was a documentor, of sorts, sitting at Starfuckers, chai in hand. It was a wonderful cover for such nefarious activity. Who would guess that a Starfuckers client was up to good in a no good way?)

Yeah weddings

The best part about a totally traditional summer wedding on an island is when some of the guests peel out of their party gear and jump in the ocean. Holla.

Cyber Sun Salutations

This work thing sucks. It really does. The boredom is infiltrating my system like varicose veins. Assumption #1: work makes you ugly. Assumption #2: every single girl needs a distraction to remain effervescent. Facts: I work. I am single. I don't have a distraction. Ah, that's why I'm feeling like an ugly byatch these days.

Yoga Rules (by my main gal from Slushpile and me, Violette):

1. Clothing:

• A. If you are going to wear light-coloured yoga pants, please wear underware that soaks up your crotch sweat.
• B. If you're a guy then note this important rule: the inside net of your shorts should be snug, tear free and hidden. (We don't need to see your bid-ness a' waggling and a'dangling in front of our peepers.)
• C. While you don't need to deck yourself in thousands of dollars of Lululemon, recycling your 80s thong-up-the-ass Jane Fonda aerobic gear - complete with twisted headband - will just distract other people.

2. Voice: Don't ask questions in class, use the "irreverant, hushed yoga voice".
3. Massage: Never, ever ask your Yogi for a massage mid-class.
4. Cell Phones: People who "do yoga" do not have cell phones (they fuck with your chakras), so hide your little cyber salutations before you enter the studio.
5. No Chaka Khan Jokes: they do a downward-dog death everytime.
6. Wind Mills: If you know you're doing "the plank" plan ahead and pack some Beano.
7. No grunting: It ain't tennis, and you're no Anna Kournikova.
8. Deodorant: Yup. Even if it's that crystal hippie shit.
9. Be There or Be Square: If you think you are "cool" and a mover-and-a-shaker for leaving class before the blanket-and-relaxation time, turn around just as you're leaving the studio and check out the disgusted (yet very zen) stares giving you hate (in the most healing of ways).
10. Community is for Caring: Yes, you may save sharing the "communal mats", but note the adjective: communal, as in communal feet, communal sweat, communal drool.
11. Yoga Warrior: No laughing at those who are flexability-challenged.
12. That Weird-Competition Thing: thou shalt not battle thy mat neighbour. Apparently, yoga isn't competitive. If you need to take someone down, just wrestle after class.
13. Hot Yoga Instructors:

• A. Make sure to do a move incorrectly, especially if it involves bending over getting your instructor to re-position you from behind.
• B. Bear in mind: yoga teachers are very in tune with themselves and the world: they can sense mental rape better than the average joe.
• C. That said, many yogis close their eyes during class - save your lusty glances for those times.

14: Water: It is the elixer of life (and the gods). And sure, you need to re-hydrated. But yoga is not a Gatorade commercial, you know? You don't need to tilt your head back like a Muppet cartoon and make slurping Animal/Cookie Monster noises.

Sissy Girl Slap Party

Daddy Robe
Originally uploaded by Violet Chrome.

So you return to the uber-swank hotel room that you and Coco have agreed was designed for a rich Daddy and his posse of Toms of Finland.

The glass shower is just begging to be filled with half-naked boys dancing around, slapping each other, and letting out shrill girly “ouches” (you imagine the sweet slappy boys of Guy Maddin’s short film Sissy Boy Slap Party as your entertainment.

You dawn the white robes provided by W Hotel. They have weights in the hem, the rich fabric swooshing around you making you feel like an international man of intrigue, power and sex (the pockets just begging for crisp 20 bills, lubricant and candy). You flop your bellies on the 350 thread-count duvet bed, replete with a faux fur blanket, to stare and ponder the pristine white bathroom calling out: dirtier, dirtier.

You and Coco take turns pulling swigs from a bottle of white wine and casually discuss calling the front desk and ordering up three 5-star men. Hey, they look so bored standing around the lobby; you’re just positive that they’d love to be your entertainment (what man doesn’t secretly want to strip down and dance for a lady making luxuriously naughty demands of his mind, body and soul?)

You discuss the male posture, in particular, the rich Daddy posture. Coco decides to walk like a man, so she eases herself off the rim of the hootch juice and saunters through the room, her imaginary cahonas making her swagger like Clint Eastwood chomping a wet stoagie and heaving a satchel full of contraband gold like its fairy dust. You both agree that it is satisfying to pretend to colonize and own such decadent space.

Coco Shoes
Originally uploaded by Violet Chrome.

You make the mistake of looking out the window. One of the Boys Who Stand ‘Round (aka “Google Eyes”) sees you… you think... but then you’re not too sure. Maybe it always seems like he’s looking at you: he has google eyes after all. Coco and you agree that google eyes make him the best Bouncer ever… you always thinks he’s got his eye on you.

I decide to obsess on Google Eyes for a spell. Not only does he have google eyes, but he also has an amazingly small pinhead. It looks like he has this “big man” suit on and there’s this skinny man’s head sticking out… and the head is bobbing around like its on a spring.

Suddenly the Coco/Daddy espies a high heel in the corner of the room. She pounces on it: it’s beautiful; it’s rich; it’s beautiful being a woman. You ponder lines for a time.

Fluffy Cloud
Originally uploaded by Violet Chrome.

You fall on the floor laughing at the Daddy décor, and you, two bitches, sullying it.

You agree that the Velvet Design mafia has done up the whole hotel: one design fag calling up his buddy to say, “listen Mary, I’ve got this fabulous gig designing the drapes for Montreal’s Hotel W. You just have to jet down from Ibiza to work with us. We need your experience with beds, floors, and showers. Cause you know, girl, you've been face down on more surfaces than Mr. Clean himself.”

God—you are so done with the weight of the robes. It's Ms. Dress-Up time.

Coco, belly down on the floor, flips over and straight-serious, gestures to the corner of the room, and says in her best WASP-voice: “Oh, did your friend design this?”

You take time out for bouncing on the bed. You decide that going down the hall for ice is an adventure-trek. You come back to fill the sink with ice. You use all the shower products to make a foot bubble bath. You fall asleep in a fluffy duvet cloud.

Hootch Juice in Montreal

violet_window
Originally uploaded by Violet Chrome.

Toxed in Montreal
You know when you’re rampaging through Old Montreal totally toxed on organic substances and corked on a bottle of hootch juice, and you suddenly realize that this is the best time you have ever had, and that you are so glad that Quebec is a part of Canada?

And you rage around yelling “what is that?” at every piece of architecture that you cannot believe actually exists in Canada—Safdie’s cube-living space Habitat, some Thunderdome made of spun sugar. And then you rest, taking time-outs in a park right behind a glowing white Russian Communist Castle?

Coco Channel and Sugar Water
And then your friend starts getting low blood sugar and begins to whine incredibly hootch statements like, “I want to go back to the hotel. I need Perrier. I want my Prada shrug”.

And you realize that life is great and you have an amazing byatch-of-a-friend...because when she turns into a bitch she is fabulous: she is a Coco Channel upstart and you’re right into just loving her performance, her arms waving around in an amazing Issey Miyake-like pattern of delight.

And then, you suddenly know that there is no way you are going back to the hipster hotel you’re staying in (for one glorious night) in this state... Actually, to qualify it for yourself, you rephrase that thought: there is no way you are going through any hotel lobby, especially the beautiful lobby at Montreal’s Hotel W, in this state.

coco_floor
Originally uploaded by Violet Chrome.

Cute Drones in Hipster Purgatory
Because you remember that when you left the grandeur of your hotel room three hours ago the cute boys standing around the lobby supposedly “working” (more like just standing around lookin’ good) were setting up velvet ropes around the staircase leading up to the two, sliding-glass, entranceway doors.

And then you have a horrible throught: W’s club entrance is just outside the hall by the elevator that leads up to the safe haven that is your amazing hotel room. And you'll be returning to that hall just as everyone is arriving at the club. And then you know: there is no way this byatch here is going to deal with that hipster purgatory.

Lobby Issues and Camel Guilt
And so you reel around, take a swig of the hootch juice roadie, and smoothly say, “Look Coco, I have no problem going back to our hotel room, but I’m currently having issues with hotel lobbies”…

And then she looks at you, her sea foam-rimmed eyes narrowing just slightly. And purring like a famished cheetah, she hustles these words: “I do everything for you. Everything. Who organized this trip? Who can go without water like a camel, so that you can drink whenever you’re thirsty? I do everything for you.”

You then think to yourself: this is the most enjoyable argument you have ever had. And you jump in on this cougar action like a rich bitch at an H&M sale.

“Fine Coco… but if we go back to the hotel, we’re not leaving again. I’m having ‘issues with hotel lobbies’. I will only go through lobby hell once. I’m having issues with hotel lobbies.”

But her Roman jaw is set.

And so you happily give in to her desire to return because you remember that the Miu Miu purse that she is currently sporting—the purse that she had, earlier on in the evening, confidently set on the check-in desk like she owned the W—had got you the upgrade to the super-deluxe room you were currently returning to. So you contentedly give in to her need for Perrier and a foot bath in the Jacuzzi-sized tub.

Paris is a Buring Hotel Lobby Purgatory
And so you head back. But as you approach the W hotel, and its much-feared and Wallpaper-esque hotel lobby, you see, off in the distance, a line-up of French hipsters blocking your easy, smooth and classy re-entry to your hotel room. And you decide: “Fuck it. I’m a byatch, and I can do this lobby entrance like Paris Hilton on her best sleazy night”.

But as you approach the hell that is your hotel entrance, Coco Channel starts having second thoughts and veers away from the velvet ropes.

And you think to yourself: “there is no fucking way that you are not going through these ropes with me. I got over my issues with hotel lobbies. Deal byatch.” And so you grab the collar of her draped, off-the-shoulder shirt, and yank her through the shiny, silk-clad throngs. And you tell yourself to repeat this Hilton-esqe mantra: “I am staying in this hotel. They are merely drinking in it. I am the fabulous bitch here. They are merely low brow hipsters”.

Velvet Skip Rope
Fortunately the cute-boys-just-standing-around-who-are-supposedly-working part the velvet ropes (as cute boys have been trained to do, act or non). And as you elegantly glide—make that careen—through the first sliding glass doors, you are suddenly scrunched in their automatic-ness. But, you grit your teeth. You will not fail on this hootch mission. And again, a cute work boy comes to your rescue and “escorts” you and Coco through the second doors. And you think, “So this is what it feels to be Paris… ghetto”.

Stay tuned for Part II: Violet and Coco’s Night In…

Stag boys

Boys wrestling: hottie hot hot!

Yum!



[Editor's note: Please note that Ghetto Bitch Violet Chrome is off becoming an ever finer Web diva, and may not be posting much in the next while. Will try to kick her sorry ass, so we are all treated to her intellectual musings. Meanwhile, you'll have to be content with my sucky-sex-etc. shit.]

Champagne and karaoke

Last week was beyond busy. The Ninja disappeared for five days, literally and figuratively, to deal with a heartbreaking crisis. I, meanwhile, was trapped for two of those days in an utterly fucking useless company seminar, frustrated by my inability to help him. Saturday I had a freelance corporate shoot that went off fine, but it involved a load of prep, lots of client handholding, and I had a killer hangover.

Thank god for the bright spots: hanging with the girls Friday night for a stagette of Chambar, champagne, and (for the chicks who didn't have to get up the next morning for a shoot, anyway) karaoke.



Best of all was having the Ninja crawl through my bedroom window at 8 am Sunday morning, post-stag, stinking like a brewery, alive, beautiful, back again.

Getting Gay with Che

An instant message conversation with Bacovegetarian:

You look like a gay che supporter
I'd get gay with Che.
if he wasn't dead.
Would you have let me watch?
All that attention might make me anxious.
Ah yes, forgot you men have trouble "faking it"
That's why god invented viagara.

I am unstoppable

I just received an "invitation" to attend a three day corporate/reeducation/seminar thing next week. Three days. Fuck.

Don't get me wrong, I like my job. I like having a job. But I have never liked forced/group anything. Except sex.

Oh, I'm kidding. Just losing my mind at the thought of three whole days under the fluorescent lights, with lots of flipcharts, "idea sharing," and lunches of cold chow mein.

Girls love BJ

Ah summer. Summer is--among other things much more ghetto, and much more bitch--wedding season.

This offers us non-Bridezilla girls (with full respect given to the sisters who are) a marvelous excuse to buy a sexy new dress.

And for that, there is only one place to turn: Betsey.



I love Betsey. I love that the Ninja loves Betsey.

Good to be here, not there

It's good to be here, and not there.
A smile is creeping up from my lungs -
Maybe it's just the 35 degrees;
I'm sucking back air like Persephone
Spelunking her way through hot cave springs
And loving the clotted colour.

Cobra Snake Soft Cups

what do you like?
need soft cup with really good shape
like round?
whatever doesn't make me look pointy.
heh. i hate pointy
yuppers
seams over the nipple? ew!
not so sexy
i like my bras to hold them like two upturned boys' hands
okay, that goes in ghetto
this is a hipsters website outta New York
might be good to plunder for hair cuts
awwwww
yummy
I love him
I have to look at him again
heh!
yup, still yummy
I can see that underneath that good boy smile is a naughty one, but he'd draw out being a good boy just long enough to drive me crazy.
I love you, dirty girl!
Hot chick. Dig her hair.
She's got a Vice do
they are all, like, 17
But they're so fucking cute these kids
I wish I had that kinda style figured out when I was a young'un
Damn my grunge youth.
omg, it's JO!
JO's unretarded twin brother
It's like jo was one chromosome short of cute, which makes it more disappointing
yeah.
'cause if a guy is kinda ugly, he's usually really fucking hot.
Check this: FIX YOURSELF GIRL (you got a camel toe)!
You have created a monster with me with this damn site.
Why lip rings ruin your looks.
Aye, it's addictive.
Voyeuristic.

Instant message about a ghost

i saw him last night for a meeting
he's very tanned, very blonde, and was wearing
this little cuban hat
so weird to see him

really?
ah

so completely surreal

are you more detached?

yes
yes i am
but
it's a bit like being visited by a ghost
i remember
my body remembers
everything
my life
everything i ever felt, dreamed of, experienced
vanished
and then there he is
so strange
i don't feel ache or love

interesting

just a lonely feeling

what a lovely poem

like an abandoned house

you should ghetto that chunk

heh
really?
not too fromage?
can i include the part about the too tan/too blonde/too cuban?
heh

oh yeah
do it
seriously
and then I'll go in and hyperlink all the phrases
to weird internet stuff
do it
i dig what you said
your words make it sound better than it feels

the weirdest part was seeing his hands again
crooked little finger
i had forgotten
but i hadn't at all

Summer, baby, summer

Thank fuck. It's a sunny day, the Ninja spun me to work on the moto after spoiling my ass, and GBS has finally officially arrived. My bones and skin are aching for sun. I want dirty Havaianas from walking the sticky hot city streets; cool swims in the green lake up by Whistler; cold Keith's; dirty beats, a dirtier boy and warm late nights. I want skirts with no underwear, American Apparel boyshorts in every colour, and to clean lovestruck boys off the streets after Violet, as she strides along in those Frye boots of hers. (I just said boys three times. Hmm.)

I also want to wear my gorgeous new Aussie bikinis. Bring summer on.

You got cyber lungs? Pump up the ventolin and weird and wonderful things will happen. Check out the Spanish artist Jamie Hayon. Mad style.

Mono Brows

nomobrow
Originally uploaded by Violet Chrome.

Maybe it's my fascination with Frieda Kahlo. Maybe it was my childhood love of Burt from Ernie and Burt. But I love Super Greg... once you clicked on the link, click on the image you see to your right, and you will know good "mono-brow lovin'".
If you want to "remix" Super "Monobrow" Greg, click here: Super Greg Stash Remix. It's Paris Hilton hot.

Fuschia Slag

It's almost the weekend, and thank god, I say. Rain or no rain, it's still Ghetto Bitch Summer, and GB girls know where to go.





Tonight that would be painter Mark Neufeld's show at Production Studios.

I once was smacked in the face by one of Mark's early paintings. It was at a show at the Dynamo, back in '98. I found I couldn't move: I must have stood in front of the piece, feet nailed to the floor, body vibrating, for twenty minutes. That had only happened to me before in New York and Europe, in museums. Here I was at home, on Hastings Street: I couldn't believe what I was feeling.

At the time, Mark and I were both slaves at the same diner (him, dishwasher, me, waitron). His other job at the time was as a gravestone carver.

He just won the first ever Joe Plaskett Award for his work. It is one of the largest and most prestigious visual-arts awards in Canada.

Geek Love for a Gemini Birth

bilde
Originally uploaded by Violet Chrome.

All geminis know that two heads are better than one, and in honour of the two GB geminis, a special pussy was born: Two-faced kitten.

Now Geek Love is one of my favourite novels, so it only makes sense that I would find this "gift" charming.

61 Ways to Get Fired: Fire Us Up

So, I'm at work, still waiting for "the word". Are we fired? Are we re-hired? (The latter ain't looking so good.) My co-workers and I have discussed filming the various ways we could get fired for every day of our remaining contract, hence the title "61 Ways To Get Fired".


Anyone out there have suggestions for "Ways to Get Fired"? Feel free to leave them in the comment area... you don't have to "login" to tell us how you'd "fire us".

You know, I think our whole generation is firmly rooted in the work ghetto--stuck between the reality of a contract job market and the surreality of a work world comprised of corporations who want our eternal "alliegance"... without strings. Seriously, check out Miriam-Websters third definition:

a: an isolated group
b: a situation that resembles a ghetto especially in conferring inferior status or limiting opportunity.

I can truly say that the 38 and under workforce are "isolated" and have "limited opportunity". So why not celebrate it?