Irene Hoffman introduced me as “II-” (pronounced with a clap) at Spread, where I was DJing. I was tickled.

Bea started a game where we would try to think about any way in which John is not cool.

We talked about the projects of the finalists at Spread. They asked if I had even liked the presentation of one contestant who worked with sound waves. I said I am a sucker for that shit no matter what. I want to take a dip into that sine-wave of interconnected galaxies and continue to be comprised of vibrating energy.

I started a game to think of any way in which I was not narcissistic. Bea said the same game could apply to her. Bea and I are on each other’s equilateral plane of best-friends because we identify with one another’s narcissism (care deeply about each other).

Big Yell

While clubbing with Tina she wondered if there was a more underground dance scene. I suggested we throw a dance party at the Rat Bag.

So we threw a dance party at the Radical Abacus. Dave played a meta-set. I played a gender-set. Dirt Girl played a post-pangea digital-drift set. On the Facebook invite I suggested that people bring vegan ice cream sandwiches. One girl I’ve never met brought vegan ice cream sandwiches. Her un-sober friend, who I had met at whole foods while buying beer on my lunch break, drank every type of alcohol in the house mixed in a cup.

I hid the alcohol.

Kristen + Sam came and I was excited! Everyone danced to my set and I was excited! Benji’s excitement is a crucial part of my gender set, he jumped and yelled. He rolled on the floor to  the end of the set’s What is transgender.“.  

Floating on social waves I barely thought thoughts I just talked to people. Bea was empathetically exact in knowing my sinusoidal trajectory – frequency-oscillated by the actions of others. But I’m not saying what or whose actions ;)

At one point Bea said: “let me get you a beer, and we can go for a walk.” We went outside and I yelled for a while. The rage I felt was intense to the extent of being really funny. John and River joined us. With the amount of emotion in my gut it was only logical for me to continue yelling.

Before guests came, earlier in the night, Bea and I were jumping on the trampoline. She said that I must have been one of those kids who was always being told they were too loud. I am one of those kids who is so loud – and this post isn’t even written in caps lock!


Penultimate four square match of the season. Dirt Girl was DJing at the Matador. Benji and I shared a mason-jar full of Chicken Killer that I had bought at Whole Foods during lunch break, inviting the wide-eyed cashier along the way.

Benji and I hopped between four square and dancing/playing Katamari underground as Noah and the underages threw the pumpkin-face ball against cars.

I thought I’d stay and dance until 1:30 AM and go to sleep, but danced until 2:00 AM and lay down on the sidewalk with Meagan Day, Benji, and Emily, talking about post-gender theory, post-lesbian-hair, and Turkish drinking traditions.

Meagan and I drove around to antiquated mix CDs made by her friend, the king of Berlin, after working with tweezers and patience to get the CD player working.

It was like an alternate high school wherein I got to hang out with Meagan Day.


Tina, Bea, and I went to a non-baby-shower baby-shower for Neta. Everything was golden lit in the post-rain autumn. I was sleep-deprived.

There was a party in the bass and throughout the house. Cigarette butts were on my floor, my sheets, when I came home to dance with the t33ns for whom I had supplied “Allsups Water.”

Everyone at works asks about Dion, asks me to ship their packages, asks where Dion is to ship their packages, asks how Dion likes college.

Dion drives from Soccorro to our house at 1 am to sleep in the bass.

“How is college at Tech for Dion?”

“Tech-beards are the worst.”

“Humidity of depression.”

“Worst place you can be.”

Dion lies across the table.

I come home at 2, ready to work at 9, eating green chile soup. Dion comes up from the bass, mouth bleeding.

“Do you have any other brain drugs?”

“I have maca root if you want.”

Dion dropped out of college after beating the final boss in the platform game of paperwork. He is back at Workshop and is everyone’s favorite.

When I got home one day, unsurprisingly sleep-deprived I made #somecoffee and found that Dion had written me a check for $10, the memo line saying “donation.”

Noah punched me in the arm repeatedly and River gave everyone haircuts. Santi untied the front tendrils of his hair, exposing the shaved back of his head, resulting in a perfect bob in the front. Dion wrote a check to River. Dion wrote a check to Angel Pie, with the memo: “Cat.” I said Angel Pie only accepts checks, then Noah reminded me that she also accepts EBT.

Angel Pie killed a mouse the other day and ate half of it on the couch. She is 21 now and I will take her out for a celebratory margarita.


Post Work

Tina’s brother came to visit/live after not going to UC Irvine for having low grades his final semester of high school because his friend had committed suicide. Tina/Alain + Noah/I became matching sets of 6 year age difference siblings working at Workshop. We invited them to parties.

Tina, Noah, River, Alain, and I went to a Radical Abacus show. The next night was a co-workers birthday and I said I would give Tina a ride. I didn’t feel like going to a party but I went to pick her up because I said I would. Between us we didn’t have the address. We went out to dinner at Tune Up. We saw Bea and her cool friend there. Tina visibly glowed while eating. Later she said she wanted to be a food-taster. Tina and I hung out in her secret downtown apartment and joked about going clubbing. I got us onto the guest list of Skylight and we went clubbing.

Drinking whiskey sours with Tina and reconciling dance floor urges with dance floor disgust was funny. I learned that she had been married and lived in Norway. We moved our feet to uninspiring music and were told we were the “cutest couple here tonight.” We critiqued the assumptions and social structures that caused that statement to go by uncensored. Both of us were tired at work in the morning.


Noah got me a job through nepotism so I learned about 30 designers and stalked people around the store telling them: “Those shoes are handmade in Berlin, they’re super comfortable,” -“ They’re called “2nd skin” leggings because they’re made with tiny-baby-lamb-leather in the foothills of Italy.”

After 2 days on the floor I was pulled to join the web team and got to sit down and generate content.

When I am writing the blogs that no one will read to enhance our ratings on google search results I look at a product image and attempt to succinctly yet poetically draw out its essential qualities.

“The Amber shoe by Trippen is a play of near-parallel and curvilinear exposed seams, forming and armadillo-like exterior. “Amber” is at once a chelsea boot and a wedge, a deconstructed cowgirl and an avant-mod.”

“The Trippen Route is a modern take on a wallaby – skinned alive with muscles showing in a bold cotto hue, with licorice in place of laces.”

“Any local wizard knows that a Monies necklace is also a veritable toolkit of crystal-vibes”

“This shoe is sort of like a skinny dog-head with no ears.”

I load products onto the website, serve champagne, smile lovingly at my boss, blog, work on photo-shoots, and just got our off-planet social media service fired through being way more relevant than them.

The building that Santa Fe Dry Goods/Workshop are housed in is Spanish Colonial (which I learned from overhearing downtown tours) and haunted (which I learned from downtown ghost-tours). The other day the internet was down and they needed help on the floor, so I picked out sale Anette Gortz and Ann Demeulameester for the woman who owns one of the tour companies. I kept feeling bad for not working and just having fun shopping with this woman, but ended up making more money for Workshop/Dry Goods than I would have working on the web.

Afterward I wrote her a note about my vicarious melting head at the color combinations she chose, and how self-expression through outfits is art and is important.

During Fiestas I was late to work because I couldn’t cross a parade. When I got in another parade was passing by the front door. Sha-big-boss and I talked about fiestas being the celebration of successful genocide, and how we didn’t belong there to have opinions about the celebrations either way.

I exist at tense and widely unexamined intersections of class and culture in all my jobs. A white person selling high end clothing on the pueblo-styled plaza, who’s history is wrought with a mixture of indigenous conquest and appropriation; a pawn of the contemporary art world which is divided along similar lines, and a volunteer with incarcerated youth, who are caught in a racist and classist system that is perpendicular to the jobs with which I bring home the organic watercress.


Sometimes my job description also includes photographer.

I walk through the continuous bathroom/hallway/stock room with a hundred thousand dollars worth of cashmere and giggle. I drink espresso in the dark hallway by the dumpster. I look at a pigeon on the roof outside the window near the desk where I work, in the “executive suite,” fluorescent-lit short-ceiling with brown carpet upstairs in the historic building.

If they don’t change out the wood chips in the executive suite I become less playful. Luckily, the web manager, to whom I am an assistant, has cleaning wipes for wiping the toast-crumbs and grapefruit juice off the keyboard. There is also a woman who cleans around us politely on Tuesdays.

As with any setting where you are part of a diverse group for x amount of time, each personality becomes inherent to your internal flavor-pack of work-friends.

Betsy comes into the back room and says: “I have a present for you.” Noah, Dion, River and I dance around for a while. Betsy gives us chocolate almonds.

Chocolate almonds are currency amongst the staff at SFDG/WS.

We also have a “Nespresso” machine. The pods of pre-fab espresso are good, and probably created from the life-force of enslaved babies, which Neta and I talk about over said small-caffeine cups.

I keep having dreams about Neta, in the most recent one she had had her baby and declared she would take a week off for maternity leave.

Neta had her baby shortly after and sent out a group email with a picture of the infant with the words: “No longer pregnant.”

The money from the coffee jar goes into the company margarita fund, which is used when Sha-big-boss is doing a floor change – which she’ll work on from 7pm to 6am or so. Last two times there was a floor change I helped and received margaritas. We moved the racks, everything on the racks, and the plants/dead trees she had brought from the mountains to and fro the catacomb-entry basement while blasting Diana Ross.

After a floor change Sha-big-boss is understandably sleepy, but gets up at 6:38 to take her kids to school, then entertains visiting designers with beers + ice cream, writes checks, and talks to the people at Retail Pro when the computer inventory is down. After such an occurance a few days ago the web manager said “Your eyes are red – you look like a marsupial, Sha-big-boss replied: “I am a goddamn marsupial.”