Even though I’m female, I’ve never been much of a shopper.
I am trying to figure out if it’s because I’ve never had much money, so why tease myself, and why waste my T-I-M-E?
But I imagine if I had a budget for clothes, I would have bought at least 10 items at the GenArt SHOP Miami event on June 18, 2009 at the Moore Building in the Design District.
I’m a sucker for art and buying stuff from the actual people who made the stuff.
Check ‘em out…
Buy a bikini @ Sieloh.com
Wordz by Femmebot
Photo by Julian Sula
Setting: The Gansevoort Hotel rooftop pool. It is packed with bronze bikini girlz and buff B-O-Yz dancing to house beats mixed with hip hop.
Camera weaves in and out of the different scenes contained within each cabana. Everyone is taking fabulous group pictures and uploading them instantly to Facebook so that their friends in places less fabulous can virtually join in on the fun.
Camera stops at one cabana where five girlz in bikinis and Afros are dancing and smiling and posing for camera phone after digital-point-and-shoot-camera.
All they can see are bodies. Boobs. Butts. Skin.
They don’t realize that inside the heads, underneath the afros, are big BRAINz.
While passersby watch me, I watch them. To them I am an object; to me they are market research.
To them, we are hot Latina and Asian and Jewish girlz wearing strappy high heelz.
To ourselves, we are power girlz. Smart. Ambitious. In other places like San Francisco, New York, LA, those qualities aren’t weird.
Here on Planet MyAmi, these qualities are unrecognized, evidenced by the fat guy who refuses to believe that the cabana and promotion were procured by a female who looks like Leticia, the designer of Sieloh swimwear. Her high heels are grounded while her aura is all indigo. She can sew an arm band with one hand while putting her mascara on with the other as she balances her Paypal accounts over iPhone. The classic four-armed Lakshmi goddess of beauty and wealth. I recognize a sister when I see one.
Jenise Collado is an MBA graduate doing marketing for a voice over IP company. Mirasol Perez manages real estate. Cat Leslie manages media for a new Internet start-up.
“What do you do?” asks a red-faced B-O-Y standing too close to me.
“I’m a writer,” I say.
“What kind of writing?”
“Science fiction,” I say.
“How do you make money?” he asks.
“I build web sites,” I say.
We pose for foto after foto and when I am tired, I sit and I meditate on the scene, trying to remain removed, a spider fairy on the wall just observing and not becoming.
When I stand, a Sieloh business card is sticking to my ass and Leticia tells me I am a marketing genius as the photographer shoots our booties.
As the day wears on, I look at the azul ocean beyond the plastic barbie and ken scene in front of our noses.
As the day wears on, and sweaty B-O-Yz try to holla, my invisible wall of protection grows thicker.
I am in character. I am safe inside my little secret world no one else can penetrate.
Modeling bikinis at the Sagamore Hotel in South Beach – what was that like? The atmosphere – frat B-O-Y types as excited as they were at age 11 at the mention of baseball cards with chewing gum. But now grown up, all they want to chew on is some Playboy ASS. At the mention of Playboy, men lose their sh-t, they are at the mercy of their balls, and trigger happy fingers carrying 18 cameras to capture the moment, for the ultimate bragging rights.
“You’ll never believe where I was yesterday. Nevermind, don’t guess, I can’t wait to blurt it out – f-ing Playboy party, man!! Tits painted in blue – I’ve got the picutres to prove it! Aw, no, I didn’t get to touch anything, but man, I brushed by with an elbow – wow – a piece like that!”
Who designed the bikinis? Dinia Demu.
Men proudly displayed their VIP badges but sneaking peeks in the dressing room window where naked girls bounce into their assigned bikinis. Only one blonde in the bunch. Odd, the rest of us darker beauties are from Colombia, Puerto Rico and other Latin countries. Beautiful women.
Do we rule the world because men will never cease to fall under our spells? No matter our advances in technology and years of mental evolution, biology rules; sex rules and the players with the biggest fake tits and the best pick-up lines win?
The funny thing about South Beach is its inherent comedy, its hysterical theatrics of the mating script, yet, the characters all think they are auditioning for a serious drama. They take themselves so seriously! Men drooling over scantily clad women – after centuries of this, can we just step back and laugh at its absurdity? How silly it all is to showcase our sexual power? Damn, I find it funny and I enjoyed making money from it today.
I wore a bikini and someone pays me.
“Are you nervous?”" Someone asks me.
“Why should I be?” I say. “Is this brain surgery? Am I a politician making decisions that will affect millions of people? Showing some skin doesn’t make me nervous. Besides, we all have the same stuff – boobs, butts, hair, face, feet – what’s the drooling all about? How many times can you look at the same stuff and keep the drooling going? Shouldn’t the effect be like a gynocologist? Looking at it day in, day out, the novelty fades, desensitization kicks in.
Miami Writers Association (MWA)
at The Wallflower Gallery
10 N.E. 3rd Street Downtown Miami, (Artistic Gathering & Open Discussion), Florida 33132
Thursday, July 30 2009 / 7:00pm to 9:30pm
MWA hosted (along with Wallflower Gallery) a reading event (for any genre of writing); You didn’t have to be a writer or musician to attend—just a love of the arts and an ear to listen to the passion and poetry of our community of artists. Writers of poetry, short essay and short story took the microphone and shared their work with other artists and lovers of creativity. Much more than a literary event, we also had wannabe musicians playing some of their music, and they were available to our writers for impromptu musical/poetic collaborations. **** (open MiC/open to the public)
Suggested Donation of $5 for our host ‘The Wallflower Gallery’-
(Donation only)
by Femmebot
I’ve been wanting to go to Japan ever since I read “Memoirs of a Geisha” about 10 years ago. That’s the beauty of fiction. It transports the reader to a different time, a different place, a different culture. A book can often fulfill our natural human appetite for escapism from the everyday grind…and its carbon footprint is less than a plane trip from Miami to Tokyo plus a train ride to Kyoto.
OK, no, it’s not entirely the same, but in a recession, the imagination can be more valuable than C-A-S-H. These dayz, I’m more into cyborg Geishsas, probably a sign that I’ve been using too much technology. But technology IS my everyday grind, and the only art form that expresses my angst with it, is Japanese animation.
So, I’ve been overdosing on Japanese animation over the last year.
My fascination started with Top Cow Productions’ “Witchblade,” which follows the trials and adventures of Masane, nicknamed “Melanie” because of her sizeable rack – coincidence? I think not. Masane also happens to be “charmed,” or rather, “cursed” – depends on whether you are a pessimist or an optimist – with the power of the Witchblade, a really cool bracelet I would like to design and sell someday, ha ha. No, I’ll just tell my friend Uma Nanda Saraswathi about this particular design since she already has her own jewelry line…and she would understand since she likes to dress up as Kali for Halloween.
Anywayz, gotta stay focused. I’m the storyteller.
Throughout the Witchblade series, it is clear that the only reason Masane fights is to protect and support the love of her life: her six-year-old daughter, Rioko. And when her daughter is taken away from her, she loses all motivation to continue battling the iWeapons.
I learned a ton about myself from this series last fall as I was going through the pains of building my own company. Masane was really good at negotiating a better salary for herself. Basically, she threw tantrums until she got what she needed…let me emphasize “needed,” not “wanted.” Throughout the series she wears the same ugly yellow shirt and blue pants…so, she’s not the kind of chic that wants to buy cute shoes and dresses (not that there’s anything wrong with that!), although when she transforms into the Witchblade and she’s decked out in full costume, she is quite fabulous….
Masane is in a position to throw tantrums because she never asked to wield the power of the Witchblade, i.e., her “secret sauce,” the thing that makes her unique and the reason others want to pay her. Talk about “law of attraction.” Instead of trying to GET others to pay attention to you, you just follow your own path, your own destiny, and others will naturally seek you out for the skillz you possess. Thanks, Witchblade, for that very important marketing lesson!
Netflix is cool because once you find a flick or series you like, it leads you to other suggestions. “Ergo Proxy” seemed like the natural successor to my Witchblade obsession, since they are both stories about techie chics who are battling “the machines.” Yes, sci-fi always has political commentary, so it is a natural segue from a journalism career…except this time I’ve got a chance to tell the truth. This series is full of the kind of dialogue I always wanted to put into my journalistic articles:
“Knowing the truth doesn’t always make you happy.”
“Lies make us happy! Lies make us happy!”
“Now is the best time to consume. Why skimp when you deserve more?”
“Immigrants lack complete control of their emotions.”
“Doubting the system is bad. Always obey. Those are the conditions necessary to become a citizen.”
Riel, granddaughter of the Utopian leader, is spoiled, dark, wicked intelligent and bored with her utopian bubble city. She is an inspector. Her tantrums sound like Masane’s in Witchblade, although she is much more refined than Masane. Her sidekick is a robot, called an “autorave” who sounds like a gay boyfriend.
Riel’s job is connecting dots. Hey! That sounds familiar! She is bored with utopia, so her world is shaken up when a creature visits her…the proxy, but when she tries to report the incident, her autorave’s memory has been erased. Um, that sounds painfully familiar as well.
“She can’t distinguish between illusion and reality,” says the conspiring doctor’s autorave. “This is common for humans.”
Dr. Daedelus arranges for a brain scan when Riel acts distressed that no one believes her. She isn’t the type who needs anyone to believe her. She is confident and solid in her character…although eventually, she does have to trust someone…because it is impossible to accomplish tasks alone.
What is so interesting about this animation isn’t the actual animation itself. Mind you, this is Japanese animation, which means the story takes precedence over cool effects (which takes lots of C-A-S-H). Camera panning over detailed still artwork, cool sound effects and badass music are the elements of this animation. The closing song, “Paranoid Android” by Radiohead wasn’t approved until the band actually saw the anime. Hmmm. That’s reassuring.
Another really cool element is the use of Classical Roman statues as the administration in power. They float up and down in the background as they talk about secrecy and monitoring the movements of Riel as she tracks down the truth.
It’s all so interesting as I consider taking money from the government to fund my artistic projects. In “Ergo Proxy,” Riel is a renegade, but she also works for the government. And her grandfather is the leader of the administration. Apparently it can make for a good story if I fund my project with government money…it creates this semblance of a conflict of interest, and yet, watch how I rationalize it…
First off, government money is my money. My tax money. I pay the government to give me services I need: health care, education, housing, food. Hmmm. Wait. That’s not right. In the U.S., I don’t have health insurance unless I work for a corporation. My mortgage is owned by a corporation. My food comes from a corporation. The money I give to my government pays for W-A-R so that I can continue to burn energy for my techie addiction. Hmmm. Back in 2003, I didn’t pay my taxes because I thought I could use the excuse of “conscientious objector” since Bush declared a W-A-R I protested along with millions of others around the world. A year later, they tracked me down, and I eventually paid my debt…but we’re still in this W-A-R. My government officials can’t represent me anymore because they are representing corporations.
So, taking money from the $15 billion Census 2010 outreach pot will allow me to spend tax payer money for constructive things: like education. Multimedia literacy. Creating jobs.
Both Masane and Riel use the system to beat the system. And, if you are an entrepreneur, this is the land you live in. Always trying to think three chess steps ahead; always trying to live within the cracks of the Matrix. There is a passion inside of you others don’t possess, and usually it goes beyond the desire to make money so you can buy a McMansion on the bay and drive a gas guzzling car and eat endangered animals called “delicacies” at 5-star restaurants (if you fall into that category, that’s your preorogative, but you suck).
I started my business because I saw a hole in my local community and I felt I had the skills and the desire to fill it. The hole: not enough well-paying jobs for professional writers who want to write about things besides luxury items for rich people. The infill: BiscayneWriters.com.
It’s a pure intention, but what I didn’t take into account was that I would have to learn how the advertising industry works in order to generate enough income to pay these writers.
Four years later, I know a lot more about advertising, and it’s one of those things I wish I didn’t know anything about. Advertising is a soulless, poisonous business. It’s all about convincing people to buy things they don’t really need. Yes, I subscribe to the speech Brad Pitt made in Fight Club.
So then what? I thought I could follow a different business model: the NPR/PBS model that gets its support from subscribers. So I set up a Paypal donation button. I imagine this will EVENTUALLY work. But by that time all my South Florida writers will have moved to a different location to find work.
Then I thought – I’m an Internet-based business. And writing can be done from the comfort of one’s own home. I can build a network of journalists in the different markets I covered over the past 10 years and connect them to advertisers.
Great. Good. Whatever. It all sounds like the work of a good little former AmeriCorps volunteer, but at the end of the day, I had no Rioko to hug me and tuck me into bed. Over the course of four years, I gave away so much energy that I hadn’t allowed myself the opportunity to receive anything back.
I also found out that the hole I wanted to fill in the market was a metaphor for the hole in my heart. It has recently been filled, not with a daughter, not by a man, not by my parents or my sister or my brother…not by dirt, not by money, not by jobs for writers…
The hole has been filled by LIGHT. Light is energy. Light reflects. Light attracts. Light is L-O-V-E. And so, I am motivated, I am propelled, I am energized by light.
These were the themes as I explored as I created my costumes for Halloween last year: “The Urban Mermaid” and “Chakra Girl.”
The Dance of the Urban Mermaid to Kode 9 & Spaceape’s dubstep track, “Backwards,” shows our evolution, swimming like tadpoles in a stream of consciousness, walking along the bottom of the sea like crabs until we could swim on top of the water. But then we got fancy and started butterflying like dolphins and our egos got the better of us…and when that happens, we find ourselves swimming breastroke backwards, falling down, and starting the process all over again. History repeats, repeats, repeats itself like a DJ scratching a record, and the Urban Mermaid finds herself caught in the next hurricane of MyAmi, spinning and spinning, going nowhere because she only sees with her eyes…until she dies and resurrects as Chakra Girl, a beacon of light who speaks the truth.
It’s a work in progress…we’ll see how it all manifests. I guess I see this particular story in animation because that’s how I saw the world every Saturday morning…look at my 5th grade journal on 9/13/85, for cryin’ out loud!
