Monthly Archives: January 2013

Performance FEMENism.

christ what a hassle

What’s a girl got to do to get noticed around here?

Whether it’s nip slips at the Super Bowl, or boobies for beads at Mardi Gras, the obvious answer to this age-old question remains: show us your tits. Yes sir, boobs turn heads—which may make FEMEN, a Ukrainian-born feminist movement that has turned topless protest into a performance art, the best idea ever.

“There is an ideology behind protesting topless, but we quickly realised that if we took our tops off and screamed loudly it was a good way to get attention,” says Alexandra Shevchenko, one of FEMEN’s founders. “It works. Of course, people talk about our nakedness, but they are also listening to our message.”

Are they? I’m not so sure.

The FEMEN movement was created in 2008 to raise awareness for women’s rights in the Ukraine, particularly to combat prostitution and sex trafficking. Since then, they’ve broadened their scope, opening an office (and a topless protest boot camp) in Paris, and participating in worldwide demonstrations for women’s and gay rights. If their Vimeo page is any indicator, FEMEN’s modus operandi is: show up, get naked, and scream blue murder when the mortified cops show up. And bring your chainsaw.

Read more at The Other Press.

I’m doing a series on FEMEN, hopefully culminating in a trip to their topless training bootcamp in Paris, if I can convince VICE magazine to send me. Fingers crossed!

Hot Messes.


Photo is the property of Vanity Fair and I’ll probably get sued for using it, so enjoy it while you can.

Hey, remember when Randy and Evi Quaid were cruising around Vancouver, bringing the crazy? I wrote this for them. It’s actually a found poem, which means that I cobbled it together from an existing work, an article in Vanity Fair. Does anyone know if these whackjobs are still around?

Randy And Evi Go Viral.

They’re spending nights in their car,
on the run from some shadowy cabal.
Evi Quaid and her husband, Randy
the actor, had tried to drive to Siberia, but
they couldn’t figure out how to get there.
She said, “We’re running for our lives.”

Their car, a black Prius, smelled of fast
food and dog pee and Randy’s cigars.
I asked the Quaids if they were living
in their car. “Only on nights when we
don’t feel secure,” Evi said. “We used
to have a Mercedes. This whole ordeal

has forced us to become incredibly green.”
“Priuses are deceptively roomy,” drawled
Randy, who’s originally from Houston.
“We’re tall people, and the legroom is
important.” “They’re hunting us,” Evi said.
“It’s really happening. They’ve got us in a

spiral.‘Don’t let up on ’em. Drive ’em off
the road. Starve ’em to death.’ ” She was
slapping her hands together for emphasis.
“I guess I’m worth more to ’em dead than
alive,” Randy said mildly. They wore pink

handcuffs. Evi carried Randy’s Golden
Globe and had a “valid credit card” affixed
to her forehead. By the time they arrived
in Canada, calling themselves “refugees”
and claiming they were targets of an
assassination plot, the Quaids had gone viral.

Vanity Fair.
The Quaid Conspiracy
By Nancy Jo Sales

Jan 2011

Thai Travelogue (The Facebook Files) Serenity Now.

Serenity Now

So. We decided to save a few bucks. Checked into the Serene resort, very Buddhist, in that staying there constantly reminds you that life is suffering. I could go on about the bed, the mould, the ants, the bar that is open 24 hours a day and only plays the same 6 songs, including an inane big beat remix of “Signs” by The Who…but really, all I need to say are those three little words: broken sewage line. Keep in mind, it’s 35 degrees, and I’ve had food poisoning for the last two days. Keep it in mind, but try not to picture it.
Being in the Buddhist heartland, we practiced grim acceptance until about ten minutes ago, when I fucking blew my top, pulled myself together, because getting angry at people causes them to lose face, and POLITELY asked the owner what could be done. Over and over again. With a smile.
Now we are in a loft above his massage parlour with no view, no bamboo ambiance, no mosquito net, and ABSOLUTELY NO FESTERING SHIT. And we are DELIRIOUSLY HAPPY.
Asia, I’ve got your number.
Watch out, motherfucker.

Thai Travelogue (The Facebook Files) Part Deux: Electric Boogaloo.


Possibly the best thing I have seen so far: Hong Thong booze. Specified only as “local Thai spirit.” Sold in 40 oz bottles for about 400 bhat ($14) and stored in a milk crate in the sun, away from the other booze, like maybe it’s contagious. This product needs representation. A slogan. I’m thinking a booty-licious girl in a thong, leaning into a car window, shot from the back (of course) with some kind of slogan like “Hong Thong: Deliciously Cheap.” I’m open to suggestions though. One liners aren’t my forte.