Pimp my shuffle

In between Fleshbot posts and pinching myself about all the podcast attention I’m getting today, I did a little craft project: I pimped out my iPod Shuffle. With one of those little “Bling It!” kits from Amazon (marketed to teens for use on cell phones), I sat with a small pair of scissors and applied tiny light blue and white “ice” rhinestones. How sexy will it look buried in my cleavage? Way. Total craft time: 20 minutes. Satisfaction: absolute. Jealousy when I shop in the Castro: insurmountable.

More Shuffle bling pics start here (click ‘next’ for more).

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Wall Street Journal interview!

Violet Blue Wall Street Journal

Now Playing on Apple’s iTunes: Adult-Oriented Podcasts

Wow! Freaking out while posting to Fleshbot today…

* Update: I had no idea I was in the print verison, too! I totally started hyperventilating in the coffee shop an hour ago when I saw my color photo on the front of the “Marketplace” section…

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Busy Girl

Today my column for SFist: Every Inch Counts (about a seriously revolutionary sex toy material) and an interview with Newsweek (!!!next week’s issue!!!), yesterday I did an interview at the very cool Odeo.com offices for their podcast (more on that soon), and tomorrow I take over Fleshbot for a day of grrrl-powered porn mayhem. I promise to return with a roundup of the odd EFF Panel, where we didn’t talk about important stuff like 2257 and I got bitch-sniped by a fellow panelist who was like, all jealous that I was prettier than him. But it did bring up important issues I want to cover, like sex blogging and privacy issues, and yes, I want to explain 2257 a bit more here — it’s a law that censors the use of images like the Abu Ghraib photos and not *just* porn, you know…

Love and strength to my friends in London.

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Simnuke success

When I did the Teledildonics presentation, I had the joy of co-presenting with the dangerously cute (or cutely dangerous) members of Simnuke — we shared microphones, got drunk enough to slur, good times, people. I was sad I missed the Simnuke detonation, but there’s a great account of it here, and sexy alien from the future Xeni covered it on NPR.

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I’ll Call You Frank If I Can Be Dick

It was a “holiday in other people’s misery.” (at least when outside the sanctuary of London Boy’s house). And back, I seem to be busy as usual, but it’s not the kind of busy that’s resulting in income, which is something I’m going to have to give more serious thought (especially when the credit card bill from my uber-costly UK trip shows up). And the way I’m feeling about the sex book biz, I’m looking at going back to working in a cafe with romance in my eyes, even if in the past two days I’ve done interviews with the Chicago Tribune, Wired, the Wall Street Journal… Starbucks *does* have benefits for part-time workers… I mean seriously — I’m shopping for an agent right now, and with as many books as I’ve sold, and top ten sales lists my books live on, I got this response from a mainstream agent today:

“I’m going to be frank with you and let you know that personally, I love this kind of stuff, but I know that it would never fly with the particular agency I work for … I wish I could recommend an agency that is hipper and more open to what you do, and if I can come up with one, I’ll let you know.”

In other words, welcome to the insanely popular sex writing ghetto. I have six contracts waiting to be signed and more offers. What the fuck do these lit business people think is going on in sex writing these days? That attitude is so dead.

More stuff on my mind:
* Tomorrow night I’ll be on a bloggers’ rights panel for the EFF here in San Francisco (7pm).
* New podcast: Open Source Sex 14, where I rant about iTunes and sex podcasts, talk about London and read erotica.
* Don’t miss my last two columns for SFist, Fantastic Foreskin and Porn by the Bay (the latter I wrote on my laptop in SFO).
* While I was gone, stuff kept happening at home. Which totally ruins my theories about reality only happening when you notice it. The big thing that happened was that iTunes yanked a bunch of adult podcasts (mine included; you can get all the details in my latest podcast). They relisted it fairly quickly, only because friends and colleagues made noise about it in blogs, which is awesome and amazing. And I know that iTunes would never have responded to any of our complaints, nor would they ever consider adult podcasts a viable, respectable medium that anyone might want to actually listen to. I mean, they’ve got most of us in the “health” ghetto, as sex could *never* have its own “entertainment” category, because sex is either dirty and evil or clinical and medical. Right? Again with the outdated attitudes about sex. Anyway, these posts got my (according to my podcast host 280,000 subscribers and growing) podcast re-listed in iTunes: iTunes Prudery: The iTipper, Flap over adult podcasts and iTunes, Sexy Podcasts on iTunes. Still dropped from iTunes are: Gay Sexcapades, MXL: Spice Up Your Sex Life and Rubber Canada.
* I’ll be in New York on the last weekend of this month — for fun! I’m determined to have a good getaway this summer, and the delightful Tony Comstock is letting me crash in his apartment so my budget won’t get crushed; even more exciting is that I’m going to NY with Extra Action, and they have lots of crazy/fun gigs planned. It’ll be a trip chock full of rubber panties, sock garters and huge eyelashes — I’ll also be doing an in-studio appearance on the Derek and Romaine Show on the 29th; I’ll post details when they’re final if you want to listen in and hear me try to get spanked on the air…

I have to blog about the wonderfulness of San Francisco for a minute. Coming home has been full of perspective and release. I actually cried in my yoga class on Friday, which sounds really yuppie and lame, but felt really fucking good, like a total release and appreciation for everything I have, however fleeting, and the beauty I’m finding in moments that are so great they just can’t be held onto. The art of release, just like archery (I do shoot a bow and arrow though haven’t in a while). I’m even glad for all the difficulties I’ve been dealing with lately, as they seem to be showing me where I need to stretch a little bit more. On saturday Hornboy and I woke up and went to the Farmer’s Market, where we got coffee and croissants and sat on the pier, looking around the bay and back at the “Port of San Francisco” letters above the Ferry Building. We spent hours snacking and buying fruits and vegetables from local farmers.

Then we meandered home, where we made afternoon cocktails and put all the produce and fresh bread into a picnic basket and headed off to Golden Gate Park. We spread out a packing blanket I stole a few SRL shows ago and sat in the trees, on grass and little tiny white flowers, along a secluded stretch of winding duck pond. For a few minutes a couple and a photographer wandered through out little corner of bliss, taking their engagement photos. We sipped Campari and soda with lemon, and nibbled on everything in and out of the picnic basket. At one point, I even took dessert in the form of a quick and nasty blowjob while Hornboy writhed on the blanket — a very daring thing for me, to do this in public. A first. Such a huge turn-on, too; but how can a girl resist seeing a nice hard knob in a pair of pants and not want to take a sample? A girl just can’t.

That evening we went to see my friends at the Fire Arts Festival, which is a great and lame thing all rolled into one experience. The fire art sculptures are incredible, but sadly the festival and Burning Man are the same thing, so you see really cool fire art but have to deal with snotty boho hippies and clowns. Plus, you know they’re all these rich posers because it’s like $75 to get in. We snuck in, and it was as easy as being totally ignored by staff and security at the door. So rude; we stood for several minutes (I thought I might be on the guest list, was planning to talk my way in, I don’t have that kind of money to *burn*) and waited, and waited… and just blended into the crowd, split up for a minute, then found each other again. Highlight: meeting Monochrom, who I’ll go see do their Dorkbot on wednesday night. Highlight 2: seeing my friend Rosanna’s incredible fire and metal sculptures in real life (she’s also an SRL grrrl).

Anyway, my friend’s pictures are cool.

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Safe at home

But not on the computer until tomorrow. I’d like to formally thank my guardian spirits, at the very least for sending a drag queen to the airport to greet me to remind me about a) the important things in life, and b) why San Francisco is my spiritual and intellectual home. Okay, so the tall blonde/white boa combo wans’t there to greet *me* but you get my drift.

In the meantime, visit the pics of London street art I shot on my last night, in the district where Jack the Ripper hacked his way into our hearts and minds.

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Waiting in Heathrow

It’s the little things about corporate culture I’m grateful for in situations like this; right now I’m sitting in Heathrow airport (London) suckiing up the wifi at the Starbucks. It’s about 8am here; 12am at home in San Francisco, and I’ve had about three hours of sleep. The transportation is so fucked here that it’s impossible to get to the airport by tube (remember when I landed it had been blown up?), and it seems that people are reserving the cabs to get to work — which meant it took me five cab companies at 1am to find one that would come get me and take me to the airport, and then only at 5am.

On monday I sat down with a map of the Underground and my laptop, mapping out all the unusable tube service so I could try to figure out a plan to see some sights. I sat with a black pen and drew lines over all the suspended/removed lines and stops, until I realized I’d drawn a huge black ring around the center of London. Ring around the rosy. So I just walked out and got on a bus headed randomly toward the city center.

I got off in Soho, the same neighborhood I’d gone bar-hopping with London Boy, the gay neighborhood. It was hot, sunny, full of green leafy trees and just lovely; I wandered around the businesses and shops until I was sweaty and my feet hurt. I had iced coffee, ate weird curry quiche and chatted with Hare Krishnas, took pictures and shopped at the Skin Two shops. The Krishna guy offered me a pamphlet, I declined, he asked where I was from and then profusely apologized about the “sitation” in London, assuring me that it was only once and would never happen again. I felt like I needed to comfort him somehow, it was strange, perhaps because he was feeling like as a tourist, everyone I met (such as him) represented London.

I bought myself two comfort souvenirs: a crystal eyepatch and a jeweled buttplug.

It took hours to get back to the house.

The next day, my last in London (yesterday) I made a big plan to visit the Highgate Cemetery, supposedly where the inspiration for Bram Stoker’s Dracula came from. Half the cemetery is open to the public, half is by tour appointemy only, so I booked a walking tour. I called the cab over an hour ahead of time to visit a district only about 25 minutes away from where I was staying, but of course the cab driver got lost, had to use my guidebook map, and then I just got out and walked — over an hour of driving, and I ran through the cemetary to try and catch the tour, to which I was late.

Pause for a minute to imagine me running through the old cemetery with my long black hair, big sunglasses, black shoes and socks and skirt (and sock garters). Now try it in slow motion.

I got to the huge locked iron gates, and an old verison of Lurch stood there. “I’m late for the tour.” No response. “I ran. I called to tell the receptioist was late.” No response. “She said she’d let me in. My whole trip to London has been like this…” Finally, he moved toward the gates, very slowly, and unlocked them using a huge skeleton key. “I’ll get her.”

I ran to catch up with the tour, and the cemetary was really green and gorgeous — check out my photos here. After the too-short tour through what seemed to be only a small section, I went across the street to the big public cemetery, which I found more fun and entertaining. I sat on a bench and read among the graves, in the shade. I took pictures. I wandered over to Karl Marx’s grave because Jackson wouldn’t forgive me otherwise. Then I meandered out of the graveyard to a nearby French cafe for cold beer and salad; it was my best afternoon by far, and I read at the cafe for a while. Then I tried to get a cab back; an hour and a half wait (I was *not* in a remote area, mind you). Once in the cab, I was trapped in traffic with a lifelong Londoner, who told me he’s “never seen it like this.” I told him that’s pretty much what I’d been hearing since I landed, and he laughed. We talked politics; people here know more about Bush than the average American, but that really isn’t a surprise. We talked about the bombings; he grew up when the IRA was bombing London so he had a world-weary prepective on it, which I suppose many Londoners do — and I think it’s incorrectly interpreted in the press right now as the iconic “stiff upper lip.” Interstingly, in the press here they’re not comparing the tragedy and their reactions to 9/11, which is what I expected, but instead they’re comparing themselves and their reactions to the Spanish.

The “stiff upper lip” is being talked about a lot — on talk radio they’re openly asking if they should be grieving more. Spanish TV crews were wandering around memorial sites and asking anyone who would talk to them why they weren’t crying or openly showing grief. Are the Brits seen as being cold, like their stereotype? I’ve certainly seen a lot of angry reaction in the blogs, and “let’s move on”, but no sadness, hurt, or pain. They’re definitely defensive about questions such as the Spanish are asking; is expressing loss seen as weakness in this culture? I read through my 200+ blog rounds, and it was very interesting to see really only these two reactions in the UK blogs.

Oh, and I haven’t met a single Londoner who likes our president; they can’t believe we’re about to gamble our social security away. Quel suprise. Neither can I.

Sorry if there are any typos; I need to wrap up and head toward my gate. Off to the Barf Vader and Puke Skywalker convenience bags…

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