Tough shit

"My mom used to say that I became 

a fighter and a scrapper and a tough guy 

to protect who I am at my core."

-- Vin Diesel

Self portrait 10-24-13

"If they didn't call you a tough guy, then what else would they call you?

Something worse than that?

I'm playing parts, and if they call you that, it's because I played the part right."

-- Ray Winstone

Self portrait (2) 10-24-13

"When major badasses greet each other in movies they don't say anything they just nod. 

The nod means 'I am a badass and I recognize that you too are a badass' 

but they don't say anything ... because it would mess up their vibe to explain."

-- Cassandra Clare, City of Bones

Self portrait (3) 10-24-13

"They don't know you're
secretly a badass?"

-- Rachel Caine, Fall of Night

Badass neck tattoo!

Two summers ago I learned how to ride a motorcycle. And then I bought one. Riding my motorcycle lets my inner tough guy out to play, it frees my inner badass like nothing else. 

So for today's self portrait "disguise," I let my inner tough guy show on my outside.

I wore a ponytail wig (even though you can't really see it), bummed some sunglasses  from my son,  trotted out my costume facial hair and got a sweet dagger neck tattoo for 50 cents out of the Drug Mart gumball machine.

Just for the record, the leather motorcycle jacket is mine. It's the one I actually wear it on my actual motorcycle. It is covered in bugs to prove it.

One of the coolest things about riding a motorcycle is when other motorcyclists give me a discreet little wave when we pass each other on the road. It's like a secret handshake, just a little drop of the clutch hand, often with a peace sign, that communicates, biker to biker, badass to badass, "I ride, you ride, ride on." 

I love that shit.

Wolf! Where?

"Follow your inner moonlight; don't hide the madness."

-- Allen Ginsberg

Self portrait 10-12-13

David:    "I'm a werewolf.

  Alex:      "Are you alright?

                                                 David:    "I don't know, I'll let you know the next full moon."

-- An American Werewolf in London

"I saw a werewolf drinking a pina colada at Trader Vic's,

And his hair was perfect."

-- Warren Zevon, "Werewolves of London"

Lipschtick

"I'm the bearded lady! Who are you, one of the freaks?"

-- Spaceballs

Arranged face with beard, mustache, cutout lips and a cigarette 9-6-13

"People talk about my image, like I come in two dimensions, 

like lipstick is a sign of my declining mind ..."

-- Ani DiFranco

Arranged face (2) with beard, mustache, cutout lips and a cigarette 9-6-13

"I smoke so many cigarettes, 

there's no way I could have glossy lipstick."

-- Isabella Blow

"I have a beard of fog that I wear on misty mornings.

It's not cigarette smoke, but I'd understand if you wanted to

shave it off and inhale it."

-- Jarod Kintz,

At even one penny, this book would be overpriced

Gunslinger

"All outlaws are photogenic."

-- Tom Robbins, Still Life With Woodpecker

Self portrait 8-19-13

 “Somehow, we'll find it. 

The balance between whom we wish to be 

and whom we need to be. 

But for now, we simply have to be satisfied 

with who we are.”

-- Brandon Sanderson, The Hero of Ages

When I was about 5 years old, I wanted cowboy guns, cowboy boots and a cowboy hat for Christmas.
I got the guns. Two silver, plasticized pearl-handled pistols with a belt and holsters.
I got the hat. Felt, with a little string under the chin.
I got the boots. Black. Shiny.
I even got a shirt with cowboy piping.
I also got a skirt.
A stiff, ugly black skirt with white plastic fringe along the hem.

There are Super-8 home movies of me in this girly get-up, waving my pistols, trying to be a bad-ass cowboy.
In a skirt.
I hated that skirt.
I didn't want a skirt.
I didn't ask for a skirt.
I knew that no self-respecting cowboy would be caught dead in a goddamn skirt.
And I didn't want to hear about girl outlaws.

I didn't want to be Annie Oakley.
I didn't want to be Belle Starr.
I wanted to be Jesse James.
Butch Cassidy.
Billy the Kid.
 
It wasn't the first time my mother forced me to wear a dress. That happened a lot. Usually for pictures or holidays. I always felt so uncomfortable in a dress. So unnatural. So self-conscious. Like an imposter. A fraud.

But, like all the other skirts and dresses of my childhood, I wore the cowgirl skirt to mollify my parents -- for the pictures.
I tried to look happy. Tried to appear grateful.
As soon as Christmas was over, I took that fucker off and I never wore it again.
I got good mileage out of the pistols and the boots, though.

I am all grown up now, and I still love to shoot. Real guns. I'm a pretty good shot, actually. I am proficient with a .22, a sexy as hell .38 revolver (now that's a cowboy gun), a Glock 9 mm, and a .380 semi-automatic.

I have two pistols of my very own and am a registered concealed carrier.
Yup. I can pack heat.

I have my own real Stetson hat. I have my own real cowboy boots. I even made myself a pair of rodeo chaps -- with cowboy fringe.

Not a skirt.
Chaps.
And just to make sure we're clear, I got myself a handlebar mustache and a beard -- for the pictures.

Dis-guys

One of my fellas.
Okay, it's me.
With a beard.

Self portrait 2-9-13

Self portrait 2-9-13