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Time Warp: Bed Head + A Lack of Red Flags


I took a series of photos of what I looked like
in the morning when I’d just woken up.
My hair, always a mess
because I move around a lot in my sleep.
In some of them
I’m still drunk from the night before.
In some of them
the background changes
from the bathroom in my old apartment
with the paper-thin walls
to the pastel green with white trim
of my ex-whatever’s bathroom.
My eyeliner is still on
smeared all around my eyes
because I didn’t take it off
like I always do at home
because I wasn’t at home
I was with some dude.
In one photo I’m wearing his t-shirt
my eyes are barely open
and in several of them
I still look hammered.

I was sitting on a barstool
next to this guy
who fancies himself
some kind of outlaw cowboy,
but was really just another suburban drunk,
showing him the photos in my phone
and he laughed
and smiled
and told me
he didn’t know why
but it was kind of hot.

Where I should have seen a red flag,
I saw my in.


Just for fun, here is most of that collection of photos. From a time when I was blonde, drunk, and had terrible judgment. 

Chapbooks, Patches, Stickers: Wares for Sale


Hey all! 

I’ve got some of my chapbook ‘I Wasn’t In Love With You, I Was Just Really Drunk’ left over from the Ladybox event the weekend before last, as well as Tell Me A Story/ I’m A Fucking Lady/ Ladybox logo stickers and I’m A Fucking Lady/Ladybox logo patches! 

If you’re interested in purchasing any of these items, please shoot me a message at

PayPal pretty much a must.






Bummer Post: Market Street Window Gazing


The streets of San Francisco are filled with homeless people. Today, the first time in all my day trips to the city, I see a cluster of uniformed police officers roaming around Market Street and stopping wherever a homeless person is leaning against a building to tell them to move along. Force them to move along. Where? Where are they supposed to go?
I’m sitting in the window of a diner, staring out, killing time. The cluster of cops I passed a few blocks back make their way to the diner. All I can see is a set of feet sticking out from the side of the building on to the sidewalk. The four of them put on black and blue latex gloves in case the have to touch the man passed out against the diner.
They tell him to get up. They pull at him, a group effort to get him to wobble to his feet. They tell him that he’s soaked, in case he didn’t already know. One officer laughs openly at the man and whatever his slurred response was. The officer throws his head back with laughter and claps.

The manFullSizeRender stands but slumps against the wall.

The officers just stare at him and tell him again that he has to go. The man stumbles a few paces and stops directly in front of the window I’m facing out. He lurches, hunched over, pants around his knees and a blanket draped around his shoulders. An officer looks in at me as I take a sip of coffee. He gestures inside and I can see his mouth telling the man that I’m trying to eat and he has to get away from the window. The officer smiles at me and I stare back and shake my head, hoping he can read my expression: “Don’t bring me into this.”

The man is dropping things and picking them up again. Mouth open, oblivious, he wanders down the street away from the diner. The same officer who laughed throws his hands up in the air and hobbles around the sidewalk, mimicking the homeless man and laughing joyously, all teeth, I glare out the window until they move along.


Interview: Constance Ann on Ladybox & Ladybox Books at


Constance Ann:

interview with me about Ladybox/Ladybox Books and a fantastic review of all seven Ladybox books!

Originally posted on

Click HERE to read the interview with Ladybox curator/editor Constance Ann Fitzgerald at LitDemon.

LitDemon also posted a glowing review of Ladybox!

Ladybox has a lot of the same Riot Grrrl DIY sensibilities that you may remember from the punk scene in the late 90’s/early 2000’s, before webpages and blogs took over. These are punk zines in their truest form – handmade, Xeroxed, stapled, simple, straight-to-the-point, and honest. Each chapbook serves up a little something different, but what they all have in common is that there is a lot of heart in each and every sentence. And there’s not a bad one in the bunch.”

Click HERE to read the entire review!

plain_red_logo_1396754589__13195 (click the image to visit

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Ladybox on sale October 15th!

Ladybox on sale October 15th!

Originally posted on


Ladybox is a box set collection of chapbook-style zines by seven kick ass female authors:

Laura Lee Bahr

Rios de la Luz

Rae Alexandra

Tiffany Scandal

Spike Marlowe

Violet LeVoit

Constance Ann Fitzgerald

When it’s time to purchase, this will be the place. Mark your calendars. No pre-orders available. Once they’re gone, they’re gone!

Each set will cost $40 (with free shipping in the U.S.) and will contain seven books and a few little extras, all packaged in a handy box to keep them safe and look fucking cool on your book shelf.


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Adventure Blog: East Bay Adventure Day


Wednesday I decided to take a break from Petaluma, work, and obsessing about the writing I am supposed to be doing, to go to a show with my friend Rachel in Oakland.
I say “the writing I am supposed to be doing” because, duh, a lot hasn’t gotten done. I started to yell at myself and then realized exactly what this month has been, besides my participation in a novella writing challenge.
I threw out my back like the vieja that I am, got super sick, and had to find a place to live, while working my regular shifts. Jesus. Fuck.
I HAVE finally cracked an outline and worked in some other characters and stories I’ve had in mind/notebooks into this. It’s progress.

I left the house too early for the bus I was supposed to catch I and decided to run some errands and have breakfast downtown. I waited to cross at the light and a guy swaggered up to the opposite corner. He tapped the signal and it changed instantly. I love it when that happens. I paused to appreciate magic touch moments for someone else and patted myself on the back for it. Good job not being totally into yourself for a second.

Springtime in California is in full effect. The sun was shining but it isn’t hot enough to be running around shirtless. You’d be surprised at how few dudes that matters to. I cut through the parking lot of the shopping center where I work and see giant bubble letter graffiti blasted across the side of the discount grocery store. Seems that guy was awfully busy, because his tag is all over downtown. Most of them half finished and poorly executed. I wish they ‘d leave art on the sides of buildings and not just a crude hieroglyph that translates to “ I WAS HERE!”

On the waterfront a group of old folks held a water color class, propping their paintings against the railing and sitting in camping chairs, critiquing their shaky brush strokes.

I have this problem where I am always early and the bus is always late. This day was the exception. I took it as a good omen for the day. Doubly so, when Rachel told me she was bringing me cupcakes from the bakery where she works. Then a girl sat in front of me on the bus wearing patchouli. My bus ride was terrible for the three stops until she got off and left her wallet. I laughed. I felt bad and walked it to the driver just as her boyfriend came back to retrieve it.

The bus ride from Petaluma to San Francisco is made for window gazing and headphones, getting day-dreamy on the scenery and thanking Golden Gate Transit for their epically sized bus windows.The right playlist is everything. I like to leave it up to the shuffle feature. Fate. This day all the tracks fall in to the right places, happen at just the right time.

“When I accelerate I remember why it feels good to be alive” I close my eyes to soak in the moment of that song, as I always do. The bus hit a curve and the driver accelerated through it, I smiled and opened my eyes and was met with the view of the SF skyline from across the bay, making that moment magic. Felt suddenly like this could be my last bus trip to the city. I wanted to take a photo but elected to soak it in with my own two eyes. Make that picture with my mind to cherish later. Because I see why people leave their hearts here. It’s so fucking easy to do. So easy to fall in love with.

Once we’re into the city, around Van Ness, I notice the back passenger window of fancy sports car has dried vomit streaked down the side. I’ve definitely been that guy. I didn’t leave it to crust over.

I get off the bus at the Civic Center Bart station and some dude who was talking loudly on his cell phone about facebook for the duration of our ride yells after me and hands me my scarf without saying more than “Hey!” and continues to argue with who I can only assume is his angry girlfriend.

I hit the Civic Center station and update Ray while I wait for my train. I pop my gum and watch people form lines at the platform that won’t do them any good once the nine car stops. I board and everything is good until that panicky part if the the train ride when my ears start to pop and I know it’s because I’m under the bay. What if something goes wrong and we’re trapped? We’ll run out of air, have to eat each other for survival. Or the tunnel could collapse and we’d all just drown in this electrified metal tube.

People in Oakland don’t give a fuck. Dude in a motorized wheelchair almost sideswipes Ray’s car as we enter the Wholefoods parking lot.

In Piedmont we sat in a pub booth where dozens of couples carved their initials into the wood. Name + name and I wonder how many of them are still together. Ghosts of their relationship etched into the walls for drunks to admire.

We parked around the corner from the Fox. Rachel took everything in her car and moved it to the trunk. There was a dude in an huge ugly denim skirt and smeared eyeliner wobbling around in the doorway of a closed shop. He stops everyone who walks by and asks for change.
“Sorry, we don’t have any cash.”
“Can I get a cigarette?”
“We don’t smoke.”
He’s wasted and he walks over to us, telling us about how it’s hard for him to live in transitional housing and to deal with his parole officer because he is transgendered. He flails his arms and won’t make eye contact. Rachel offers him a cupcake.
“Does it have weed in it?” S/he asks excitedly.
“No, but it’s delicious.”

Crossing the street, Rachel sees a dude who looks like one of her favorite djs. I’m too distracted by a dude who is not wearing shoes but whose socks were incredibly white.

I counted four dudes with their hair in a top knot. Unacceptable.

The show opened with an aerobics routine led by DJ Rapid Fire, who was somehow even gayer than Richard Simmons. We were in love.

The Knife turned out not to be playing a regular show, but rather presenting “The Habitual Experience.” It read like The Knife does cirque du soleil. Which was cool, but not quiet what we were expecting. In place of Karin’s elaborate costumes, was a jumpsuit and a lot of choreography. A short set, followed by a dance party in the GA section.
In the line for the bathroom some hipster girl with a haircut like she stuck her head in a blender and wearing some kind of holster that held nothing at all asked me “It wasn’t like corporate when they started synchronized dancing?”
Instead of hitting her with a dictionary I told her it wasn’t what we expected but it was cool to look at. She was up for debate, but the line was moving and I was grateful.

We walked out to the street and it smelled like grilled onions. I found the street vendor and ate a bacon wrapped hot dog on our way back to Rachel’s car, realizing that throughout the course of my day I had probably eaten an entire pig.