Tyler Yoder's Blog, page 13

Post the Ninety-Fifth: It’s HALLOWEEN, YOU GUYS

Gentle Reader, what are you even doing here? You thought that I’d have some delightful post up on a Friday which is also Halloween?

Really?

Nope. Not even a little. You shouldn’t even be here. Go forth and cause some mayhem! Be spooky! Hell, if you can’t make it out, at least dress up all alone and watch a festive flick!

I mean, I live to serve, and I love being your date when you’re alone on the hols – and I will absolutely be your imaginary internet date, for Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, St. Valentine’s – you name it. But Halloween? HALLOWEEN IS MY JAM. And it should be your jam, too. Here are some reasons why:

1. Costumes: You can dress however the hell you like and NO ONE IS ALLOWED TO JUDGE YOU and you don’t have to conform to societal notions whatsoever so long as you’re not an asshole about it.

Like this. Sexy Burqa? Really? This is wrong on so many levels.

2. Candy for the children, I guess? I’m sorry, I stopped trick-or-treating at twelve, because this isn’t really a children’s holiday. They get the magic of Christmas; Halloween is a bacchanal. And I love me a bacchanal.

Whatever, buckaroos

3. The Dead: Walls between worlds are thin, today, you guys. It’s a chance to commune with your loved ones before you go out dressed as sexy corn or something.

4. Decadently Trashy Behavior: Like I said, it’s a bacchanal. I’m not even going to pretend that I’m not going to indulge in seven million cocktails and try to get the number of that foxy little fella dressed as Chris Pratt from Guardians of the Galaxy. Or maybe he’s dressed as Elsa from Frozen – this is a gay bar, after all.

I mean, by the time you read this I’ll be drunk at a gay bar hitting on Elsa. Probably. It’s a magical night full of possibilities!

Possibilities like *this*, y’all

Anyway, those are only some of the reasons you should be enjoying the hell out of tonight. Go forth and frighten yourselves, darlings.

Tagged: Go Forth And Cause Mayhem, Halloweekend, Halloween, Holiday Posts, Ich Bin Ein Betrunken Wutend Geist, Seriously You Guys I Love This Halloween Business, SPOOOKY, This Is Halloween, Why are you even reading blogs on the internet right now

Post the Seventeenth: In Which There Is A Competition

Gentle Reader, this post originally aired back in late December, 2012, for some reason. Here it is again, in its proper season, for your Halloweek enjoyment.

Gentle Reader, for purposes of this entry, let it be the month of October, in the year 2008. My dear Miss K. is living in the house I used to rent with our mutual friend, the Colonel. Their landlady’s daughter, and her beau, B and B, are the immediate neighbors, and are constantly there. I also frequented their home, which had been christened as “Phoenix Down Hall.”

Now, it so happens that Miss K. still had in her possession a pair of polyvinyl short-shorts from her Goth days, at school. They were hilariously revealing, and she was about to throw them away, “as they’re full of fail.”

I grabbed her wrist, as they were too ridiculous of a garment not to own – I demonstrated by putting them on. She offered to give them to me, but B and B had the idea of a competition – we’d keep track of mistakes, misdeeds, and misspeaking with tally marks, and whoever was “most full of fail” at the end of the month would clearly be made to wear them*. Thus, the fail-shorts were born.

All month long, every little thing was recorded – and as Miss K. and the Colonel were butting heads as room-mates, there were a lot of little irksome things. Once the Colonel was disqualified by erasing the board, we were down to three contenders: Myself, Miss K., and B. As it was the week before Halloween, clearly we’d need to have a fail-off.

It’s an odd thing, when three fully grown adults break into a school play-ground. It’s stranger still when they indulge in childhood games, like hide and seek. Nonetheless, that is what we did.

The points were flying in the air like a flurry of snow, and K. had had enough of B.’s pomposity – he’s a  bit much, sometimes. Miss K. threw the match so that we could get the hell out of there, and away from him.

The auspicious day arrived, and our calender was full: We had four separate functions to attend. Given that our first few stops were near her place, and that she didn’t want any of us to have to worry about driving, my mother kindly chauffeured us about. We piled into her van, dressed thusly: I was dressed as a French nobleman.

The Colonel was in bow-tie and tails, as is his custom, B. was in a frock, wig, and heels (he had shaved his legs, which were hidden by the frock, but not the chest hair poking out of his décolletage), and of course, Miss K. was in fishnets, fail-shorts, a black silk top, and leather jacket. We were set to go.

Our first three stops were fairly ordinary Halloween parties, and I shan’t go into the details here, except to note that B. (called Delores) was voted the prettiest, at one of them. Our final destination, however, was a gay bar; as I had never yet been to one (and wanted to meet someone, damn it) we upped oars for Tacoma, and Club Silverstone.

At the Stone, there’s a grand staircase descending down, down into darkness.

Labyrinthine walls caging you in and guiding you this way and that. We fought our way through the chaos, to a clearing, set with cocktail tables and captain’s chairs, upholstered in peeling, shiny, vinyl, and whose castors adhered to the mysteriously sticky carpet. My K and I took orders, and elbowed up to the bar. While in line, K – who had imbibed a fair deal at the other locations (and while she can drink all night, she’s falling down on her first drink – balance is not her strong suit) began collapsing in her hooker-boots, and so it fell to me to keep her from falling. Arms about one another, it should not have been a surprise that so many attractive young gentlemen, rather than hitting on me, complimented K and I on being so supportive of our trans friend, and her boyfriend. Through our festively foggy minds, K and I were having the damnedest time trying to figure out who the devil they were talking about, until we glanced towards our table – the crush of the crowd had forced B and the Colonel – straight dudes both – uncomfortably close to one another.

Drinks and dancing accomplished, and dates lined up, we drove off into the night, without further incident.

Tagged: Betrunken Wutend Geist, Contests, Fail Shorts, Full Disclosure, Halloween, Hallowekend, QUILTBAG

Music Monday: Ghosts

I’ve slept in a different house every night for the last three nights, so getting a video up for you today is slightly impossible, Gentle Reader. Since Halloween’s this Friday, please one of my favorite songs – Ghosts, by The Head and The Heart.

Something like this, anyway. Wait for the chorus.

Tagged: Ghosts, Ich Bin Ein Betrunken Wutend Geist, Music Monday, One Day We'll All Be Ghosts Y'all, The Head and The Heart

Poetic Interlude LXXXI

We’ll Go No More A-Roving

George Gordon, Lord Byron
 
So we’ll go no more a-roving

So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,

And the moon be still as bright.
 
For the sword outwears its sheath,

And the soul wears out the breast,

And the heart must pause to breathe,

And Love itself must rest.
 
Though the night was made for loving,

And the day returns too soon,
Yet we’ll go no more a-roving

By the light of the moon. 
Tagged: George Gordon Lord Byron, Poetic Interludes, Poetry, So We'll Go No More A Roving

Post the Ninety-Fourth: A Fancy Dress, Described

Gentle Reader, Halloweekend begins one week from today. Have you gotten your outfit together, and field-tested it? It’s not too late – you have an entire week – but you should be ludicrously ashamed of yourself. What if something’s hard to find, or needs breaking in, or must be altered? For Shame. My outfit has been finished for weeks, now, but I’m still searching out those finishing touches – I’ve had my shoes for less than a week, and am still frantically looking for a proper wig. However, given that Halloween is a week from today, I’ve decided to share my frock with you – layer by layer. Also, I intend to explain how my elaborate Edwardian bustle-gown and matching hat cost me under thirty dollars*.

My word, yes, there are layers, darlings. With the aid of my humble dress-form, Madame Claude, I intend to walk you through them. Please forgive her alarming toplessness for a portion of this post†.

The bottom layer is simply two skirts that I’ve had for ages. The top skirt has three tiers, that I applied fringe to. The fringe comes from a separate frock‡ I picked up from the Halloween section of a thrift store – that dress was $4.00. A few simple whip-stitches later, and we have the foundation of our garment.

This Layer’s Cost: $4.00

Here we find a bustle pillow, in red velvet and an alarmingly shocking fuchsia. Why fuchsia? Well, for one reason or another I just happened to have a fuchsia petticoat lying around my boudoir – also, I wanted my undergarments to be a little saucy.  A bustle pillow is perfect for costuming, because let’s face it: laboriously constructing an authentic bustle cage is expensive, time-consuming, and you won’t get nearly enough use out of it. To make the bustle pillow, I simply took some scraps of velvet, shaped them in such a way that they would nestle cunningly into the small of my back, and stuffed it with cotton batting from a throw-pillow my dog had eaten. A bit of ribbon to tie it on with, and attaching the petticoat, and boom – I was a bustle richer.

This Layer’s Cost: Free

This skirt is made from a remnant of polka-dotted cotton I’d intended to make a shirt from this summer. There’s 2+ yards of fabric, and it came from the thrift store. Make a sort of shaft at the top to thread some elastic that you inherited from your old gran through, make the elastic a loop, and put it on your dress form. BOOM. At this point, I had to double up about a foot of fabric near the hemline – about a foot from the hem. Once doubled, I rouched it, and tailor’s tacked it into place to form a pouf and a train.

This Layer’s Cost: Like $2.00 or Something

Don’t be deceived, Gentle Reader. This layer was deceptively tricky to make. Probably because it was pieced together from scraps leftover from a summer blazer I undertook for a client. Same deal with the elastic waistband; to give the big square handkerchief fluttering off one’s bum, tuck the corners under and sew a seam up the middle until you run into other, more structural seams. This will create an enchanting mid-level faux-pannier pouf.

This Level’s Cost: Free

Say, now that fabric’s really posh. It’s also the most expensive part of this outfit. After I’d made the matching jacket, I took the remaining yard and a half of taffeta damask that I’d gotten on sale, put it on yet another bit of elastic, and pinned and gathered my way into the MOST ENORMOUS BUM THIS SIDE OF 1912.

This Layer’s Cost: Around $9.oo, for half of the fabric

For those keeping track at home, this is five layers so far, and we’re still up in the skirts. As a reward for making it this far, a shocking topless photo of Madame Claude. Be warned: There is full frontal dress-form nudity.

Trust me, the skirts are more becomingly arrayed when they’re on. The train looks better, too, as it trails along the floor behind one.

Okay, so you can’t see most of the hand-beading that went into this hand-beaded waist cincher. That’s because it’s jet glass, and black-on-black-on-black in low light is trouble for any camera. Rest assured, though, that each little leaf, every curlicue, and every stylized flower is outlined with glittering glass beads. The pearls are for the stamens and pistils! It took three days to bead. The cincher was made from a burnt velvet scarf that I had, some elasticized wool from an ancient doublet I retired years ago, and eyelets that I obviously had on hand. Honestly, if you’re a crafty type and hoard save things from previous projects, you hardly have to buy anything.

This Layer’s Cost: Free

I wish you could see the whitework on this blouse, or the stunning collar. So it goes. The collar’s a sort of pleated mandarin affair, suitable for a turn-of-the-century lady. It also has off-center buttons at a raked angle, to show off the embroidery. Also, I should mention that this blouse was a gift from a friend, who found it in a dumpster and thought of me.

This Layer’s Cost: Free

Say, recognize that fabric? It’s the same taffeta damask from the top bustle layer! When there are no arms in the sleeves, you can’t tell, but they’re leg-of-mutton sleeves. It’s also closely tailored to my figure.

This Layer’s Cost: The other $9.00 from that fabric purchase

That’s no run-of-the-mill bridal-shower-or-shoddy-halloween boa, Gentle Reader. I mean, yes, it’s made of the same type of feather (usually high-grade turkey, duck, or turkey, all of which are bleached and dyed) but it’s the huge glamour-shot/drag-queen diameter. It, too, came from Good Will. In a bag. With another, very special boa, which will be brought up in the last layer, and can be seen in the background. Shhh.

This Layer’s Cost: $2.50

The photo does not do the hat justice. This is the best hat I’ve ever made. It perches like a feathery ferris wheel on the back of the head, at a rakish angle.  The exterior is six feet of wound ostrich-feather boa – the real deal! – and black velvet. The inside of the brim is pleated taffeta damask to match the rest of the outfit. It’s exquisite. It makes the whole outfit. And this is the best photo I could get of it? Well, yes, without modeling it for you – which I refuse to do until Halloweekend itself has come and gone, so as to save the surprise. Trust me, though, it’s spectacular.

This Layer’s Cost: $2.50 for A SIX FOOT OSTRICH FEATHER BOA HOLY SHIT WHAT WERE YOU THINKING GOODWILL?!?!?!?!?

TOTAL COST I GUESS?: 29.00 USD. It just goes to show that it pays to have the right sort of thing laying around your house. Potentially in your ragbag, or the dumpster.

*********

*Under thirty dollars, yes, at this present juncture in time. And I tried my best to recall the price of previous purchases – fabric I bought last summer, and so on. But to be entirely fair, I had beads, finding, elastic, thread, fabric, petticoats, and so on just lying around my house and I feel that if you were to attempt to recreate this stunning vision you’d probably have to pay a good deal more.

†Totally NSFW, you guys. She’s not only topless, she’s headless! And limbless!

‡A flapper dress that should have fit, but didn’t. It was very cheap, very pretty, and very tight. It’s better this way.

Tagged: Bargains Galore, Dress Diaries, Edwardian Fashion, Fancy Dress, Fancy Dresses Described, Halloweekend, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Madame Claude, Ostrich Feather Boa, Taffeta Damask, Topless Photos

Music Monday: Antique High-Heel Red Doll Shoes

I’m afraid I didn’t have a chance to record a video for you today, Gentle Reader – I was shoe shopping. I know, I know – it sounds frivolous – but do you have any idea how difficult it is to find heels when you wear a size 13? Pretty damned hard, let me assure you.

They’re a lovely grey plaid with a four-inch heel. I know!

At any rate, here’s a substitute song for my, um, dulcet tones.

 

Tagged: High Heels, Music Monday, Rasputina, Shoes

Poetic Interlude LXXX

A Song

By Thomas Carew
 
Ask me no more where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose;

For in your beauty’s orient deep,

These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.
 
Ask me no more whither doth stray

The golden atoms of the day;

For in pure love heaven did prepare

These powders to enrich your hair.

Ask me no more whither doth haste

The nightengale when May is past;

For in your sweet dividing throat,

She winters, and keeps warm her note.

 
Ask me no more where those stars ‘light

That downwards fall in dead of night;

For in your eyes they sit, and there

Fixed become, as in their sphere.

Ask me no more if East or West

The Phoenix builds her spicy nest;

For unto you at last she flies,

And, in your fragrant bosom, dies. 
Tagged: A Song, Poetic Interludes, Poetry, Thomas Carew

Post the Ninety-Third: Tits and Teeth

Underworld showfolk have to stick together, Gentle Reader – which is why one of the guiding tenets of my social philosophy is cribbed directly from the Vegas Show-Girl’s mouth: a phrase known simply as “Tits and Teeth.”

Pictured Here

That’s what the patrons are there to see, after all, sexist though it be – but when I’m under the weather, or wrestling with my emotions, or when I’m frankly damned annoyed at someone – well, it’s a good piece of advice for daily life.

“But Doctor,” I imagine you’re saying, ” You don’t have any tits! How can you possibly follow this golden chestnut?” It’s very easy, Reader. I simply step away – for a cigarette outside, perhaps, or a visit to the washroom – I take a few deep breaths – I close my eyes and center myself. When I open my eyes, I straighten my posture, adjust my tie, and paste a beaming false grin on my face as best I can. My voice becomes booming, jovial; as though everyone is my best friend and also it’s Christmas.

Artist’s Rendition

This will sometimes backfire, as – if I’m too stressed, or in the throes of depression – my fake grin is faintly terrifying. More than one person has pointed this out to me. Further, if alcohol has been involved over the course of the evening, the big jolly smile never reaches my eyes, which is a dead giveaway.

Honestly, though, it’s the effort that makes the difference. Simply taking a moment to ground oneself and reorient works wonders on its own – and no matter what caused you to need a brief break, simply repeating the phrase “Tits and Teeth” can help shift your perspective, and allow you to salvage at least some pleasure from the evening.

Tagged: Anxiety Maybe, Etiquette, I don't even know what this is y'all, Showgirls, Social Advice, Tits and Teeth

Post the Ninety-Second: Straight Boy Fever

Gentle Reader, I’ve been trying to come to grips with something that’s been gnawing away at the back of my brain for weeks – straight boys, and how I relate to them. Rather, that I have trouble relating to them. Because of this, I haven’t been able to write an original post here for weeks – this whole straight boy nonsense just keeps jumping in, preventing me from any of the regular precious nonsense that goes on here. I just couldn’t get a handle on the matter – what is it, precisely, about straight dudes that I take such issue with?*

There’s a fair bit of material on my mind to work with, too – I just can’t seem to make sense of it all. I thought, though, since obviously I have to post something about it, that you might be able to help? Therefore, so that I can get past this whole thing which I am frankly sick of, I present to you:

1. They are alien and fascinating.  I don’t understand the culture, the manners and mores; their in-group associations and just the entirety of their behavior. Even individuals with whom I’ve been long acquainted have a passing knowledge of all of this. So I’m drawn to them out of curiosity? Out of a desire to affect protective camouflage? Also, frequently, they’re hot.

This is what y’all do all the time, right? Carry tires about?

2. I find them intimidating, and must assume that a given individual is a threat or will be become belligerent at the slightest provocation.

It takes a long time to build trust that he won’t, as a matter of safety.

3. Items one and two lead me to a certain amount of anger – being drawn to them but also finding it impossible to pass amongst them undetected while simultaneously fearing for my safety if I’m found out – the situation is aggravating, untenable.

What about now? Am I passing now?

4. When that trust is earned – as frequently it is, in this increasingly accepting day and age – if a straight boy shows me the slightest kindness, I just completely melt, and will frequently fall completely. This is a problem. It doesn’t usually last long, and I can usually hide it, but it’s a thing that bothers me. I should be able to be friends with a straight guy without having to pass through some dumb crush. Oi.

Oi.

5. My peers frequently describe themselves as “straight-acting”, find straight-acting dudes more desirable,  and avoid femmes, which smacks to me of internalized homophobia, as well as the reinforcing the notion that “heterosexual” behavior is superior, more desirable, and more socially acceptable. That is to say, it doesn’t matter who you sleep with, so long as you behave “normally” in society. Which seems strange to me.

Like, fuck YEAH we’re dating, bro, but we’re not, like, fags, man.

So there you have it, Gentle Reader. The connundra above – I can’t solve them, or figure out precisely what I’m trying to say here. These five points bother me, but I’m not sure what to do about them or if anything needs doing or if it’s just me. Your thoughts, please?

*********

*No straight dudes were harmed in the writing of this post. Also, I’m sorry for the ridiculous amount of beefcake. You’re welcome.

Tagged: LGBT, LGBTQIA, QUILTBAG, Straight Boys, The Problem With Straight Boys

Music Monday: Brother, Can You Spare A Dime?

This was very quickly thrown together, Gentle Reader, and I apologize. Very busy today; there may even be original content back up on the blog again, rather than these ridiculous re-runs. Cheers, and Happy Monday!

Tagged: Brother Can You Spare A Dime, Music Monday, Old-Timey Nonsense, Ukulele Vids