I know, I know. Fucking months without updating. The story is that I was really busy but had all these great update ideas, wanted to resize pictures to include, procrastinated on that, material got out-of-date, and the cycle began again.

Much has changed in my world.

The shorter version of the summer is this: Girl and I got married. Moved across the country to a big East Coast city, where we're now creating new routines and blasting through expectations.

The weather is perfect and we're in love and all is well. And you?

St. Louis generally has about two weeks between freezing, wet, wintry nonsense and blazing, humid summers, and those two weeks are the best bicycling weather ever. We're there right now, and having spent most of the day on two wheels terrorizing the city, I feel compelled to post some

BICYCLIST-INSPIRED ETIQUETTE

1. It is inappropriate to leer at gawk at holler at or in any other manner heckle ladies on bikes. WhatTheFuck is up with annoying ghetto ghanstas, hoosier construction dudes and middle aged white guys hollering at women who are walking or bicycling around town anyway? Okay, to be fair, I know what is up with it, but SERIOUSLY guys. I heard recently that we are in the POST FEMINIST era, which I think implies that it is no longer kosher to be sexually harrassing women on bicycles, alright?

And furthermore, does that tend to work for guys? Do they sit on their porch and holler 'Hey girl! Why don't you ride DIS?' all day until eventually some chick jumps off her bike and onto his dick?

2. Honking your car horn to get the attention of a cyclist is overkill and it's annoying. It's seventy degrees out for Christ's sake! If you know me, roll down your window and say Hi. Horns are to be used only to get the attention of other cars or if you think you're going to hit me and I don't see you.

3. Just because you're stuck in that dumb car and I'm enjoying the gorgeous weather and getting some exercise to boot does not mean you have to be so grumpy. Feel free to smile. Okay thanks.

4. Yelling "GET A CAR!" at a cyclist is so idiotic I'm almost too embarrassed for you to even post it here. Get a bike, you fat fuck. With the price of dead Iraqi babies, sorry I mean GASOLINE, at almost $4 a gallon, your suggestion is indicative of serious lunacy. Also, why would you assume someone on a bike has no car? Someone failed Logic class, eh? If bike, then no car??? Oops.

5. Finally, cyclists have the right to take a lane. For my own health and well being (and given all the aforementioned information), I tend to ride on back streets, but in the event of a long string of parallel-parked cars, and the absence of a bike line, unfortunately for you, Cranky Car Driver, the cyclist has the right to take the lane to avoid the terrible fate of being doored by some out-to-lunch-driver-on-a-cell-phone, flying over her handlebars, and smashing her skull up real good. Thanks for your patience.

See you on the road. Be safe!

We kept the faith and persevered through flaky housing offers and out-of-town squatters to find ouselves enjoying an empty studio apartment in a West Philadelphia housing collective, right in the heart of the neighborhood we think we're moving to, and across the street from the fucking best coffee shop ever. For some unfortunate reason St. Louis coffee shop owners seem to think that musack is good background accompaniment to caffeinated drinks. Whoever owns the Satellite in West Philly knows better, and the baristas all rock out to their favorite hardcore bands or weirdo accordion music or obnoxious grrly punk, much to the delight of my girlfriend and me. A barista listening to his/her own music is a happy person, and happy people pull the best shots of espresso. Duh.

I jumped around to eight different yoga studios, enjoyed some great classes and endured some really crappy ones. Sometimes I find myself in some stranger's class thinking "No wonder people try yoga and never come back. This is fucking horrid." To be honest, though, even if a class really doesn't do it for me, I always learn something anyways. I also visited an aerial school, and was thrilled when the teacher didn't flinch when she met me and my freaky girlfriend. In the ten minutes I interacted with her, I decided she 1. really knew her aerial shit and 2. would be fun to study with. I told her I'd see her again soon.

Some lucky twist of fate got us a free ticket to the Frida Kahlo art exhibit at the Phila Art museum, and I felt like such a lucky lady to be able to view all those paintings and pictures in one place. What a fucking bad ass freak THAT woman was. Speaking of freaks, we learned to play Yuker with some hot freaks in our soon-to-be neighborhood. Seems like it's quite the radical queer thing to do there....who knew?

We gorged on traditional canolis and vegan cheesesteak sandwiches and dark-chocolate-covered pretzels and didn't feel guilty at all. We delighted in the public transportation that was speedy and easy to use and reliable, that took us right where we needed to go, and lamented the lack of that in St. Louis. We shook our heads and muttered 'What the fuck are we DOING in Missouri????" and we bumped our moving date up from this fall/winter to this summer. We'll be working as hard as we can and hauling ass to Philly as soon as it's feasible.

We came home and it was spring and our anniversary all at once. Somehow two years have passed since the girlfriend and I met, and things just keep getting better. Word. We totally deserve it.

I've been waiting to update so I could include pictures from our performance at the Dada Ball at The Contemporary Art Museum (a fundrasier that definitely had the highest proportion of seriously wealthy philanthropists of any event I've ever been to). My demographically astute mind of course noticed how few non-white patrons there were, and contrasted that with the fact that I didn't see a single white caterer or bartender the entire night. It saddened but didn't surprise me, given that we're living in a seriously segregated city, and that this gala cost hundreds of dollars a plate and had a 'luxury auction' with items starting in the thousands of dollars.

Well, I don't have pictures yet, but they'll hopefully soon follow, because our hair and makeup was all Dada oddball, and it was the first time I haven't been entirely in charge of my own image for an event. I stiffened a bit when the MUA said she was going to paint my entire forehead red, but I admit it kinda worked, and I ended up looking a little like Bjork in her frighteningly unique glory.

The biggest boon of an event like that is that a shitload of really rich people were exposed to our performance art, and we did a great job. Two big things came of that night: 1. some talent scoping dude wants to be our 'agent'. He's kinda sleazy like a used car salesman, and has a lot of fast talk, but it's a good sign. I seriously doubt we would sign a contract with him, but the attention is nice. 2. We got booked for a few more gigs, one a high-paying event at a new casino nightclub. Make a buttload of money from those thieving jerks? You bet.

I'm hopping on the Amtrak today and rolling out to the East Coast kids, for yoga explorations, Frida Kahlo, and cheesesteak sandwiches. Be good.

The Virgin is a Pin-Up. so wrong in all the right ways....

I just took a gorgeous fresh rosemary and broccoli quiche out of the oven. Yes, I'm aware it's 8 am on a Saturday, and yes, I made the crust for the quiche, and yes, that means I've been up since 5:30. My body thrives on an early schedule (although, admittedly, this is earlier than usual), and I'm often such a productive little homemaker in the early morn. Side note about being early-inclined, or not: A student who comes to my class was asking about headstands; I said come on Saturdays, because we always work on inversions during that class. He said he tries, but he can never wake up that early. Early? I said. The class is at 1 pm! He said 'That's early for me.' Oh, college, I miss you not at all.....

We're happily organizing our second Cafe Clandestino ("underground restaurant") for next Saturday, February 9th. Cafe Clandestino was a wildly successful event last year where we served a gourmet four-course vegetarian meal to thirty people in our home to raise money for me to go to AcroYoga Teacher Training. As you know, I've since been trained and am now training, but our aerial education continues. We are now raising money to continue studying at the City Museum's circus school (an expensive and rewarding venture). Anyhoo, we have a bigger venue this year, but are still requiring reservations. If you're local, and you know what a great cook I am (c'mon, confidence is attractive), and you want to support circus freaks, drop me a line. Tickets are available for a sliding scale. Offer what you like. Overheard at the last Cafe Clandestino: "That was the best meal I've had all year. Hands down." Seriously. Did I mention Pear-Ginger pie?

When the girlfriend was leaving this morning she said "I really love our life. How many people can honestly say that?" Good question. Think you qualify? Tell me why.

xoxox

I teach many yoga classes each week to many different people. I imagine that most of them live comfortable middle class lives and I know for a fact that some of them are more upper in their middle classiness. You know, driving BMWs and displaying expensive everything, always vacationing in the parts of Costa Rica and Mexico where it's easy to only see white people when you go. The types who might internet surf and impulsively spend $800 on a past-life reading from a 'guru' they've never met (True story. I was told it yesterday.).

Anyway some of those richer people are great yogis, some maybe not so much, some are sweeter than pie, some ungrateful wenches, but this blog is not about them. This is about the students who come to my Barter class on Friday nights. The punks who ride their bikes even when the temperature is in the single digits, unwrapping scarves from their frozen heads and handing me beautiful offerings of granola, dark chocolate truffles, chamomile tea, three dollars and a bunch of change, a crazy hand-made shoebox diorama with naked girls and a weird candle that smells like caramel and pecan. It's always my most fulfilling class of the week, something about their dedication to their practices, their penchant for strange crafts and making me art with handwritten notes. The unconventional yoga garments (sequins and tutus have made appearances) and senses of humor of these beautiful freaks remind me every week that I'm doing the right work in my life. That I'm exactly where I need to be.

Where are you? Come to class.

The Fly Girls dazzled St. Louisans not only with their hot ass silver outfits and Parys' stellar pink mohawk, but their new acrobatic feats as well, at the latest Burlesque Showcase:



And, speaking of internet fame (our last YouTube video has over 5K views ), I happily launched my yoga website this past week as well. You can critique my alignment, find out when I teach or perform, and generally be a creepy internet stalker by visiting me at www.yogajusticia.com. I'm still updating, but it's fairly complete. Lemme know if you find any mistakes.....

I've been passing the short days by reading a lot. Most recently I finished Tipping the Velvet, a seriously saucy number based in turn-of-the-[last]-century London featuring lesbianism, stage performance, and socialist uprising. Oh, yeah, and it's actually well-written, which is not something one can say about most queer literature I've run into. I learned wonderful slang: 'tom' for 'dyke', 'masher' for 'cross-dresser' and 'tart' for 'prostitute' (AHEM, Tart). Hey Brits, does any of that slang still apply?

I've been really grateful for the books and poems and stories this winter because, frankly, I am SO OVER this city. Specifically, I'm disappointed in the yoga class options, I'm tired of making a scene by showing up in public with my tattooed lover, and the gentrification is wearing me the fuck out. Look for me soon in an East Coast city near you..............

love n guts
Justeesh.

The snow fell steadily while we raced around backstage, rehearsed, reminded each other to breathe and, ultimately, performed our show last night. The snow may have kept some people our, but we had a hell of a turn out for our winter art show collaborative.

The huge sheet of glass that separated the dressing room from the winter wonderland outside shone my reflection back at me, but when I squinted I could spy on the snow. I've always loved winter and its snow and introspection, so the presence of the snow grounded and calmed me. I was strangely serene before my performance.

It was my aerial fabrics debut, and although I can't explain exactly how my debut ended up being 30 feet above a cold concrete floor, I shocked myself by not feeling any more fear than I feel at the 15 feet height in class. I focused on breathing. In. Out. I knotted myself up in the red silk, tumbled around, dropped to a pose and spun, looking down at that concrete and breathing. Afterwards, an audience member told me Ithat I made her proud of being a woman, and I took that as one of the sweetest compliments I've ever received.

Pix soon. Stay warm.

xoxo
Steesh

The girlfriend and I went to see The Knitters last night. Y'know, John Doe and Exene from the legendary punk band X doing Rockabilly Very Very Well. It's been a while since we've gone out to a show, and we had a grand old time. Looking around at the crowd, I realized that I was quite possibly the youngest person there, and given that I'm turning 30 next year, that put the crowd mostly at middle aged. Which meant: quiet, friendly, and Early. The show was done at 10:15, and we were in bed by 11. Just my style.

In line for the bathroom at the show, a woman came up and said "Hey you're that yoga lady, aren't you?" Trying to not visibly cringe at the word 'lady' I kinda stammered and she continued: "My friend says that transsexuals come to your class, but that you're really good." UHHHH. Thanks, I think. Unless there's someone I don't know about, I can't think of a transsexual in my class, oh yeah, there is one transgendered person who used to come. No matter. I'm flattered to be known as the yoga teacher of the freaks.

Then at the merch table: "Parys? Steesh? Hey! How's the AcroYoga going?" Oh Great! Yes and This and That and Bladdy Blah we went on and on with this woman. I complimented her on her really cute dress. She told me about her phD exams and her students. After she walked off I whispered to Parys "Who the hell was that?" "No clue." she responded. Huh.

Finally walking to the car, some business man-looking guy, the kind that could be a strip club regular sees me "Oh hi! I"ll see you in class tomorrow morning!" Uhhhhh but I'm not teaching in the morning. I could swear I've never seen this guy before in my life, but apparently he practices at a studio I teach at, confused me for someone else on the schedule, or in my opinion, PRETENDED TO, so he could trap me and Parys for a minute into talking to him and his choad buddy. As soon as we could, we scurried off and got our tired asses home.

Although I know this city is small, it was still a bit bewildering to be approached about yoga so many times last night. Huh. All of a sudden, I looked around and I was a grown-up. Weird.