Same Person...Different Pronouns....

Transgender issues are something I don't take lightly and try to approach with as much love and understanding as I have in my body. I cannot imagine the bravery it would take to stand up for the gender you know you are but do not match physically and hormonally. There are over 700,000 people who identify as transgender in the U.S and as people feel more support from the culture at large that number grows and grows. This is the first person I have ever interviewed on this subject but it's one I've always been fascinated with and am going to keep exploring. What makes up gender. Who decides what constitutes masculine and feminine. Why do we have such rigid and defined ideas of what people should look like and why does it bother people so much when people confront those definitions with their own new blended ones?

For some reason when I think about this, it makes me imagine goddess's in their celestial kitchen, whipping up new humans and breathing little soul balls into babies and getting distracted by a unicorn, blowing the wrong soul into the wrong tiny little body. This is obviously not a medically accurate description of what happens but until I get a better one this is what I am sure happens.

This one was a hard one because it's the first first my mother and I ever got into a fight during a recording. I had a very clear vision of my mother and the way she thought about most things and her questions to MJ really upset me and made me SO UNCOMFORTABLE... but I realize now that my mother was simply practicing radical honesty, and she did it in a way that wasn't malicious. She was merely curious and had the balls to ask the questions most couldn't. Anyway... we worked through it and I am really proud of her for being so open and causing dialogue that FINALLY me me squirm. I like to believe and pretend that everyone is full of love for the LGBQT community even though I know it's not true. I hate acknowledging that the gender switching could cause internal conflict but it does. So I'm sending all my love to anyone coming out of their cocoon and emerging into their beautiful butterfly self. 

Harder They Come...Harder They Fall...One and All

I just love old dudes at the burn. They always have one weird accessory, some kind of military jacket, hiking boots and a shit eating grin on their face. I found this lovely, beautiful man waiting to get his photo taken by my mothers BOYFRIEND. Yes. My mother has a boyfriend, and they met online (common interest, burning man) and then had their first date on PLAYA. I mean come on. He has his on golf cart. I love him. Nick King, or the Soul Doctor, has been taking photos at center camp for the last 7 years. He always has a line waiting to have their photo taken so I posted up with my mom and stuck my microphone to the next up in line and this is what I found! A simply lovely, 80 year old retired Ranger (not BS burning man ranger, i mean knife in teeth, gilly suit ranger) who had been a land mine installer in three round of Vietnam. Heavy stuff. I'll let him speak for himself, but this man had the most jovial voice and a twinkle in his eye. If he can do it, so can you. No more excuses everyone. Come see for yourself what all the fuss is about

ALSO i am having a fund raiser next Friday for please come. 20 dollar donation at the door and I'll be doing stand up and MC a live auction, FUN! 
Got a couple of comedians and three all star DJ's including Wolf and Lamb. YAY!

Music: Vietnam - Jimmy Cliff
Harder They Come - Jimmy Cliff
Edited by Emily Brodtman -

Burning man episodes start now! First up the minds behind Big Imagination try to explain to me why they thought it was a good idea to chop up a giant 1977 air bus, and close down roads from the Mohave Desert to Black Rock they could put half the cock pit of a plane on the ground. The thing is so massive, so heavy, so unimaginably large...and I know most things at the burn are just for the fuck of it, but never has it been this expensive, and this much of an undertaking. I would rather them bring a 747 sized black rubber cock down the road. Who wants to be in a plane? I hate being in planes. I'll tell you what's an impressive art car. It's a giant purple and pink piñata, built on a fucking crane, that has lollipops that rise up out of it's belly with a platform disco ball candy dance floor. It cost 20k all in. But I wanted to put my judgements away and give them a chance to explain to me exactly what kind of Peyote they must have been smoking when they decided...hey! I know, lets show the playa gods how big our collective dicks are and take on this Herculean feat! I'll let them answer for themselves. Remember I'll be posting an episode EVERY THURSDAY! Yes I have a schedule CAN YOU BELIEVE IT!

FYI It costs them 500k to get the plane back and forth from storage, EVERY YEAR. 
Music: MIA Paper Planes
Simon & Garfunkel: Only Living Boy In New York

It Runs In the Family....

I learn something new about my family every time we have dinner. The question of nature vs. nurture is always buzzing around my head anytime i'm with home because growing up I always felt like I was the fly in their ointment, But with age I have had the pleasure of being able to see how not only am I their genetic copy but how deep the connective tissue is that ties us together.

This year has been a series of brutally challenging lessons for me. I lost two people who I felt were the building blocks of my life. People I loved with every cell of my body.

I've struggled with accepting this. I am at my core a little hermit crab when it comes to the people and things I love, I just want to grab them and pull them into my shell and keep them there with me forever.

The struggle has been real and after this burning man I felt like that fire engine haired girl in Run Lola i'd been sprinting my entire life against an invisible clock...and STILL arrived one second to late.

So a couple mornings ago....I had a mildly serious, completely terrifying panic attack. This is something I've only recently discovered...where it feels like i'm in a clock work orange chair with my eyes taped open watching on repeat a slide show of my fears about the future ...all while the room is simultaneously folding into itself, turning into a smaller and smaller oragami crane...the air draining from the room and making my face look like Arnold S at the end of Total Recall.

So what does one do in these times of worry and woe? DUH! Breathe and call your mom. So I poured my body into a train and got into my mothers bed so I watch antiques roadshow with her and argue about what the hypothetical cost of a tiffany's lamp shade from 1920 would be.

And why am I writing this this? Trust me, I don't want to. But because I'm hoping that if their are others that get this feeling...that they know they're not alone. To offer up some very humble thoughts around loss and change. Life, regardless of who you are, how much you learn, what you have, and what you don't challenging. I assume at some point the struggle to find purpose and meaning with why our consciousness was paired with this particular body in this particular time, is a universal one.

I only know one thing. If you are lucky enough to have family, big or small, go to them when things feel upside down. Because people come and go, but your families love (as challenging as they maybe) is forever.

Anyway, my uncle Robby was in DC because my father and him live in MIami and Irma had forced them to flee back up north and hide out in D.C. with my mother. I recorded this story as I record all my family stories, with my cell phone in the middle of the dining room table just listening to the tennis match like stories that fly around the air. I have nothing but endless gratitude for them. I have a shell I can always go two, when I feel naked and alone in this world. I am a lucky little crab.

Music: Golden Earring: Twilight Zone (extended remix)
Beatles: Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds
Edited: Emily Brodtman

I feel like Ahab lost in a sea of hatred looking for a great white whale to give my life meaning again. I literally don't know what to do or say anymore. The hate is so deep, the ideology is so wrong. The "fake news" so pervasive that I literally don't trust anything I hear. I left this country to get away from this and the moment I'm back I literally trip and land on the laps of two actual real life trump voting, white sheet draped (casper the friendly ghost they were NOT) grand wizard loving totally likable racist men who shared the same problems as us all. Marriage problems, concerns about their children future, struggling to find their place in this world. (THE NAZII KKK dragon drenched ZZ Top looking GUY HIT ON ME! Apparently his dick wasn't an antisemite. I assume he would have had to covered my jewy face with a swastika covered pillow?)

Due to copious drinking of beer in horns, I of course fucked up the sound AGAIN, I am the least pro journalist of all actual time. One day I'm going to have like a team of well dressed men with boom mikes and fancy monitors...but until then, it's just me and my medium audio skills so deepest apologies, I had to cut a lot of it due to sheer sloppy sound quality.

These two were gems. Fathers, business owners, best friends, hard working Americans...the problem is this. They are the reason Trump got elected. Because hate is a Hydra like beast that comes in many forms. My guess in this case is that hate came from being from a generation of poor, uneducated, angry, white people who feel cheated out of their genetic "right." What they don't understand is that the golden orange cow they put into office is the actual representation of why they were poor and born broken in the first place. Capitalism, corporate rights over human rights, money over decency, greed over community. The irony is simply lost on them. We are fucked fucked fucked fucked fucked fucked fucked. I won't spoil it, but they literally contradict themselves at every turn. I couldn't believe he could say things so diametrically opposed to one another. It was like watching trump himself twirl around chasing his own hair piece. 
We are so fucked. 
That's all there is to it. 
Dudes like this are deciding our future, and honestly I liked them both. This isn't black and white, this is a prism of butt fuckery, and Trump doesn't even have the decency to use lube.

GET ANGRY EVERYONE. Get up off your ass. Do something, anything please for the love of god. That's assuming we will have a world to try to save in four years at the rate were going...honestly I'm going to camp outside Tesla's head quarters and wait for the rocket ships to mars.

Music: Good Ole Boys: Randy Newman
Mary Don't You Weep - Aretha Franklin
Edited by Emily Brodtman: Check her out at

This lovely man, who I'll call Juan Doe, had skin like fresh caramel glowing behind full moon eyes and a smile you needed sunglasses to look directly at. Juan lived and breathed dignity and danced like summer twister. Hot n furious, body twisting and contorting to match the frantic beats of the African drums that surrounded us at the sweaty dance halls he would take me to. Pure machismo was wafting out of every pore while the men (dripping in gold chains) twirled bright lipped women in sky high heels. There was a moment where my mother, who was being spun around by a coke can shaped man dressed in all silk, yelled out to me, " this is heaven!"

I LOVE CUBA. I want to eat it and keep a little piece of it inside my body at all times so I can remember one very important thing, THERE IS NO WRONG TIME TO DANCE. There is nothing more fun that watching men and women of all shapes, ages and sizes, blaze across a restaurant floor at 3 pm.

He became my city guide. Showing me the nooks and crevices of the crumbling city center of Old Havana. I got a crash course in Santeria, a mix of the West African religion Yoruba, with elements of Roman Catholic and Native American traditions. It is often misinterpreted as a ‘voodoo’ religion as it involves trance, animal sacrifice, deity worship and sacred drumming and dancing. He took me too hole in the wall lunch spots where 3 dollars would buy you the best fried fish in a heaping steaming pots of rice and beans with tons of smish smashed golden plantains, sweet and salty, crispy and soft. The best!

I remembered, that above all, people who work hard at something they love, with a higher purpose than pursuing their own vanity projects (ego) are always the happiest.

He worked as a tour guide at Cajellon de Hamel. A landmark made by Salvador Gonzalez who saw an opportunity to turn a destroyed landscape into a raw panoramic feast of the African history of slavery in Cuba. It celebrates all things Santeria, robust shapely women dance along the walls, their colors celebrating all things human, taunting me with their wonderful eyes and wicked feminine wiles. He convinced the government by pitching it as school for street kids that would teaching them how to play drums and make art. It's such a wholesome, wonderful musical place.

I had my interview interrupted by 100 middle schoolers all in fresh crisp mustard and crimson uniforms. Is there anything cuter than 12 year olds in knee socks? NO! Honestly, every single kid could have been a gap kid. I don't know what it is about the mix of Caribbean and African that produces this unreal color of golden skin, sky high cheek bones and gazelle like bodies. It's so brutally unfair that I come from potato shaped humans. These kids still have my heart. So powerful, so articulate, so wise, so sure of themselves. They were cooler than I will EVER be.

I didn't translate them for you because I wanted you to hear the power in their voice. These girls basically told me that they have dreams of being policemen, teachers, mothers, and judges, all for the purpose of cleaning up all the bad guys. They told me that they want the embargo between the U.S. and Cuba to stop. They love all things American, especially Skrillex, Rhianna, Bieber, and Vin Diesel (they shot a faster more furious more fastest the 10th in Cuba and Vin came and hung out with these kids) They told me the reason that trump was president was because Americans hate immigrants and are racist (FACT!) and that they hoped we would stop seeing immigrants as pests but as people.

Go to Cuba. Invest in her people. Donate to people who help them. Fight against that stupid man baby's new embargo's. The people there deserve nothing less than all the love and support the world can offer. It'll take time, but I want Sunshine to grow up in a world of choice.
Music : Killing Me Softly With His Song (cuba version)Omararo Portuondo
Let Me Be Him: Hot Chip

IBIZA. I have always viewed this tiny Baleric Island as the Ft Lauderdale of Europe. With hordes of sun burnt Brittish lads looking like candy canes draped in matching neon on Stag Do tank tops followed by hordes of marshmallow lipped mega ho's stumbling around in their Chinese foot binding shoes, shit faced and looking for their next semen injection. Not my cup of tea. When I travel I like to either go somewhere and get lost with people I love, OR I go core, I go cheap, dirty and local and alone. I don't do 40 dollar California rolls, (Sunset Ashram are you fucking serious? Some of the prices made me literally want to bitch slap the are we both witnessing and actively participating in agreeing that the total sum cost of rum, mint, ice, sugar and some Italian surfer to crush it half harzardly, put a spring of mint in it then do a line of coke off the fake tits of a waitresses under the 25 EUROS! Makes me want to kill someone)

I don't travel to speak english. I travel to learn, to grow or to celebrate life with loved ones...but somehow, regardless of my hatred of all things Ibiza....the capricious winds of fate used my Judiasm against me this summer when one of my best friends said some combination of "fancy" "villa" and "free," and I said fuck it why not see what all the fuss is about. The truth is I was also fleeing my sick bi polar semi abusive relationship with New York City....

It's like i'm in high-school in a tiny mid west town, and New York is my hot older boyfriend in college who has a Jeep wrangler and picks me up and drives me to all these horizon expending places (like the MALL!) Only problem is... he's physically abusive, hot and cold, steals my money and is jealous of others cities I visit. Even though I've vowed to leave him, he warms up a little bit and gives me flowers... and I get lured back with promises that he'll change, often dazzling me with his live music or improv comedy skills...i'm weak. I love him so.

Anyway, very simply the lack of nature is inhumane and shuts my consciousness down. I need air, i need trees, I need flowers bursting with color and mountains looming above me, their size and power allowing me to feel the presence of mother earth all around me. I need water over my head, drowning me in it's infinite wisdom rocking me back into baseline...all these components the base to my acid. I need my phone to shut the fuck up. I needed to leave the US and stop reading headlines about that orange fascist man baby whose diaper needs to be changed, I need billions of colors, cultures, tastes, foods, sounds, animals, currencies and languages. Living in NYC denies me access to the fundamental life force I need to feel whole.

So I booked a one way ticket with one of my best friends Quinton and got lost. I had a love hate relationship with Ibiza. I relearned the ultimate lesson which is you will find what you seek. Ibiza is full of nature and beauty so resplendent you actually can't look directly at it, she's like a medusa of sorts, and can turn your nose and heart to stone if you're not careful.

I stayed away however from the nightclub scene except for one night when I went to go see NYC favorites Bedouin at this big fuck off bordello like mega night called "Story". I was instantly hungry for actual human connection, watching the k'd out swaying masses so I went wandering and ended up I meeting this shockingly beautiful boy who was dressed so elegantly I literally took his hand sat him down and said, "Tell me everything." Dripping in hope, basking in his complete freedom with a brain that spoke 5 languages and shoulders who wore kimono's like pimp wears fur, gliding about the earth as if he had a cloud hovercraft. Ah young love. Is there anything better. I wish you luck young Philip. I hope you find her again...there's nothing better in this world than impossible love that works out.

This is IBIZA - Sander Kleinenburg
La Dispute - Yan Tiersen

Parents are tricky, you can't pick them, you cannot change them, all you can do is bask in the glory of the two bodies your soul chose to enter the world through. I don't know what amorphous sentient spaghetti monsters in the sky to thank for giving me these two vessels...but thank you thank you thank you.

Music: Heart of Gold: Neil Young

Kathy Jane, my mother and my guide through this earth is always the first person I call after I do something outrageous. She is my North Star, and always allows me to process my failures in a thoughtful way. There is no better person to help me navigate my hearts ups and downs and it is my honor to be able to share her laughter and words of wisdom with you. 

Music: Neil Diamond: Heart of gold
Adele: Send My Love
Check out Skirt Club for updates on their next parties!

DRUM ROLL PLEASE.....the answers to all of last weeks episode and more! I have three more interviews to dot the i's and cross the t's of what really goes down in a all female hetrosexual orgy. Next up, my dear mother and father discuss my experience there and weigh in on why I am the way I am.

Host note: I love skirt club. I love it's founders I love it's message I love their events and everyone should try this for themselves. Everyone else was having a fabulous time and it literally looked like one of the most beautiful porn movies you've ever watched....perfect lighting, gorgeous women, big white furry rugs, hot tubs, pink champagne...strap ons, wands the works. It's a wonderful place to learn more about yourself, so try it for yourself, I guarantee you you'll be more successful than me.

Music: I want to be evil: Eartha Kitt
Nasty Girl: Vanity 6

Follow Margo Stilley @margostilley
Skirt Club @skirtclub

There's Nary a Slip Twixt the Skirt and the Hip

When Genevieve La June the founder of Skirt Club UK, asked me to give a comedic speech at her New York event (a sex party for bicurious women) I was THRILLED. It was not an easy task they gave me, to deliver a speech on Women's liberation since the 1920's to 100 New York City bad ass bitches in 1,000 dollar matching Agent Provocateur lingerie sets, sipping champagne greedily awaiting me to finish my silly speech so they could feast on each others innards. Subsequently, I couldn't have been more nervous, but in the end everyone seemed to laugh and love me so I've conclude I killed it. Despite this I ultimately failed in my goal, which was to finally have sexual congress with a pair of XX chromosomes.

To be fair I had a pink albatross hanging around my clavicle because I have been toying around with the idea of bisexuality for some time. Primarily after a major break when I quietly thought to myself, that's it, i'm finished with foreskin...bring on the V. Don't get me wrong, as an ex party girl burning man junkie I have invariably had multiple experiences of varying degrees of disaster, with women. Most of them sadly wearing festival shit like fairy wings, glitter and nipple pasties...women who probably say things like "i'm only doing this because Mercury is in retrograde and I just finished my moon celebration...hold on i need to take out my yoni egg before we start" - shoot me)

Despite my XXX rated desires, most of these experiences ended up looking like a scene from Girls Gone Wild Panama Spring Break (2002) because when there's 2 sluts baked on drugs there's no one whose going to actually pull the trigger and eat two day old party vag that's probably been encased in some sort of shiny lame/lycra hotpants in places without toilet paper. It's just not going to happen. #blindleadingtheblind.

I've concluded that YOU NEED TESTOSTERONE or an actual Lesbian because straight women are all talk, flirt and ego and in the end it becomes just that. Talk. If you listen to me, you probably know I can talk my way in or out of anything. Throughout my sexual life I would create super sexy girl on girl moments.... only then to fall victim to the tiny Woody Allen spermatozoa worry wort that lives on my right shoulder that likes to remind me of Michael Douglasses throat pustules.

What's my point? In my mind I am this sexually fluid, open minded sex goddess ready and willing to participate in any and all adventures. In reality, I am a fucking coward shaking like a leaf in the wind when ever I have to leave my comfort zones and try something new. It's pathetic. I am working on it.

So I went to this party. The rest is history. 
A huge thank you to Skirt Club for allowing me into your world it was the ultimate litmus test.

Music : My Neck My Back - Khia
I Kissed A Girl - Katie Perry

Instagram: @skirtclub

Host note: the founders are IN the photo above



Donde Hay Amor, Hay Dolor

In my life I have never been so confused. Everyone is a mesmerizing hue of chocolate with glowing tiger eyes. People strut. They walk down the street like their private parts are made of the freshest ripest, juiciest ingredients. This is not just sexy young women, this is big beautiful round women in bright pink spandex their body resembling a horn of plenty spilling over with fruit. Short, stocky men peacock around like their dick was made of gold and dance so well you could literally end up pregnant. Older women have grace and poise and could drink fuck and dance you under a table. 

The cost of things seems to be entirely negotiable and varies so wildly that there literally is no point ever where you are not being fucked sideways by 7 different people and all their cousins. For me, this is really frustrating because I pride myself on the art of negotiation but since there are two currencies either way your gringo ass, is getting fucked, in the ass, with no coconut oil. 

YOU CAN DRINK ALL DAY!! There's only two drinks. Rum, and beer. They are both delicious, and make you better at speaking Spanish AND salsa. This is probably just in my mind but winner writes the history so i'm  basically a fluent  ball room dancer there.  

The problem is for someone like me,  its impossible to get Cubans to really talk about their sadness, their dreams, their wants and their needs because it feels like Fidel is still alive, and he is watching your every move, his eternal motto "Patria o Muerte (Motherland or Death) runs thick through peoples veins. But everyone is so full of rhythm and music that it's quite frankly quite difficult to stop moving long enough to have a real conversation about what growing up there was like. BUT I TRIED. And I tried. 

Here's what I DO know.....It is a delicious, sensual, colorful, vibrant, wonderland that has the kind of magic only a country that has been preserved in the past could have. Technology simply isn't there. We had to buy the internet like we were buying a crack rock in a street ally. A little man runs out to your car and sells you wifi! Everyone you meet looks right in your eyes. Everywhere you go spontaneous dance erupts like techtonic plates crashing into one another. 

Hordes of uniformed teenagers dominate the streets laughing and flirting and lost in a kind of cell phone free adolescence that I miss and loved so much about growing upEvery single person has access to free health care, free education (up to masters levels) women if they get pregnant get a mandatory full year paid leave, their husbands 6 months!!!  People are SUPREMELY educated. The problem is there aren't enough jobs, and the jobs pay 11 dollars and month. 

There is very little racism that I encountered and people for the most part see one another as equals.

While it is a community that is ready for change, i'm not sure their ready for the kind of disconnection connection brings. I haven't had a vacation like this in years. Totally random, using fate as my guide, random chance as my destiny, no GPS, just maps and stars and wishes to get places.  You have to be on time, because you can't call anyone!! Remember when people were on time not just texting you a sundry of preposterous excuses. I DO. You didn't show up late, because then your friends ditched you. #consequnces. 

Bubble gum pink, mint green and cherry red convertibles rumble by, the sounds of their exhaust clogging up your ears and confusing your lungs, it's the BEST. Glorious archetuture is disintigrating in front of your eyes and everywhere you look you can see the blinding beauty still left decaying and rotting around you.

Sinful dance moves everywhere (we're talking 7th grade style hump-fests once  my mother turned to me wide awed whispering, "how do they not have orgasm's in their pants when they dance?" There is a  complete grasp of the present that I don't think Americans could ever understand.  It's like stepping into a actual time machine, and it was for me, the complete detox i wanted. 

YOU NEED TO GO AND GO NOW. Cuba will always be Cuba. It's not going to change overnight, but trying to describe the spirit of it's people is like trying to bottle lightning. JUST GO.


I Cannot Change The World, But I Can Change the World of One Person

How do we chose what we feel empathy for? Can you think of yourself as a good, moral person when you consistently overlook your fellow humans who are in obvious need? Every day we make choices. We overlook war, famine, lack of water, access to education, rape, genocide, a justice system that has a vested interest in incarceration and trapping minorities in a cycle of poverty, merciless slaughter of animals, toxic pollution and waste being pumped into every available crevasse of our exhausted planet... We spend our money on countless selfish vanity projects, while we watch people suffer. Does that make you bad person? I'm just as guilty of this as anyone. I pick and chose where I focus my empathy. Children are foaming from the mouth and dying in their parents arms and I go to brunch. What do we do when everything feels to big for you to help. How can we live meaningful lives full of all life has to offer while taking care of those around us who weren't so lucky?

I have no answers. I feel powerless. But the only thing I can do is to start small. Volunteer at food shelters, sit down with people on the street and ask them what they need to have a tiny spark of happiness in their life. If that is cigarettes and a pint of rum so fucking what.

I'm trying to help elect representatives that will help make sure the money from our taxes is allocated to those who need it most. I'm trying to do work that gives people hope and makes them feel loved. I'm acting locally while trying to think globally. It's up to you. At the end of your life what will you have given back, how will you have impacted this world to make it a better place? Fuck the photos, fuck the filters, get your hands dirty, look into peoples eyes and see that they just want to be loved, full and be warm just like you. Capitalism thrives on separation. We don't stand a chance if we continued to be divided.

As for Syria, the amazing Milana Vayntrub has started a non profit called
www.can' which can help show you the best way to help donate to Syria and the refugees that are displaced all over the world.

For New York here are some places you can donate your time, money and resources..

The frog does not drink up the pond in which he lives.

Confused about what's really happening at Standing Rock? Lets get the facts: Dakota Access Pipeline (DAPL) is a pipe that is supposed to carry 570,000 barrels of crude oil per day from the Dakotas to Illinois. On July 27, 2016, The Standing Rock Sioux Tribe, filed a lawsuit against the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers for violating the National Historic Preservation Act when the agency issued final permits for a massive crude oil pipeline stretching from North Dakota to Illinois.

This complaint asserts that the Corps violated multiple environmental and historic preservation statutes, focusing on the decision to reroute the pipeline from Bismarck, North Dakota to the doorstep of the Standing Rock reservation without adequate environmental analysis.
The Dakota Access Pipeline project, also known as Bakken Oil Pipeline, would extend 1,168 miles across North Dakota, South Dakota, Iowa, and Illinois, crossing through communities, farms, tribal land, sensitive natural areas and wildlife habitat. The pipeline would carry crude oil from the Bakken oil fields in North Dakota to Illinois where it will link with another pipeline that will transport the oil to terminals and refineries along the Gulf of Mexico.

The Corps granted permits for the pipeline in July 2016 under Nationwide Permitting. This process circumvents any kind of close environmental review and public process. The Lake Oahe crossing requires an additional approval—known as an easement—because it crosses federally owned land on either side of the Missouri River. It was this easement that the government confirmed would not be granted.

On Feb. 8, the Trump administration granted the Lake Oahe easement, allowing the pipeline to be constructed under the Missouri River half a mile upstream of the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation.

During this process thousands of protestors came to Standing rock, to try to hold off the giant machines that were coming in to drill the land. 
Despite some of the most organized and visible protesting a Native American cause has ever had, the cries fell on deaf ears. The protestors were shot with rubber pellets threatened and physically assaulted. The camps have since been destroyed and the pipeline is slated to be finished as quickly as possible.

I met Frank, A Sioux medicine man at a Sweat Lodge he had created after the weekend of protesting. I had the privilege of sitting with him, letting deep hot steam cleanse me of some of the black thick toxic energy I have been carrying around with me since someone pulled the cord out of my head and I woke up matrix style and I realized that there was no autonomy, and we're all tiny puppets being controlled by a bunch of rape hungry deliverance good old boys.

Frank is incredible, kind, soft, thoughtful and an incredible storyteller. I am honored to be able to tell a tiny part of his story.

I implore you to get involved anyway you can. Stop supporting corporations who support environmental degradation (Wells Fargo, Caterpiller, Chevron Coca Cola, Ford, Monsanto, Nestle, Pfizer, Wal-Mart) Open your eyes. Watch out for fake news stories from bullshit alt right garbage collectors like (Washington Times, Activist Post, , Dc Gazette,,, Denver Gaurdian) Become an active member of your community. Learn about who is trying to take independent or democratic seats in the upcoming 2018 congressional elections. Smile at people. It's simple, we can keep watching the titanic go down hole or millions of us can take a thimble and start bailing little bits of water out. We're fucked, don't get me wrong. But we can at least go down with dignity as a species who tried, not just a bunch of selfish cunts who think we're staring in our own Truman show wasting away like narcissus lost in our own reflection.




Why do people say "grow some balls"? Balls are weak and sensitive. If you wanna be tough, grow a vagina. Those things can take a pounding - Betty White

It's Saturday January 21, 7 am. After spending 24 hours deeply entrenched in enemy territory, sounded by giant trump letters and scattered blobs of amorphous humans covered in red make America Great Again hats (only 19.95 for a limited time only, but wait theres more!) clawing my eyes out trying to talk sense into glassy eyed humans who had all drank Trumps orange cool aid....
I was about ready to Madame Butterfly my innards....HOWEVER
The next morning THANK GOD I am woken up by my over caffinated mother and 15 of her pink headed pals getting their chants together in my kitchen. We started early, we had signs, we had snacks, we had clear plastic back packs, hand sanitizer, fully stocked metro cards and a lot of attitude.

THE MARCH WAS MADNESS. Pink headed women swarmed the streets, shut down the subways, and overwhelmed all means of transport. Millions of women, mad, proud, sad, and reinvigorated to fight against our waking nightmare MR TRUMP.

This march I believe, was about finding the strength to fight the oncoming war over our reproductive rights, to stand for immigrant women who are seeking refuge from persecution, rape and violence, to ensure our pay is finally equal to our male counterparts and to scream from the rooftops that it is and always will be our body AND our choice. To prove once and for all that it is RAPE CULTURE not LOCKER ROOM TALK. To look around and see the vast sheer quantity of like minded warm hearted pink headed humans that are there to help you through this next four years. To see millions of women around the world who have said enough. Who put heir feet in motion and showed the world that this administration DOES NOT REPRESENT AMERICA.

Don't forget however, that the the fight is just beginning. That we must join forces and create a vast army of kevlar coated pussies who will be plotting every day about how to restore the Devine Feminine because the time for Testosterone is OVER.

So what did I learn? That it is up to us to live freely, lead by example, smile at strangers, volunteer our time, give our money freely to those who need it, be powerful mothers, best friends and loving daughters. It is up to us to lead sinful nasty lives full of orgasms, laughter, chocolate, dirty martinis and high heels. It is up to keep up the fight to make sure this world is a place we want to live in. To protect the environment as much as possible so that the children of this world will have a place to nourish them. That we don't need to fight the forces, we need to USE THEM. Band together, use our dollars and voices to effect change. Trump is crumbling. He is scrambling, we are making headway to truly being able to restore a democratic congress in 2018. I believe in you.

Music: Make America Great Again: Pussy Riot

Don't Fight the Powers, Use Them - Buckminster Fuller

January 20th 2017...Day 1 of 1300.....the day Lord Voldermorts reign of terror began! What a day it was, the sky was smothered in gray clouds, the air was thick with whatever the opposite of hope is, giant military Hum Vees were parked all over with pods of nervous looking Army guys milling around. Helicopters hovered menacingly, circling the sky, their blades adding to the symphony of fear playing on repeat throughout downtown. Sirens were going off in every direction and it generally felt like we were waiting for god to set the whole city on fire ala Sodom and Gomorrah.

I was raised on George Clinton, Gogo and Ben's Chili Bowl. Politics has always been in my blood. I have been to every inauguration possible since my birth. From the moment I got off the train at Union Station, I knew I was entering enemy territory. Mr potato shaped humans, with interchangeable bland wonder bread features were milling around, all topped off with that one glowing red beacon, the "Make America Great Again," hat.

I must tell you what a weird fucking thing it is to walk through YOUR hometown and feel like you are the odd man out. I hadn't thought about how much instant hatred and animosity I would feel toward ANYONE who had the tiniest amount of Trump paraphaneila on. I instantly directed all my hate and frustration onto their face and started hoping that terrible things would happen to them, we're talking full on day dreams of them being ripped apart by starving wolves, wishing STD's would explode all over their genitals.. I mean I started going nuts. But I calmed myself down eventually... So I walked, and talked. I listened I laughed. I met many wonderful people who were educated, thoughtful and pleasant who were completely Pro Trump. Everyone was lovely, I had to seriously rethink my ideas about the people who voted for him.

The thing that scares me the most now is that now that I'm back in NYC I'm unable to tell who the snakes in the grass are. A even worse, most of them are pretty likable!! Worst. The hat was exceptionally useful, like a sneech with a star upon thars, I felt safer knowing who went into what bracket. Pink Pussy hat = friend, Red Trump hat = enemy. Life was so simple and organized that weekend. Good vs. Evil. Left or right. This is what fucked me up about the election in the first place is that I had been living in a echo chamber of my own creation, full of like minded humans whose brains had evolved past 1952 and who shared similar world views to me about seemingly basic human rights, abortion, education, separation of church and state, the environment, immigration, refugees etc....and while I thought the rest of the country had been advancing in a similar fashion, it turns out that the deep amounts of sadness, hate, frustration, fake news and lack of upward mobility has seemingly turned the judgement of people who normally I'm sure, are lovely kind warm hearted people into xenophobic wall loving trumpeters.

So here we are. We are one country. We are full gorgeous colored humans who came here with all their flavors, dance moves, work ethic, and individual style all adding to the big beautiful crucible that is this big weird fucked up country. We all have to get along somehow. I will say this however, trump folk, you've got four years, 1300 days.... In that time, me and a vast army of kevlar coated pussies are going to be plotting, planning, scheming and dreaming about how to neutralize your hate and banish the patriarchy, because the time for Testosterone is OVER. Millions of galvanized women from all over this great land are organizing and they won't listen to this "Locker Room Talk," anymore.



I keep waking up in the morning and for a brief second everything is fine, the sun has risen the day has begun, and then I REMEMBER.
I don't even have words. The only thing i can do is record peoples stories and fears and hopes and pray to gods i don't believe in that everything is going to be ok. I can't sleep. WHAT THE FUCK GUYS


I have a giant black hole growing inside my body and this election has helped it zero percent. No matter what happens, we are divided, the scum of the dark recesses from all over this great nation have crawled out of their bomb shelters holding their semi automatic riffles, embolden by the joker smile of an Orwellian megalomaniac who has allowed bigotry, xenophobia and racism to squirm out of the rug it's been hiding under and we are left holding our dicks in our hands looking like the biggest fucking joke country of all time. It's embarrassing. The time is now, there is no choice but to start to heal ourselves and then our immediate communities with unending amounts of pure love and hope that we can band together once again and try to fix this bleeding broken country. Good luck tonight. May the best woman win.

A Short Story....

I was alone day 5 at the burn, walking around looking for trouble and as always, trouble found me. In the form of a wonderfully tweaktastic pro burner who was actively trying to vacuum up playa dust into a vintage Hoover I'm pretty sure Mr. Belvadere owned. It looked simply kooky. It's always these kind of small moments of improv comedy, that bring me back to that insane asylum every year despite my better judgement.

His bag would get full every other minute, he would then empty it into a large garbage can and kept plugging away at the worlds most useless task.

Looking at him I literally thought perhaps he had been cursed by the Greek Gods, and had been sent to clean the unclean able forever. #Purgatory Anyhow he was a swell firecracker full of stories and laughter and I loved him. Don't forget kids, it's almost my favorite weekend of the year. Zoe's rules for Halloween:

1. Always take candy from strangers
2. Say Yes.
3. Sleep is for quitters.
4. Safety Last

Music: Phantogram: You Don't Get Me High Anymore

To Alcohol, The Cause and Solution to ALL Life's Problems

Host warning - One of these stories is gross. Really truely stomach curdling gross. However, burning man is GROSS. Don't believe the Instagram filters. It's not all Victoria Secret models in custom feather mohawks and thigh high moon boots. 80 percent of burners are normal artists, west coast hippies, who save all year for the opportunity, old party professionals, astrologers, sex freaks, engineers, lost souls, comedians, shamans, rabble rousers, homeless festival kids, who rely on the kindness and donations of the rest of the community and a whole gaggle of bro burners who heard that burning man is fun and show up with zero clue about how to comport themselves in this martian environment. Really crazy things happen there, every second. Strange things, scary things, wonderful things, sexy things, disgusting things. You can have moments where you get down on your knees and pray to the playa gods to take pity on you for you cannot take any more. Your body cracks, your mind shrivels, your skin splits, and yet you keep going back for more. It's literally like being in a abusive relationship...people can get really hurt. These stories are not for the faint of heart.

Here's three examples of some of the people you'll meet randomly in the burning man co system.