Hey locals – Sanctuary tonight is your last chance to go dancing with Tyler before he takes off for his globe-trotting whirlwind summer of romance and fame. And if bleakly thrashing goths isn’t up your alley, which I fully understand, you might want to drop by the hospital to visit Steph, who is apparently dying of boredom after breaking her ankle in the last rollerderby. Either way, you’re doing a good deed. (I haven’t been by to see her yet, because I suck, but say “hello” for me, it is on my List of Things To Do.)
I wished today for a real studio to play in. Crouching in my livingroom, having only two inches wiggle room, relying on the reflected light of a small hand mirror that I’d precisely taped to my wall, just wasn’t cutting it for me. Someone on MySpace wants to pay me $20/hour to take artistic nudes of him. He’s a hugely muscled man of the sort where I want to pronounce it muskles, thick as several boards with spelling to match. (His punctuation isn’t too hot either). I’m tempted to say yes, but only to connect myself with a shoot that won’t be locked behind a non-disclosure agreement, like the sweetheart shoots I do for women or the kink community boudoir photos. There must be an easier way.
Part of my reluctance to pester my photographer friends is the certain knowledge that I should be hunting more work for myself. Right now the best way to get me out of the house is promise me a meal. I’m wary of rent right now, too, though I already spend as little as possible. Underemployment is making me too nervous to feel I can blithely take a day off to scamper about the woods. I’ve been asked to write articles for a number of magazines, which is great, but it’s all volunteer work, which doesn’t help put food in the fridge. There was a run of film work last month, but it seems to have been a blip on the map, with no real direction.