tranzister radio is a monthly radio show and podcast created by a collective of Trans*Folks in Montreal, in collaboration with ASTTeQ.

Our show airs at 2pm on the 2nd Thursday of every month on CKUT 90.3 FM and archived here.



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Tranzister Radio 26 - July 10 2014 - Mixcloud Link
This week on Tranzister Radio, we delve into the world of indie Videogames and self-published Comic Books! We have interviews with Annie Mok - a cartoonist and musician in Philly, merrit kopas - game maker from Toronto, and Marty Fink - professor of a Queering New Media class at Georgia Tech. We’ll also be playing music by See-through Girls, Elmo Sexwhistle and DJ Xcubitor

Annie Mok will be In Montreal for the Queer Between the Covers - Book & Zine Fair on August 16th. Below are some links to find her work online.

During the interview the following names are dropped, so here’s some more information:

merritt kopas is a game maker in Toronto who we talked to at the Writing Trans Genres Conference in Winnipeg. 

Here’s links for games we talk about.

Also:

Marty Fink is the Professor of Queer New Media at Georgia Tech. They used to live in Montreal and we miss them. Here’s links for the various things:

Local Trans Friendly Events

Call for Submissions

Tranzister Radio is the premier Trans 4 Trans talk show on CKUT 90.3fmHosted by Morgan Sea and Raphaele Frigon, the show airs on the second thursday of every month at 2pm.

Interested in getting involved in the show?
Email us at transfolkradio(at)gmail(dot)com

Reblogged from homomonstrous  3 notes

HOMO MONSTROUS is a band we like from Regina . They makes glittery grunge music with extra shimmer and maybe some slime. They’re really into feelings, failureand crushing existential nothingness. Bring yr own umbrella.

homomonstrous:

Awesome documentary about Homo Monstrous by Brett Wyatt.

——-

Addendum by Jaye:

"I really wish I explained my gender in a way that sounds less like I’m a huge misogynist. Like, I feel like I am what I am because that’s all I can be, not because I wouldn’t be okay/don’t want to be seen as a lady. It’s just never going to be possible. I’ll always be this other thing so it’s easier for me to just embrace it and I feel like including myself under the label of trans woman is doing a disservice to all of the real trans women out there?

Also I really feel like I need to point out the misgendering that happens in the doc - like, it happened and it’s whatever but I don’t want people to think that it’s ever okay to use male pronouns at me.”

Reblogged from heyanniemok  18 notes

heyanniemok:

I did an interview with Morgan and Raph of the lovely Tranzister Radio when I was in Winnipeg, and you can listen to it streaming at 2p EST on Thursday at CKUT, or on the show’s archive soon after that. I talk about comics and my process with “Shadow Manifesto” pt 1, music performance, and we listen to “Hidden beach” by my band See-Through Girls (a take mastered by Ari Cat). merritt kopas and Marty Fink also appear.

Adorbs art by co-host Morgan Sea (who I’m looking forward to sea-ing in Montreal when I table at Queer Between the Covers.)

Getting pumped for the next episode! This Thursday!

Reblogged from warminvention  39 notes
redefiningrealness:

I am a woman of trans experience from Brazil, a country where 10 trans women, especially women of color, are killed every month out of acts of hatred. I went to Canada to do my transition and I discovered a wonderful life, though it was hard because of immigration laws.
Being a Latina immigrant, an activist, a burlesque performer, and an ex-sex worker, I have done drugs and attempted suicide. At 25, I’ve done it all. I only survived all the bad parts thanks to my feminist sisters and extended anti-capitalist queer family, who stood by my side when I could not stand by myself.
Feminist and trans communities are my passion: this is where my activism and volunteer work lies, which helps others but also greatly helps me. I am thankful to everyone involved. I had a job offer in a big organization for social work, focused on the health of trans* people, but it failed because of a dishonest lawyer and bad luck regarding immigration laws.
Now I am back in my country, which is scary and hard. I don’t have my chosen family and support network, but I am working to get back to where I know home is. While I am in Brazil, I am trying to get involved in its feminist scene. I have a rare opportunity to live a safe life and even work as a stealth and passing trans woman. Those two things that are mandatory for survival in Brazil.
I am blessed to have an accepting family, even if we do fight a lot. I don’t know if all in life is worthy or not, but I am surprised to look back at all the crazy turns and plot changes and realize that, even with all of that, here I am, alive, writing this to you. That says to me that we do go on, one way or another, paying a price and sometimes receiving blessings in return.
I am Sophia.
I am a fighter, activist, feminist, artist, and mermaid.
I Am #RedefiningRealness.

Sophia!

redefiningrealness:

I am a woman of trans experience from Brazil, a country where 10 trans women, especially women of color, are killed every month out of acts of hatred. I went to Canada to do my transition and I discovered a wonderful life, though it was hard because of immigration laws.

Being a Latina immigrant, an activist, a burlesque performer, and an ex-sex worker, I have done drugs and attempted suicide. At 25, I’ve done it all. I only survived all the bad parts thanks to my feminist sisters and extended anti-capitalist queer family, who stood by my side when I could not stand by myself.

Feminist and trans communities are my passion: this is where my activism and volunteer work lies, which helps others but also greatly helps me. I am thankful to everyone involved. I had a job offer in a big organization for social work, focused on the health of trans* people, but it failed because of a dishonest lawyer and bad luck regarding immigration laws.

Now I am back in my country, which is scary and hard. I don’t have my chosen family and support network, but I am working to get back to where I know home is. While I am in Brazil, I am trying to get involved in its feminist scene. I have a rare opportunity to live a safe life and even work as a stealth and passing trans woman. Those two things that are mandatory for survival in Brazil.

I am blessed to have an accepting family, even if we do fight a lot. I don’t know if all in life is worthy or not, but I am surprised to look back at all the crazy turns and plot changes and realize that, even with all of that, here I am, alive, writing this to you. That says to me that we do go on, one way or another, paying a price and sometimes receiving blessings in return.

I am Sophia.

I am a fighter, activist, feminist, artist, and mermaid.

I Am #RedefiningRealness.

Sophia!

Tranzister Radio #25 - June 12, 2014 - MixCloud Link
In this episode Casey Plett, author of A Safe Girl to Love,reads from her short story Lizzie and Annie. We also have a short interview with Cassie.
Hosts Raphaele and Morgan Sea talk about their experiences at the Writing Trans Genres Conference in Winnipeg and the Trans Women Writers’ Night in Montreal. 

This episode features music by

  • Mya Byrne - singer songwriter from New York
  • Tall Girl - One of Imogen Binnie’s bands in San Francisco
  • Ricky Leach - Electronic Music & Spoken Word from London to Montreal
  • DJ Xcubitor - A Montreal based Sound Explosion

Lizzy & Annie - Illustrated by Annie Mok

Casey Plett’s story Lizzy & Annie is published in her Topside Press book, A Safe Girl to Lovebut also separately as a zine with illustrations by Annie Mok and is available here.

Cover Image by Morgan Sea

Events

Call for Submissions

Interested in getting involved in the show?
Email us at transfolkradio(at)gmail(dot)com

Reblogged from topsidepress  43 notes

Topside Tour Diary Day Two: Montréal (by Jeanne Thornton)

topsidepress:

1.

The morning began in Brattlesboro at the fantastic house of HB from Homo Promo, on whose awesome foam mattress I spent a comfortable night listening to the howls of wind and rain through rattling glass windows, the air gray and green in the particular Vermont pattern that I pretty unambiguously love. Gassed up, we headed to Imogen and Alex’s house just north on the highway, passing the time with idle talk w/Red Durkin about Starcraft strategies, the whole sick sociology of Starcraft and LAN parties. She knows a lot of really good Starcraft strategies! It’s like chess: the person who can beat you is orders of magnitude worse than the person who can beat her, and the person who can beat her is orders of magnitude worse than the person who can beat that other player. I don’t know who could beat Red Durkin. Like an elder god or something maybe.

Just as I pretty unambiguously love Vermont trees, I pretty unambiguously love Imogen and Alex’s house. I want to steal it. I texted my girlfriend to this effect. This whole ideal woods life—horses—good grains in jars—toads in the hole—rushing river down steep but manageable embankment—adorable angry dog peering at me from behind stacks of jackets—baby newts scuttling like red darts through tall grass on the road—books books books and reclaimed shower water. The best. We shifted inventory between the cars and we made our way north.

Lunch in Montpelier. I asked Red about what she knew re: French onion soup because Imogen had told me to ask Red about different foods as we traveled, because she knows everything about how to prepare every food ever conceived of. If people have shoved it in their mouth for nutrition, Red Durkin can tell you how to cook it.

Put thyme in it, she says, re: soup. If you can see big old cellulose hunks of onion in it, you’re doing it wrong.

I repeat the chess metaphor above. Red knows everything kinda. She knows facts about every animal. She knows about every comedian. She knows everything about John Cougar Mellencamp. She is basically just like raw gnosis riding shotgun.

I guess I should talk about the chalk drawing. Everyone stopped for candy pre-border, as tensions were running kinda high about what we might encounter there (we are four trans women driving a car full of books across the Canadian border.) In front of the candy store was a triumph of sidewalk art, a high gloss poster paint trompe l’oeil affair in memory of a storm years before that had collapsed the sidewalk, trapping a young girl beneath the street level. The proprietor of the shop was eager to tell us all about it.

A man from Santa Cruz painted it, he said. Take a look at those paw prints! If you stand right on them, you get a perspective view of the girl trapped underground.

We all tried this. The perspective, though there, was kind of flat and subjective, like the Magic Eye posters that I’ve always suspected are just a crappy trick, a way to test who is willing to lie about seeing Cool Illusions for the sake of social capital. Red was least impressed.

It doesn’t even look like a little girl, she said. It looks more like an old scowling man.

I don’t see it, said Imogen. Are you seeing visions again, Durkin?

Different strokes! So on we went toward the Canadian border, anxieties high, weird noise music shrieking in treble through the speakers.

2.

We arrived at the border. We presented our passports. We were directed to park the car and wait in the lobby while a grim old border guard, essentially Battlestar Galactica’s Commander Adama with a lot less gravitas, determined whether or not we could enter Canada to continue the tour. The old couple who had come in before us were rejected from Canada due to a prior embezzling conviction, and I wondered about their lives. Border guards clustered in the back room, laughing and chatting in the doorway of an office. I tried to see into the office itself, but the only thing visible was a long, lean face, two dark eyes leering out from an intelligent forehead with eyebrows tilted like bee feelers.

Do you remember that shit we pulled in Dunwich or wherever yesterday? Imogen whispered. That was sick.

Maybe don’t talk about this right now, Casey reminded her.

Commander Adama called Imogen and Casey over. He pointed at Casey.

You’re a Canadian, he said. I can’t do anything to you. The rest of you three, however.

A thing you must know before we proceed is that the venue for the night’s reading, Café Cleopatre, consists of three floors. The first floor is a strip club. The second floor is a venerable Montreal performance space for trans women, drag queens, all other gender activist types: think trans Stonewall, in Canada. It’s history; it’s important; it’s an honor that we got invited to read there.

The club you are performing in is a strip club, said Commander Adama. We think you are all intending to work in Canada as strippers.

On one level this was a fun thing for me to think about while waiting interminably for another round of phone calls, consultations, and checks between the chuckling border guards in the back office (and their mysterious, sallow leader, still sourly watching our group through slitted eyes, the sunlight filtering through a window we couldn’t directly see staining his Venetian office blinds a sickly color, like a moss that has never grown on this earth.) I liked imagining that I had no interiority whatsoever for a little while, imagining that the only salient facts about me were (1) the fact of being visibly trans in the eyes of border guards and (2) the outfit I had worn for the event, basically a high-low gauzy short black skirt, red cowboy boots, a skull cameo, and a shirt my girlfriend hates with a big gross pattern of red and green tattoo roses with the legend SINFUL. I liked imagining that you could empty this shell like sucking the jelly from a donut, that an entirely different personality might be poured into it, that from the vantage point of the back office of the Canadian border patrol there was no way to tell any difference. I mean it was not as if we had books with our names on them in the trunk testifying to the kinds of people we actually are, or anything.

(Note: I don’t want to imply anything contra stripper here. Really good friends are strippers and I’m completely impressed with how hard they work and how decent they are in the face of sometimes extremely crappy working conditions. I wish I had guts and physical skill to do it, and I liked imagining the idea that this body of mine sitting in the border office was somehow deemed worthy of such work, that this was something that Canada could conceive of. Sometimes these things feel nice and sick-making in pretty equal measures.)

And it’s kind of fucked that a place so vital to trans counterculture history in Montreal just registers in border guards’ minds as “oh strip club cool.” That this is all they know about this  cool historical thing in the midst of their downtown.

Adama stamped the passports and returned them, hesitating only a moment before stamping Red’s.

I want you to know, he said, that according to our internet sources, you are a very funny comedian.

Red clapped her hands, and we left.

But the elation was short-lived. Each passport bore a bright purple stamp proclaiming our successful passage into Our Neighbor to the North—each passport except Red’s.

There’s nothing on here, she said.

Imogen frowned and took the passport for a look, then dropped it as if her fingers had been stung. –Weird, she said.

We continued on, the thick air of the car suddenly full of a nameless dread, cruising through the Francophone wheat fields where every factory was somehow A LOUER.

3.

What I should make clear is how relentlessly worried I was about doing this tour in the first place. I think this became most clear to me once the thing I was most practically anxious about—crossing into Canada in the first place—was out of the way. Here’s the thing: although I’ve been writing for a while now and have lots of friends who are excellent fiction writers, I have spent essentially zero time not just with trans friends who are excellent fiction writers, but also with trans people in general. I wasn’t out for long enough when I lived in New York to meet many, and for a long time the pattern in Austin was basically that I would meet cool trans friends and then they would move to Portland. So hanging out with trans women in close company for a few days now was anxiety-inducing enough in a weird way—what if I secretly have shitty opinions about things? What if I’m not cool enough to be trans? What if the fact that I have spent zero time immersed in trans communities that they have spent lots of time, effort, and heart in engaging with and being a part of?—but these anxieties are a million times worse when the trans women in question are really really fucking smart and really really fucking talented at this thing I have dedicated my life to. Add to that the fact of meeting yet more really really fucking smart and talented trans women when we got to Café Cleopatre and knowing that I’d soon be reading for them as some kind of honored guest, as one of their number, was starting to get to me.

I dealt with this by using my Dungeons and Dragons skills to explore the third floor of Café Cleopatre, which was great. The whole upstairs was a maze of rooms opening onto other rooms, dominated by a massive dressing room with well-lit mirrors, star decals, and bright green Public Glitter, but also containing a music library full of dusty cassette tapes and gross pop single 45s, mysterious padded sawhorses, abandoned building materials, and best of all, a prop room. The two best things in the prop room were a mantelpiece oozing with green bas-relief cake frosting details surrounding a white pentagram being consumed in day-glo flames, and a coffin. The idea I guess is that you could come on stage in the coffin, all Screamin’ Jay Hawkins, and burst out to begin a dance number. I tried to get in the coffin to see if I could use it as an opening for my reading, but no dice; I am too tall, and nobody else I asked about it wanted to/could use it either.

Awesome coffins aside, though, what lifted my anxieties—dear Topside Tumblr—was a long rambling conversation with Imogen sometime just prior to reading. Imogen is this really fantastic combination of smart, funny, and just really really nice that is the best for long conversations the contents of which I can’t do justice to at all—personal history stuff, sociological ideas, the power fiction has to crystallize the gross basic slime of life into something that you can hold and inspect and use as a microscope lens if you have to, Nietzsche, Methodism—and I can’t really do justice to what I got out of it either. I can say that I guess I felt like connection was possible, was even real; that I related to stuff she said in a way that I’m not used to and felt like she was hearing things I was saying and relating as well in ways that I’m also not used to, that I had in many ways just given up on. To feel that with women who share this whole complex identity with me is A Big Deal, and I felt I guess for the first time on this trip really settling in. We talked about getting Methodist tattoos even, like some weird somber engraving of John Wesley driving the devil out of a Gabardene swine through gentle reason maybe.

So the Montreal event was OFF THE HOOK. Put together by Morgan Sea of Tranzister Radio, who had to wrangle thirteen or so readers, book sales, drink tickets, stage lighting, and The Worst Microphone Ever (tl;dr version: short mic at trans woman reading), we read with a whole gaggle of trans women and other queer folks based in Montreal, which must have some weird mystic energy running through its bilingual river, because the talent on display was intense. I’m sorry for bullet pointing these readers but I do want to talk about everyone and I’m just going to hemorrhage language all over the place about how good this stuff was without some kind of bullet point structure in place like typographical vertebrae:

  • Natacha #9  There are not enough trans comics artists in the world. I want there to be one million and then I want there to be two million. Natacha also happens to be a really really good one and I love her black and white work, her political focus, her sheer crazy prodigious talent.
  • Sophie Labelle  Not only does she do really excellent artwork and trans kids’ books—a genre which we also majorly need more of, no fooling—Sophie has put together a camp for trans and related youth in Montreal, doing a major part in the billion-year-war to make the next generations of queer people less fucked up than all of us who’ve come before.
  • Ricky Leach When she first started singing “Why Can’t I Go Over There?” to the crowd, I kind of dug into my seat, bracing for I knew not what. But she took it to unexpected, funny, eerily hypnotic places, all while combining her lyrics with textured electronica and weird 1984 visuals.
  • Margaux Kay wrote a live email to Derrick Jensen and Lierre Keith asking them to help pay for her bottom surgery as reparations. I do not think I need to say any more than this, though I guess I will indulge myself and say it was pretty hilarious!
  • Emma Deboncoeur broke my heart. I can’t really talk more about her piece except to say that it was beautiful and raw and made me think about friends I haven’t seen in a while and friends I don’t want to ever say goodbye to.
  • Morgan M. Page rocked it with a selection from her forthcoming novel from Topside about generational divides between trans women, the psychic fallout from leaving one space for another one, and hair mousse selection tips. Rad!
  • Betty Inglesias read, in English and Spanish, from extremely personal work about self-definition within a family, ending with a pretty devastating use of the word “besos.” She said it was her first reading and I pretty much do not believe her.
  • Kama La Mackerel discoursed brilliantly on pronouns, OkCupid, the role of masculinity in Asian culture, and the goddess Kali. Perfect combo of thoughtful, hilarious, intense in its navigation of the connecting channels between race, gender, and society, and also weirdly catchy?

Then there are the four of us on tour right now who you have come to know and love. I read a thing from The Black Emerald about Austin bus systems, temporarily homesick. Red broke out the selfsame standup routine that had melted the ice heart of even Commander Adama of the Canadian Border Patrol, which I’d never seen before and which you do not require me to tell you was pitch-perfect hilarious (favorite joke: the one about the Russian matryushka doll skin containing a cis woman surrounded by sticky candy). Imogen rocked it with stuff from her new book about the Nirvana songs Lithium and Polly and their relation to TWERFs and the challenges of coming out online, tying everything together at the end with a perfect stab.

And then there was Casey Plett. Let me tell y’all about Casey Plett. Touring with Casey Plett is awesome. That this was a possibility was clear to me from my first read a month or so ago of her excellent new collection from Topside, A Safe Girl to Love, which presents a huge collection of trans lives through the lens of interpersonal relationships—lines of perceived obligation to family across generational lines tested, our obligations to our cats honored. But this is pretty much nothing compared to the actual experience of hearing her read and hanging out with her. This is sort of presaged in her fiction itself—in one story, a meditation on maintaining a friendship after coming out as trans, the narrator quickly veers into speculation about a sitcom in which a trans woman systematically punches people and steals their wallets; in another, “stretched spider vagina” is marshalled as a phrase to pretty well timed effect. Basically, she is really nice and polite and quiet and then without any warning she takes it to 11, wild laughter and shouts across crowded Quebecois bars: I DON’T WANNA FUCKIN’ LEARN FRENCH! Tonight she read a story from A Safe Girl to Love about two trans women lovers that’s so delicate and subtle and textured, mapping out the spaces between people with nuance and attention, and then she drops a face like rub tits with at the perfect moment. I knew basically not that much about her before this tour and she rocks and you should all go read her book like right now, like immediately, if you haven’t, okay?

Hearing all of these approaches to this weird sad cool awesome identity we all have in common made me feel pretty elated, dear readers! So much territory is being mapped; there is so much territory left to map; everyone is contributing brilliant stuff left and right. This is some kind of Golden Age, y’all; we’re in some kind of messed up historic times right now; finally there’s something to relate to, and it’s not just one book/one author/one anything; it is a groundswell, a neon volcano bursting through the ground and belching new islands and continents into life.

4.

But all of this elation was not without tragedy.

The trouble started after the drink tickets were exhausted and the reading was long over. Sated by performance but still physically hungry, we wandered out into the Montreal streets to search for food. I’m not sure how we found the seafood market—blind turns down alleyways, directions confused between rows upon rows of strange municipal 1950sish Quebecois buildings and charging racks for Public Bicycles, blind chance—but it was Red who stopped to stare at it.

What the fuck is happening with that squid, she said.

At first, none of us could see it. But then—with the eldritch maw of horror slowly yawning in the back of our minds, its flat crushing teeth connected by thin verdant strands of spittle in whose whorls could be seen designs beyond human capacity for reason—it was unmistakable. A recently frozen squid, hanging by its monstrous beak from a nail on the wall of the fish market, had begun to glow with a pale and awful penumbra in a color inconceivable by mere human minds. Hypnotically, its tentacles began to revolve in awful sigils, and then the chanting began:

That is not dead which can eternal lie

And with strange aeons, even you disrespectfulpunk kids may die

Slowly becoming tumescent, the head of the squid rose, its features twisting and swelling into those of the man from the customs office, his mouth replaced by awful writhing tentacles.

Sick, said Imogen, breathless with fear.

Fuck this, said Red. Just—fuck you, H. P. Lovecraft. Magic isn’t real, and you’re a gross racist misogynist piece of fuck.

The Horror’s tentacles lashed out, lacerating her cheek, and it was on. With a war cry, Red raised her fists, charged forward, and plunged at the Horror with the clear intention of ripping it to pieces sucker by sucker and frying it for antipasto. It would have been useless to try to stop her and none of us wanted to. Kill it! Tear it limb from limb! Punch that squid in his stupid racist face!

Yet as she approached it, the Horror began to yawn; its tentacles whirling in a sudden gross maelstrom of salt-stinking flesh. And as fist struck meat, it accepted her. With a terror both implacable and unstoppable, Red Durkin was absorbed into the writhing, salt-reeking meat. All that remained was a pair of glasses, boots, a pack of cigarettes. MAVERICK, the brand burned up at us, the letters slowly burning black from unseen fires.

All of us stood, shocked and horrified, except Casey.

Forget it, everyone, she said. It’s Montréal.

And maybe this is wisdom.

We looked for Red around the fish market for I don’t know, a while, before deciding to give up and go get drinks at a goth bar instead. Many glasses of cider later, Casey and I took a cab with Morgan Sea back to her place, where I type this to you from her kitchen table, surrounded by her excellent arts, crafts, magical unicorns, and well watered plants hanging with their leaves like sticky green icicles, sun rising pink through the window. In a few hours we will return to Brattlesboro with heavy hearts, though I the heaviness is I guess alleviated by the knowledge that Casey and I both secretly love trashy pop music, and now we will outvote Imogen and her weird noise rock music 2 to 1 when it comes to picking radio.

TRANS WOMEN WRITERS’ NIGHT is happening tonight!June 5th, 2014 - 7pm - Cafe Cleopatra - 1230 St. Laurent
Part of the Topside Press Summer Tour with an monster line up of amazing women:
Casey Plett
Imogen Binnie
Red Durkin
Jeanne Thornton
Morgan M Page
Sophie Labelle
Kama La Mackerel
Margaux Kay
Emma Deboncoeur
Betty Inglesias
Ricky Leach
Natacha # 9
Lady Sin Trayda*
Raphaele Frigon
Morgan Sea
(*Lady Sin Trayda won’t be performing tonight, but deserves much love and attention!)
Considerations:
The event is free! But there will be books for sale! Consider bringing moneys! 
Doors at 6, Show at 7 and Q&A at 9ish
The Cabaret space in Cafe Cleos is on the second floor and is unfortunately not wheelchair accessible. 
Brought to you by Tranzister Radio and Topside Press! Click here for the Facebook Event

TRANS WOMEN WRITERS’ NIGHT is happening tonight!
June 5th, 2014 - 7pm - Cafe Cleopatra - 1230 St. Laurent

Part of the Topside Press Summer Tour with an monster line up of amazing women:

(*Lady Sin Trayda won’t be performing tonight, but deserves much love and attention!)

Considerations:

  • The event is free! But there will be books for sale! Consider bringing moneys! 
  • Doors at 6, Show at 7 and Q&A at 9ish
  • The Cabaret space in Cafe Cleos is on the second floor and is unfortunately not wheelchair accessible. 

Brought to you by Tranzister Radio and Topside Press! 
Click here for the Facebook Event

Reblogged from princessotto  41 notes
odofemi:

Café Cléopâtre on St-Laurent in Montreal is one of the last remaining pieces of a history being paved over by condos. The 35+ year old institution is in what used to be the Quartier des Spectacles — a decades long red-light district full of peep shows, strip joints, and drag bars — which has been rapidly destroyed by gentrification.
Café Cléo has long been home to Montréal’s trans and drag scenes, making space for generations of artists, sex workers, and others in the heart of downtown. It has been under pressure for years to close and/or relocate by the Société de développement Angus (SDA), an urban planning group.
The words of one of the SDA’s representatives, Geneviève Marsan, to the McGill Daily in 2011 are telling, “Have you been there recently? We want to revitalize the Quartier. We don’t want strip clubs. They don’t fit in with [SDA’s] values. We certainly want to integrate commerce, but not exploitative commerce.” Ms. Marsan’s justification for gentrification relies on liberal feminist discourse about the supposed exploitative nature of sex work — and this statement, given the Café’s niche, is loaded with racial, class, and gender implications.
Café Cléo has refused to sell and still stands today — soon to be the last of its kind in this area. I’m very pleased to be part of a reading by trans women writers — including Imogen Binnie, Red Durkin, Casey Plett, Jeanne Thornton, as well as nearly a dozen local writers such as organizer Morgan Sea — in this historic space this Thursday, June 5th at 7 pm.


Thanks so much for posting this! I love cafe Cleo’s a lot and I’m so glad that we are able to host the event there. Since I’ve moved to Montreal in 2007(?) a lot of my friends have been involved in the space, between Cabarets and Club Sin and fringe shows, the bar brings in such a really sexually diverse crowd, and as far as i know it’s been like that since the late 70’s. I have been working in Cleo’s lately with the Slippery Slope, and it’s feels so nice to be part of the history, with mega thanks to Johnny who has kept the space alive and accessible to queers with avant garde shit up their sleeves. Very excited for this thursday night, for more info - https://www.facebook.com/events/470219643111568/

odofemi:

Café Cléopâtre on St-Laurent in Montreal is one of the last remaining pieces of a history being paved over by condos. The 35+ year old institution is in what used to be the Quartier des Spectacles — a decades long red-light district full of peep shows, strip joints, and drag bars — which has been rapidly destroyed by gentrification.

Café Cléo has long been home to Montréal’s trans and drag scenes, making space for generations of artists, sex workers, and others in the heart of downtown. It has been under pressure for years to close and/or relocate by the Société de développement Angus (SDA), an urban planning group.

The words of one of the SDA’s representatives, Geneviève Marsan, to the McGill Daily in 2011 are telling, “Have you been there recently? We want to revitalize the Quartier. We don’t want strip clubs. They don’t fit in with [SDA’s] values. We certainly want to integrate commerce, but not exploitative commerce.” Ms. Marsan’s justification for gentrification relies on liberal feminist discourse about the supposed exploitative nature of sex work — and this statement, given the Café’s niche, is loaded with racial, class, and gender implications.

Café Cléo has refused to sell and still stands today — soon to be the last of its kind in this area. I’m very pleased to be part of a reading by trans women writers — including Imogen Binnie, Red Durkin, Casey Plett, Jeanne Thornton, as well as nearly a dozen local writers such as organizer Morgan Sea — in this historic space this Thursday, June 5th at 7 pm.

Thanks so much for posting this! I love cafe Cleo’s a lot and I’m so glad that we are able to host the event there. Since I’ve moved to Montreal in 2007(?) a lot of my friends have been involved in the space, between Cabarets and Club Sin and fringe shows, the bar brings in such a really sexually diverse crowd, and as far as i know it’s been like that since the late 70’s. I have been working in Cleo’s lately with the Slippery Slope, and it’s feels so nice to be part of the history, with mega thanks to Johnny who has kept the space alive and accessible to queers with avant garde shit up their sleeves. Very excited for this thursday night, for more info - https://www.facebook.com/events/470219643111568/