Monday, December 28, 2009
Perhaps not my favorite years of all time, 2009 was a year of highs and lows - mainly lows. I did have a rather amazing birthday out on a Greek island, a blissful night of rolling around in the Summer rain at the Latitude festival and a beautiful trip to Berlin, plus I earned my MA, so it wasn't all bad.
Now, then here's a look behind the scenes of my internationally celebrated performance art career for you to enjoy. It is dedicated with much love to all the marvelous people I've been lucky enough to work with this year, with much gratitude and admiration. Here's looking at you, 2010.
Promo shoot at the School of Fine Art, Athens
Singing back-up for Max Steele and Chantal's House of Shame, Berlin
Arriving for a writing residency on the island of Hydra, Greece
En route to Heathrow, London
Backstage at the Leicester Sq Theatre, London
On set for the cover of Boyz magazine, London
Pre-show at Bios, Athens
Rehearsing at Latitude, Suffolk
Dress rehearsal for "Infinite Variety", London
On set with Ulli Richter at CSM, London
Post-show at the Royal Opera House, London
Preparing for a show that never happened in a Dalston squat, London
Sunday, December 27, 2009
As a child the world was nothing to me but a bleak row of inadequacies, humiliations, petty defeats. I had few pets. I was scared of dogs because they represented the snarling, unpredictable realities of the outside world, a world that spat in my hair. I hardly ever left my front garden. We had cats sporadically whom I tried to love, in the possessive manner children have towards objects in their ownership, but inevitably they died or were given away, with the same frequency my Mother’s boyfriends appeared and disappeared. In the end I stopped even noticing if they were around. Our rabbit escaped her hutch and tunnelled away into next door’s garden, right into the bitter and joyless grimace of our neighbour’s rottweiller. For a while I had a snake, who I cared for very badly. I forgot to feed him, I forgot to handle him, he died of neglect, and I decided against pets, or children for that matter.
Shortly before I went to college, my Mother bought a dog, to see her through the dull months between relationships. He was a boxer, caramel in colour and sleek like the 1930s, with the softest manner of anyone I’ve ever met, and I loved him. He loved me too, for once in my misguided life, it was requited. He and I found a grassy little outcropping amongst the barren rocks, the arid moonscape of so many so longed for loves. I let him follow me around, we fell asleep together on the sofa, he hopped up on my bed, and through one deep, springtime depression we watched Hedwig endlessly, simply because it was all we could manage. Charlie. He was big for such a young dog, he was all green shoots and joy, he had just been born and he was glad of it. He was naïve, for him everyday was dazzling, awash with possibilities, he feared nothing because nothing, no experience, had ever taught him fear. When we walked the block together, me broken hearted and he so full of life, he so stout and strong and me waist deep in self-starvation, we must have seemed like any other couple on the street. He dragged me behind, straining at the leash, barking with massive, abandoned, flirtation at everything and everyone, pouring out unbounded desire to comingle with the world, and even though I’ve always imagined myself to be more of a cat person, I never had a better friend than Charlie.
I did go to college, and Charlie served his time out bridging the empty time in my Mother’s life. In the middle of the night, in the middle of a tortured tangle of my body with another body in fact, my sister called. She was sobbing and I couldn’t quite distinguish the details of what she was saying, but I knew what she was telling me, just like you know now, as you’re reading this. I pulled the quilt around me, I turned on a lamp. I would have lit a cigarette if I were a smoker, it was that cinematic. I asked her to calm down and she whimpered. My Mother’s new boyfriend, not the worst of the lot but certainly not the best, had killed him in a temper. He said it was an accident, that he had taken him into the garden, slipped, and in the fall broken Charlie’s neck.
My Mother has a new dog now but I have no patience for her.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
The line that is my spine,
Becomes a curved,
And all that is left to me then,
Are the sharp shapes of my hand,
And the landscape,
That is your torso.
With joyous machismo,
I express myself,
In hot, now cooling jets.
And you tell me;
"Yeah. You really do cum more than anyone else I've ever met."
Sunday, December 20, 2009
A Brooklyn branch of Target was invaded last week by elderly peace activists protesting children's toys that promote violence-as-play. You can read the full story at Common Dreams. I think this is a really inspiring statement to make, not only anti-war but anti-consumerist too, right as we are approaching the high holidays of greed. It makes me think of my dear pal Stevie Hanley and our conversations about old ladies as the highest form of cultural liberation. He's making a huge drawing full of grandmothers freaking out in spiritual ecstasy which I have been lucky enough to see a several steps along the road to its creation. It's wonderful to see such a loving and holy reworking of a figure by which we are so manipulated, so insidiously, by commercial powers.
The image of the Nonna in the industrialized West is a horrible corruption of a great lineage of cult Goddesses, spiritual and magical figures. In Europe and the US the power of the female, nourishing, life-giving, eternal, wise Gaia has been bent purely to sell things. In an emotionally mean-spirited manner, and through the horrible and perverse powers of personalization in mass-marketing, grannies sell us foodstuffs galore; from yorkshire puddings to hot chocolate, all wrapped up in the good sense comfort to which it runs counter. We have taken the Virgin Mary, and neutralized (and desexualized) her with age, diminishing her powers further even than the Catholic Church managed, and we have made of her one of the icons of capitalism. It's a horrible irony, one which feeds off and re-routes genuine emotions and spiritual desires, callously, in the name of commerce.
To see a group of organized elderly women come together in a political action so opposed to the role assigned them (benign, silent, peace-keeper) is an image that lights up our current self-satisfied apolitical landscape. And I think that it's about time that that other bunch of smugly castrated outcasts (the gay "community") took a lesson from these ladies, and broke the contract they made with mainstream marketing executives (acceptance/tolerance in exchange for high visibility consumption in place of political dissension) in favor of a more radical manifesto. People before products, intensity before image, spirituality before sales.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Sunday, December 13, 2009
And so we come to the final episode of series on of my hit radio show "Special Guests". This week we look at contemporary art! You can download the whole series (for FREE thank you very much) on itunes. Just search under J.J. Bibby et voila, the whole season on your laptop/ipod. And there'll be more "Special Guests" next year! Thanks for joining us.
Bishi is one of London's most special jewels. She always looks as glamorous as a whole box of quality street, she emanates positivity and she's releasing a new single. She describes it as "electro-punk, with a folk song b-side", so really ladies there's something for everybody. Here's the video.
I'm very excited to be a part of the new group show from Hysterical Women, a collective I admire very much. I will be showing a brand new art piece called "What About Matriarchy?" which I will install during the private view and which will be on display for the duration.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
A lot of really fucking amazing people died of A.I..D.S, the kinds of people who made the world as we know it now. And a lot of awful people died of A.I.D.S too, the kind of people who left nothing but scars behind. A lot of unknown people died of A.I.D.S too, died more quietly even than they lived, silently, and with no written obituary. And a lot of people are still dying of A.I.D.S even though it's now terribly unfashionable, and something of an embarrassing soap opera cliche. For sickness, like the rich, is unwavering in its sense of style and does not bend to the faddishness of fashion, rather it sails on, aloof and vaguely condescending.
There is no cure, only prevention (which is to say education) and the capacity, in these days of wildly imbalanced egotistic (a)political thinking, to discern between your bb fantasies and the right to life. This post is a memorial to the undead of A.I.D.S, not a soap box for my views on freedom of expression in pornography, or a a discussion on the conspiracies that surround the A.I.D.S crisis. As such all I can say to you is, "Don't join the list."
Monday, November 23, 2009
Two interesting stories broke recently. One revealed the true identity of Belle du Jour, best-selling author and felow blog sensation. The other reported on James Partridge, founder of Changing Faces, becoming the UK's first facially disfigured newsreader. An interesting juxtaposition, right? Faces being given to causes.
Sex workers now have Dr Brooke Magnanti as a sort of figurehead for just how well adjusted and successful they can be, whilst Partridge's new role provides some much needed representation for the disabled. A debate, relatively small and one-sided was stirred up by the new newsreader, with most people agreeing that by hiring him Channel 5 had taken a positive step. Only a few voices disagreed, accusing the station (unsurprisingly) of using Mr Partridge as a publicity stunt, the usual argument from the usual candidates who find everything this side of Doris Day sensational.
The debate however was puny compared to the cacophony around the artist formerly known as Belle du Jour, who scored front page news on countless papers when she revealed to India Knight that she was, shockingly, a real person. And not just a real person but an attractive one and a research scientist to boot. I expected that perennially popular debate, "Should prostitution be legalized?", to be trotted out but sadly it was not, which is something of an enormous missed opportunity.
Generally the consensus is one of relief. Dr Brooke Magnanti, the woman behind the books, the TV adaptation and the blog is everything she said she was, no-one has been duped! (There's no JT LeRoy fall-out here.) As an added made for TV touch, it transpires that she only did it for cash because she couldn't get Ph.D funding. You couldn't make it up, and she didn't. She doesn't regret it of course, but she doesn't do it anymore, overall quite a dull expose.
The hullabaloo concerning her coming out was really only interesting for the fact that it revealed little to nothing unkown, besides a strange obsession cherished by many. Critics were fixated that BDJ was a man, they saw it as the only logical explanation of her. As India Knight herself put it on Radio 4, "I thought she had to be a man, because the idea of the prostitute who loves her work is such a male fantasy."
Come on India, dear, pull your head out of your Anya Hindamarch handbag for just a second; have you ever met a prostitute before? Out of the several I know, the majority do enjoy their work, and yes, the majority of them are women. The dominatrixes and the craigslist call girls alike, both enjoy the economic freedom and even, dare I say it, having sex with men for money.
The idea that all sex workers are victims is the kind of thing you expect from CSI investigates, but the Sunday Times? I'm not saying, that nobody is ever forced into sex work, repressed by it, trapped in it or hurt by it, of course I'm not. But what I am saying is that the insistence that BDJ was a man writing his sexual fantasies in the form of a female-voiced blog speaks loudly to the attitude that still dominates towards women and sex. It's the same attitude you find in ludicrous books like "Act Like a Lady. Think Like a Man" which advise women to use sex as a business strategy to barter for what they want in a relationship. Both express the dreadfully outdated, and frankly sexphobic, idea that only men want sex, whilst women put out only when they have to, for economic gains.
Amazingly there are women who do enjoy sex, and do it for its own sake even.( My Auntie Dot ran away to Brighton last week to shack up with a toy-boy lover, leaving the husband of 40 years behind, and I doubt it was the promise of higher social status that prompted the move.) Women can enjoy sex, prostitutes can enjoy their jobs, but that's probably a little too much for us just now thank you, so we'll just stick still and all enjoy the fact that Dr Magnanti is a charming, blonde lady whose now seen the light.
There's something dreadfully mercenary about BDJ's new human incarnation, it makes her an entirely loveable, honorable figurine up there on the shelf with culture's most pleasant tart's with hearts (but no cunts). Her gimmick (anonymous former hooker telling almost all) has been refreshed and now, stepping out from the shadows her lovely, throughly acceptable face, tinged only with the slightest glamour of scandal shines brightly on a wealth of magazine covers, a celebrity is born. (Mr James Partridge appears on rather less front pages).
Wouldn't it be marvelous is someone like the Scarlet Harlot became the face on the cover of the broadsheets with her opinions (and considerably wider) experiences for all to read? Someone who actually had interesting things to say on sex? Oh well, one can dream. And here's to Auntie Dot, long may the sun shine in Brighton, here's hoping she starts a blog too.
(Image: Timberlina by David Windmill)
I was musing earlier today about the fabulous creatures who populate the spheres in which I travel. I decided, very wisely ladies and gentlemen, to spend LESS energy on the people whose existences depress me, and MORE on people whose existences thrill me. So, I dedicate this post, number one in an occasional series, to Miss Timberlina.
Why is Timberlina such a delight? Well, she's involved in everything from Bingo Pub Night at the RVT every week, to high-brow curatorial endeavors at the V&A lover, one of which is coming up on the 27th. There's something very charming, and very her, about an artist who works wherever there is work to be done. Her policy of appearing whenever the bat signal goes up is reflected in her look, "The queen of alternative style" say Time Out. Said style is a mixture of '70s secretary, '80s aerobic instructor and '90s TV personality, often simultaneously, and with a beard.
There's something marvelously flamboyant and spontaneous about Timberlina, but also considered, because girl, believe, she knows what she's about. For another side of the dodecahedron that is Ms T, is the art's council funded, Pride Legacy Project, designed to "provide services and facilities to curate and monitor Lesbian and Gay cultural representation and awareness across the heritage and creative sectors in programming, education, audience development and employees as part of broad diversity best practice in preparation for the Single Equality Act."
I think that's my favourite aspect of her, there are surprisingly few people on the fringes of this cultural outcropping who are as well read as she, and as you must know by now, I doff my pill box to a brainy bitch. So here's to Miss Timberlina!
(Image: Timberlina and Fancy Chance having a picnic.)
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Oh my! It's time for another exclusive episode of "Special Guests", this week with a bona fide Hollywood star. As always, just click below to stream the interview. This week's episode has the premiere of our new jingle by superfan, Jordan Hunt! Thanks for joining us!
Friday, November 13, 2009
Performance idolator Penny Arcade is the subject of a new hardback, containing scripts from three of her hit shows plus an interview and a series of critical essays. Literally mind blowing stuff, semtex for the cultural conscious if you will. You can buy it for me here. Also, why not buy a copy for your nearest and dearest? Sales pitch!
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Monday, November 9, 2009
I saw David Hoyle's Theatre of Therapy at the Chelsea Theatre this weekend. Based very loosely on Freud's discoveries, it was quite the most overwhelming assault on this tatty little flag we wave and call culture. And not just mainstream culture, no, Mrs Hoyle peels the skin off of gay culture too, and anything else that comes his way (including latecomers).
Tales of heroin addicts, the cheese counter at BHS, killing bullies and fucking your relatives flow, they're woven spontaneously into a mesh with audience interactions, the odd bit of flirtation, rants, videos, and four very committed renditions of anthemic songs. Boredom is not possible, because the show is a terrifying spectacle, almost brutal in the demands it makes on the viewer. If your thoughts waver for a moment, you're lost, it's something akin to descriptions of the Last Judgment (although in those retellings the Lord is not tarting up the awaiting with a tube of red Revlon lipgloss). As for honesty, D. Hoyle takes the cake, I don't think I've ever witnessed someone pour themselves out with such dedication and frankness. In the same way, and with the same intensity that he rips everything and everyone else to shreds, he cuts himself up for you. His heart breaking scream, "Who would want ME, eh?" reverberates profoundly.
There's a very pointed moral (for want of a better word) at work, which forces the audience (again for want of a better word) into the most definitely awkward acknowledgement that we're in this together, and if we don't take it upon ourselves to change the way things are, then no one will. That's not to say this was a love-fest, FAR from it. Mr Hoyle paints no pretty pictures, he is unnervingly honest in his vivisection, dismantling the conscious, pulling off the blinkers and letting us, rather forcing us, see the blackness that we're swimming in. Because, you see, we brought it on ourselves, with our very deliberate insistence on ignoring all those awkward topics we didn't have the guts to face up to. Ms Hoyle however, has more than enough courage for us all, and was ready to seize on any topic however controversial and make radical, offensive statements (even if he didn't agree with them himself) for the sake of starting a conversation.
Verbal abuse is not freedom, but let us remember neither is political correctness. Mr Hoyle is some sort of hybrid of Christ and Judy Garland, what he says he martyrs himself too, he's willing to go as far as it takes to provoke you to think, beyond (way beyond) the realms of taste or any of that jazz. Echoing Penny Arcade who announced "Love is the only radical action still possible," Mrs Hoyle tells us that without love we are nothing. At first it might seem odd that such a beautiful sentiment comes amidst stories of executing babies, rape and demands that all LGBT peoples are armed with guns, but you see, take a flight in Jungian dream logic and you see it's a perfectly sensible statement.
Jung writes that Christianity has given us a very brittle, polarity of good and bad, a myth that has stopped developing and is now actually damaging to the human psyche. He tells us that we must instead not see good and bad as opposites but rather as relative and indeed, one as the completion of the other. Morals and ethics are different things lover. Thinking of Ms Hoyle's insistence that we all, "Stop being religious and start being spiritual," it would seem that his work is much more in line with Jung than Freud. (Sigmund of course had little time for the spiritual, reducing it nearly always to the psycho-sexual, whilst Carl lived a life full of visions, ghosts, precognitive dreams and visitations). Maybe her next show will based on Jung's writings on mandalas and other magic circles? Here's hoping.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
I'm very happy to announce that I have been recording a series of interviews with some of the most talked about personalities in the UK. My new hit radio series, Special Guests, sees me talking to models, politicians, financiers, artists, celebrities and more! You can listen to the first episode exclusively below. Thanks for joining us!
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
I don’t fetishize the working class. That mythology, of rampant, authentic sexuality, is, like all mythologies, mundane from the inside. Even the stories you tell to explain your own life require some distance (of time, or space, or fiction) before they become interesting. To grow up in it, choked by it, is to know that it is as hollow and dehumanizing, snobbish and transparent.
Maybe if I were an honest to goodness, I’m-worthless-please-fuck-me, sort of faggot I might feel differently. Maybe if I had grown up in a more genteel situation, wherein I could look out from the nursery at the rough boys playing football on the grass, if I could put some distance between me and the grime of poverty, that ill-educated film, the suffocating loss of hope, maybe I could be a sexual tourist on council estates and public bathrooms. Perhaps then I would long to be knifed too. Sometimes I wonder if it isn’t every straight actor’s greatest, and most secret (need I separate the two?) desire to be murdered by a repressed, and acne pocked thug, in circumstances filthy but somehow transfigured by the tragedy, into a thing more beautiful than the truth. Bourgeois masochism is always thus.
I don’t believe that bratty boys in tracksuits in any way make better lovers. I don’t accept that they are in anyway a more genuine expression of masculinity (or however else you might choose to name that quality which you feel you are lacking and so desperately hope to draw out of another body through sexual osmosis). Call it masculinity, call it male privilege, call it power.
You feel disempowered, I see that. You think that if you can mimic the slave drivers and maker’s of propaganda then you will somehow be stronger, more worthy of the world’s time, of respect, able to crush that all-consuming self-hate, that self-doubt that misinforms you that you will never be loved, ever.
Not truly. Not like people are loved in idiotic paperbacks commissioned by idiotic publishers and sold under the pseudonym of an idiotic writer.
Not really, not like people are loved in decrepit films bank rolled by decrepit producers and released under the silk lined letters of decrepit actors.
You want to be loved in the manner of a mainstream commercial product, you want love to be a mainstream commercial product, so that everyone can read it, see it, buy a souvenir, for it to be so simple that any idiot child could understand its meaning. Because, you reason, if everyone else can be see your love, if you can splash it about a bit, maybe you could convince yourself.
But you won’t, you can’t. You can’t sew up those wounds because you won’t acknowledge them, you must always go on rubbing in salt as you repeat to yourself, like a Satanic catechism, those same old lies your teacher told you. You want to be a man, and so you have to invent what that is, or more precisely make yourself a facsimile of it. Always scrambling in the darkness of your own ignorance, always dressed up in irony, at a cold distance from the spirit, and insistent on primary biology.
You want to be loved in the most obvious ways. You want to mirror prefabricated role-models, and so you ape, because you don’t have any imagination. You can’t summon up a way of being for yourself, you can’t dream up something of your own volition. You lack faith, you have not the courage of your conviction, you need a love ordered from a prix fixee menu, written in black and white, in English.
But here, alas, lies the crux of the matter; power is not to be found in imitation. It fades ever more with each replication, like a ray of sun reflected, lost, in an infinity of mirrors. Power comes from breaking new ground, within yourself, from hiking through your own recesses, forging through the murkiest aspects of your own inner life, and striking gold with the realization, Oh, that is who I am.
I have not forgotten the Virgin Mary, nor the Goddess Athena. There is a great power in that which you insist we call the female, so named that you may keep it separate from its precious, apparent opposite. I live on a fault line, and I harness its power, I admit to my seismic ruptures, to my torn apart at the seams nature. I admit that I am a child of God, I wasn’t spewn out of an eternal darkness to spend these eighty years in semi-darkness before returning to the abyss. As such I know that we’re all in this electro-magnetic soup together, we’re all floating, weightily, in what we barely comprehend, and more so I know that I am not fish nor fowl, and more so I am grateful. For it speaks of possibility, does it not? Of freedom. I recognize that sixty percent of my genetic make-up is shared with fruit flies, so if tomorrow I grow a moustache what are the odds?
Friday, October 23, 2009
I had the pleasure of being 10 years old when Shakespears Sister released Stay, which is probably the ideal age to receive the grandiose, sci-fi, campery that was being proposed.
I was from that moment, forever obsessed with the baroque glamor of the two existential space vixens, trapped eternally as they were, on some sort of T.V. moonscape. The girl who sat next to me in school was equally besotted and I taught her all the lyrics. (I've always had a head for rhymes).
I can't say specifically why I've been in love with Shakespears Sister for the best part of twenty-years, but I suppose their mixture of lesbian vampirism, German Expressionism and glam-rockism might have something to do with it. Or perhaps, could it be that since I discovered SS long before (well 3 years before) I discovered my sexuality, Metropolis, or T-Rex, that Shakespears Sister actually set the precedent? Maybe everything I came to love, I found whilst searching the cultural horizon for something to fill the void left by the untimely demise of Siobhan and Marcella.
Of course, if we want to be Jungian about the matter, Shakespears Sister were, I'm sure, channelling the ancient archetypes inherited in my unconscious. Far out.
Since Siobhan had come out of Bananarama there was always a lot of hoopla surrounding the band, but that only grew (to operatic proportions) with the endless reports of cat fights. Personally I think that that pair would have out done Alexis and Krystle given half the chance, they always had the most definite air of pulp fiction about them.
Anyway they were terribly successful (even in America - though Americans deny this) for too short a period, and I miss them awfully. They were the sort of pop act that doesn't come along every decade, in fact they're pretty squarely from that mystikal 70s/90s timewarp that opened the portal for the likes of Cathy Dennis, Annie Lennox's Diva, and Dee-Lite. (I've always thought of SS as being like the shadow animals in the psyche of Dee-lite actually).
And of course, as if 2.5 million albums sold wasn't enough of an achievement, the ladies were immortalized in the most beautiful way, by French and Saunders.
Apparently there's a new album coming in November and I simply can't wait. It's called The Red Room, and you can find all out about it on Siobhan's myspace page.
Addendum, at LFW about five years ago I was stuck outside of a party at the Royal Academy waiting for the friend with the invites (who was of course at an entirely different party). Siobhan was playing at the party, she stepped outside to smoke where we collided, I myself pacing up and down chewing a pipe. She asked did I have a light, and I had to explain that it was really just a look. Fag break over she took pity on me and my situation and said; "It's alright love, you can come in with me."
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
You may like to celebrate the opening of the hallway between this world and the next at Le Chateau d Barbe-Bleue, the night before Halloween (on which evening you will obviously want to be wearing a skeleton mask which you bought for 20p from a supermarket and drinking too much hooch). Anyway, tickets are available here for a rather modest £40, and I will be undead on the door.
A week later it's a double bill.
On the 5th of November I'm at the Boom Boom Club, at the Bath House in Liverpool St. It's a mix of burlesque, cabaret, songs, you know, my old home ground, only I'm going disco.
Then it's time for the annual Act Art Festival, this year themed "Children of the Damned". (Rumors that the title is a reference to my niece, are as yet unconfirmed). That's November 6th, it's sort of a compendium of what's happening in London on a certain scene, with the added bonus of many international artists giving rare UK performances.
Because she's worth it.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
I dreamt that I went to one of Daniel Lismore's parties, in a big country house, with Kate M'Love. It was a beautiful affair, very elegant in that old European style. In amongst the refined goings on Naomi Campbell and Busta Rhymes were having sex in the VIP basement, alongside some other celebrity couples. I think Lady Gaga was involved too (I mean she is EVERYWHERE so why would she not take over my pscyhe? I heard her TWICE yesterday in a single episode of "The Archers"! "The Archers" for goodness sake!), yet it remained a very chic affair (and really I can't stress this enough).
We danced all night, against a backdrop of baroque luxury, champagne towers and flock wallpaper, until dawn when en masse we set out from the house across the fields, all coming down. As the sun came over the horizon, haloing us all in the most beautiful golden glow, Kate M'Love looked at me in shell-shocked wonderment, as if to say, "Did that really happen?"
But of course it didn't, though I have no doubt it will, very soon.
From Dream Moods (my Bible).
To dream that you are at a party, suggests that you need to get out more and enjoy yourself. If the party is bad, then it indicates that you are unsure of your social skills.