I'm expecting to get zapped for at least three hours today; lately it's been only taking two to clear my face, but letting it grow for a week to this level of scruffiness should give him more to work with. I may even have him move southwards to my oft-neglected chest. Or not.

As if this last week weren't enough, tonight we're doing something rather unusual for post-zapping: going out. There's a happening of some variety at (deep breath) Red Dora's Bearded Lady Women's Cafe at 14th and Guerrero, involving spoken word and assorted forms of trashiness. It's hosted by Michelle Tea, which is what puts it immediately into the "can't miss" category. It's a primarily though not exclusively dyke bar, but Michelle wouldn't be involved if it wasn't also trans-friendly, so there shouldn't be a problem. Except for how my face will look and potentially lingering dopiness from the vicodin, although I'm planning on going a little easier on the stuff than usual, and no Green Death at all. Still, with my luck, this'll be when I finally run into Maggie again.

Also of note tonight is Alien Predators on the Sci-Fi channel. Not very good at all, but significant for being the kind of low-budget horror movie which lined video store shelves in the eighties and nineties before the Blockbuster homogenization (i.e. two hundred copies of Bicentennial Man) took hold. Those really were glorious days. Set your VCRs accordingly.

When the train stopped at Castro Station on the way home, I mumbled, "I was afraid of that." Maddy knew what I was talking about without asking: a girl we'd both noticed out the window got on the train and sat across from us. She would have been perfect as "Troubled Psychic Girl" on Buffy, being no older than fifteen with tousled, none-too-recently dyed hair which didn't look like it had seen a brush that day, a very comfortable-looking long black coat, black-and-white knee-high stripeys and black (for want of a better word) witch shoes, and not a speck of makeup. She was carrying—no, the word is "clutching"—an Anne Rice book. And there were her eyes; soulful, intelligent, a little morose. ^{i think these eyes have seen a lot} Souls may or may not exist, but eyes are windows to something. _{i don't know, maybe they've seen too much} She was naturally beautiful and more than a little ego-shattering, a perfect example of how we both wish we could have looked at the age, not to mention now. Which is why we were hoping she wouldn't sit near us, what with Maddy feeling self-conscious about her weight (which isn't as bad as she thinks) and me about my five-day growth (which isn't as bad as I think).

She got off at West Portal, allowing us to exhale and pick up the pieces of our collective self-image. (We're doing much better now, thanks.) It occurred to me that she reminded me of someone, but I wasn't sure who. Presumably a model or actress—

And then it struck me. My jaw dropped, but not noticeably because my hand shot up to my mouth. Concerned, Maddy asked what was wrong, and I told her: Summer. She was a dead ringer for Summer. A few years older with a considerably different fashion senibility, but in her eyes and the aura she exuded, the resemblence was striking.

Not her namesake, the Summer who was the catalyst for so many of the personally significant events in '99, but the original. Summer Zero was my first major crush, the one who pretty much set the standard for the kind of girl I would be attracted to. I only knew her for a week at YMCA Camp Gaines in the mid-80s, and she probably didn't regard me as much more than that chubby, quiet kid with the crush who embarrassed her at the dance but was otherwise harmless. In an act of remarkable kindness she gave me her phone number when she signed the back of my group picture. (I don't know if other camps did this, but at ours a picture was taken of the entire population of the camp, and in theory on the last day all your new friends would sign it, usually with ne'er-to-be-fulfilled promises to keep in touch. For many of us it was a dry run for the meaningless "Have a great summer" yearbook scrawlings later on in high school. One year, though, my counselor wrote that he appreciated how mellow I was. I took that as a compiment.) Or maybe she could tell that I'd never actually work up the courage to use it, and she was quite right. After six months, which felt like the statute of limitations, I stopped even trying to pick up the phone.

I have no idea where she is now—she doesn't even come up when googled, which is unusual these days—and it's a safe bet that she doesn't remember me at all, which is surely for the best. In the unlikely event that I did encounter and recognize her (it's been at least fifteen years and her last name is probablly different by now), I wouldn't try to jog her memory. It just wouldn't be worth it. That was another lifetime entirely.

1:03pm

The vampires of capitalism have been feeding like mad since before before the second Tower fell, so the only thing that surprises me about the existence of action figures depicting Bush as the hero (but not a cowboy) and Osama as the villain is that they took so long to appear. Anything I would be inclined to say about the Osama figure in drag would be redundant at best, so I'll reserve comment.

(Apologies to Madeline for the negative vampire metaphor. It was all I could think of.)

3:36pm

Tim Burton's masterpiece Ed Wood is coming out on DVD in August. Yes.

For the nearly the entire train ride this morning the celphone of the person sitting in front of us was ringing every thirty seconds. (Yes, we timed it.) Presumably, it was alerting them that they had voicemail, but they didn't even bother to look at it until they exited at the stop before ours. I suppose it could have been worse; they could have had one of those awful "ring tones," which turn something mildly annoying into a justification for homicide.

11:26am

Aw, man! Gore Vidal is speaking tonight about terrorism and U.S. policy, but it's sold out. Bummer. I've always wanted to hear him speak, and on this topic it would be like political pr0n for me. Alas. Maybe I should spend the $22 ticket price on sushi.

It brings to mind an entry I wrote on 9/11, unfinished and unposted because I chickened out. I suppose it's safe now—although there's a few things I would put differently—but at the time I guess I was afraid of a backlash (self-important much?):

7:52pm

sfgoth has been down all day long, which is surely coincidental.

I don't know how I feel about the events of the day. I'm not angry about it, the way at least one commentator on CNN suggested I should be. Angry at who, exactly? I'm still reeling from the racist ugliness this country showed during the Gulf War, and while it's a very satsifying option for many people, I can't immediately seethe with hatred against "towelheads." Apparently, the majority of the cab drivers in New York have gone into hiding—the stereotype about their common ethnicity being based in fact—for fear of retaliation. I can't say that I blame them.

I have to admit, though, I don't like the characterization of this as an "attack on freedom." I see it as an attack on certain symbols of the American government and its military, which I consider to be quite separate from the American people. I'm not defending these acts of terrorism, mind you, any more than I defend the American government's acts of terrorism abroad. But I can't get worked up and feel like I'm being personally targeted, as King George II would so clearly like.

Maybe I should, but I don't feel patriotic right now. This was an attack on American people, but the target (ultimately) was the American government because of the bad things said government has done. One of the major news outlets was describing how the country rallies around the president in times of crisis, regardless of party affiliation. I don't feel that. I don't feel that at all. If anything, i'm pissed at him for getting us into it (yes, I know the conditions preexisted) and am afraid he'll screw this up too. "War on Terrorism," indeed.

I haven't shaved since Saturday morning, and it shows. Sort of. If you look close. It's not so noticeable from a distance, though that may change before I get zapped this next Saturday. Though there are a few dozen dark hairs, there's no shadow beneath the skin, which is the big tell. My face feels scruffy from the light hair, but again, it doesn't really show from a distance, and I only have to deal with it for the next few days. (And then I'll have to deal with the healing process, but one thing at a time.) The theory, of course, is that the more time I give it to grow out the more efficient the zapping will be. What's there is already plenty to for Phil to work with; I could go in today, no problem. What I'm counting on is a few more to appear before Saturday, which in theory cuts down on the overall time to completion. If there is such a thing as completion.

As if four-day stubble weren't enough, I'm wearing pants today, a pair black jeans which I've alternately fit and not fit into over the last few years. There's little more cliched that using jeans as a meter for getting into shape, but it's a cliche because it works. Maddy and I jokingly call it my butch look—particularly when combined with the inexpensive studded belt I couldn't talk myself out of buying this weekend—but ultimately it's more about just trying to expand my fashion horizons. I've worn pants for most of my life, naturally, but not since having gone full time. I do femme quite well if'n I do say so myself, and the trick is to be able to tone it back without going into boi mode.

In any event, nobody seems to be objecting when I go into the women's restroom wearing them, probably because 90% of them are, too. I guess what I'm trying to say is that it seems I don't have to try too hard to pass, but I'm not going to take it for granted, either. I'll get brought back down soon enough.

2:14pm

Velvet tells me that Summer's last day with the company was yesterday. I don't know if she left or was let go or what. I suppose I'll find out if I need to know. Didn't think I'd be here to when it happened, though.

3:58pm

Lew's moved me onto a new project. My current end date is a week from Friday, and he's probably just getting the most out of my time here. I'm not getting my hopes up that the contract will be extended again.

Being unable to avoid seeing the ads for a upcoming big studio movie (which shall remain unnamed) when I ride the train, I'm compelled to second-guess their marketing department with a semantic experiment:

Warrior. Legend. King.
Warrior. King. Legend.
King. Warrior. Legend.
King. Legend. Warrior.
Legend. Warrior. King.
Legend. King. Warrior.

Conclusion: it's meaningless in any order.

2:30pm

The pinball machine has been moved to a different floor, thus rendering the question of what kind it is moot. There's a sign in its place saying it was moved to an enclosed room because of complaints about the noise; interestingly, the football video game with the "no yelling" rule remains. I'm sure it all makes sense.

Actually, according to The Ex, it's not so much that I'm not eating enough fat as it is that I'm not eating enough of the right kind. I'm avoiding the wrong kind pretty well, except in the allegedly "fat-free" dressings I tend to use with vegetables and rice. And, as of November, I'm not getting enough calories. (I look at my gut and I have a hard time believing it, but it doesn't quite work that way. The Ex says that it's just the shape of my body and nothing can be done about it, but I refuse to believe that. After all, it used to be much bigger; why is it a lost cause now?)

Considering that my eating habits have gone even more low-calorie since then—and it's not even that I'm necessarily eating less, just differently—I need to change/add a few things. Most of the The Ex's recommendations were things that most people (including many of my friends) would laugh at, but I'm going to to give them a shot. There's nothing drastically different from what I'm doing already, just tweaks here and there. This is probably why she chose me as her first subject; I'm both someone she can be nervous around without having to be embarrassed about it, and I don't have the taste for sugary and/or fattening food that I once did. Neither does she; both of our diets seem to have improved over the last three years, which is yet another item on the Why Breaking Up Was A Good Thing list. I'd also like to think it's why she asked me and not Maggie, particularly when I allow myself to acknowledge my one-sided rivalry with Maggie for The Ex's friendship. (A bitterness which wouldn't exist at all if not for the way Maggie snubbed me when The Ex and I broke up, having no qualms about choosing sides.)

And, of course, it was an excuse to go Pink Godzilla. Any will work. (For as fond of as I am of our place in Pacifica, their unagi isn't quite right.) Afterwards, Maddy and I bounced around in downtown Santa Cruz, enjoying the remarkably nice weather. In the sun, no less. Using my caloric deficiency as an excuse, I even had a bowl of ice cream, a rarity for me these days. But, you know, we were on mini-vacation. It's nice to get out of town once in a while.

10:55pm

The problem is, if it weren't for unrealistic expectations, I wouldn't be where I am today.

Thank you.

I shaved for the first time since Wednesday; it had been an experiment to see how much growth there'd be by this morning, since I'm getting zapped next Saturday and want to make sure that three days' growth is enough to work with. It either isn't, or I'm just getting really close to being done, since there wasn't much on my lip this morning. I'm considering just letting it grow out for the next week, not shaving at all, so he'll have as much to work with as possible. As Maddy pointed out, I went out in full battle gear twice this last week without having shaved that morning, something I never would have done before. So I guess that's progress.

For as much as I like the venue, I hate getting out there. The nearby garages are uniformly expensive, and street parking is spotty, though not as spotty as certain other parts of town. Eventually a spot can be found, but as anyone who knows the area will confirm, it's best to keep to the west; go east and you're in the Tenderloin. Color me middle-class, but parking there just isn't an option for me, particularly at night. I found a space at Geary and Sutter, not too far away.

In front the Hall was a sign of things to come: the old Doggie Diner heads, with a sign reading "Welcome Back Billy Nayer Show." The group was originally from San Francisco, and apparently they have friends in the right places.

There was still balcony seating available, and I briefly considered it, but figured that since I was by myself—Maddy's stomach and head were in cahoots against her—I might as well go to the front. Being six feet tall with my hair up in a high ponytail, it was certainly the polite thing to do. Heaven forbid anyone standing behind me be inconvenienced by actually seeing on stage.

I erred on the side of caution and overdressed, even though there was nothing remotely gothy about the show. (Indeed, I seldom go to such shows.) I know myself too well: I'm be more likely to feel underdressed than over. And there was at least one other girl dressed not dissimilarly, so I'm glad I did. Doesn't take much for me to feel inadequate, and at least in this case I felt like I was trying my best.

The lower ticket price theory usually results in more interesting opening acts, and proving no expection was a three-piece ensemble called Rube Waddell—named after baseball hall-o'-famer Rube Waddell, but I'm sure you worked that one out for yourself—which made me feel incredibly hip when they referenced Jesco White of Dancing Outlaw fame. Either that, or it confirmed that I know way too much about meaningless things, which is admittedly more likely.

During their set their photographer was flitting about in front of the stage, taking pictures with a digital camera. After they were done, he came up to me and asked me how I the group, which act I came to see, and so on. Y'know, it's taken me a long time, but I finally recognize flirting when I hear it. He even offered to buy me a drink, which is new one. (For me.) I politely declined, of course. I've also put two and two together and worked out that it's bound to happen when in an environment like that while in full battle gear. Part of me would like to think it says something about my overall presentation—especially since I hadn't shaved that day—but there are greater forces at work.

He was strangely familiar, though, and it took me a while to nail it: he was a dead ringer for B.D. Trade in the King Crimson ball cap for AC/DC and it would be perfect.

The next act was Noe Venable, a cute guitarist with a violin and upright bass for backup. Can't go wrong with that combo. I felt rather sorry for her, having to come on with her relatively quiet sound after the considerably higher-energy Rube Waddell; indeed, there was some booing when the venue didn't let the first group do an encore. She was facing some bad audience mojo, including things being thrown at her. Well, one thing, and I'm not sure what it was, besides extremely rude. But one of her songs was about feral cats (she noticed my spontaneous applause at that) and another, more of a spoken word piece, involved the cool stuff you can find at Walgreen's around Halloween. Oh my yes.

After her set, apropos of nothing, I realized I'd committed a driving sin: I was parked on Van Ness, but hadn't looked at the street cleaning signs. What if it was midnight to 2am on Fridays, or worse, every day? And didn't it become a towaway zone? Indeed, wasn't that why I'd walked back to the car and moved it into the Hilton's parking garage before dropping the acid at Orky's that night? Because it would get towed otherwise?

Paranoid as hell, imagining walking back after the show to where I parked and finding the car long gone, I very nearly left. Better to miss the main act than have to take the bus home and pay what would probably be a few hundred dollars to get the car back because I didn't pay enough attention. (In spite of the tendency of most drivers in town to characterize DPT employees as Nazis—or, as many of those people are apostrophe abusers who also have a hard time with "lose" and "ridiculous," Nazi's—as far as I'm concerned they're just doing their job. If I get ticketed or worse, it's my responsibility. It's almost as bad as the Netflix ads which make it sound like getting late fees is an inevitable fact of renting from a video store. It isn't, if you pay the slightest bit of attention to the when the movie is due back. I don't rent movies when returning them on time will be impractical, but maybe that's a special bit of wisdom gleaned from working on the other side of the counter. Anyway, I'm digressing like a mad dog here.) Instead, I put it out of my mind. I've parked late out there before for concerts and movies; I wasn't going to get towed. At worst, I'd get ticketed. Not so bad. $35, at the most. It would suck, but be better than getting towed, and neither were all that likely. I didn't let myself worry about it, and was thankful that I wasn't stoned. The anxiety would have killed me.

Anyway, The Billy Nayer Show. As I'd related to the gracious photographer earlier, I'd never seen them before. I'd never heard of them before I saw The American Astronaut, which I'd loved and was for all intents and purposes their movie. Leader Cory McAbee wrote, directed and starred in it, and of course the band did the music. The rest of the audience were clearly longtime fans, though (longtime fans who couldn't get a clear look because of the overtall newbie standing in front), singing along, recognizing songs from the first chords, and throwing bunnies at appropriate moments.

The first moment was early on; marshmallow bunnies, what those crazy kids these days like to call peeps (although Cory apparently hadn't heard that term) both in the box and out. It was clearly a reference to something, but I hadn't the foggiest idea what. Which I actually kinda liked; I've been in the middle of esoteric things before, almost always in on the joke, and it was interesting seeing a cult from the outside. As it were.

The stuffed bunnies didn't appear until the first encore. About a verse into "Mr. Satan Butterwolf" (or, as it read on the setlist I'd been keeping an eye on, "Mr. SBW"), the bunnies were launched from somewhere in the middle of the crowd. About a dozen of them, all sorts of different styles, probably from the post-Easter clearance tables in stores all over the city. People would catch or pick them up and toss them back up in the air, the effect being not unlike a hot air popper filled with...well, stuffed bunnies. It must have been quite a sight from the stage, as Cory stopped the song and never resumed it, a look of amazement on his face. I guess it was a first for him, too. He thanked the audience for doing it and warned people to watch out for the sharp edges on the bunnies.

For the record, I didn't get one. When the show finally ended, there were a few in my immediate vicinity, but none that I liked. The one I wanted (coincidentally resembling Thumper) was snagged before I could, and the rest were just too creepy, too Eastery. A souvenir's one thing, but what's the point if it gives you nightmares?

When someone in the audience when they'll be making another movie, Cory said he has a script ready to go—Werewolf Hunters of the Midwest, which I already like the sound of—but that it'll probably take seven years to get made. God, the system sucks.

The show ended at about quarter past midnight, and after making my way to Noe's merchandise table to pick up a CD (I always feel guilty if I don't buy one at these kinds of shows, and they're usually fairly cheap), I ventured out into the world to see if I'd have to take the bus home. My car was still there, unticketed, and being after midnight on Friday Over the Edge was on KPFA for the drive home. All things considered, not a bad night.

4:53pm

I'm in entirely too good a mood right now. This is dangerous. The crash is always bad.

sometime after midnight

After getting four hours of sleep last night, what do I do? Accept an offer from Pike to go to San Rafael with him and his boyfriend tonight to see Jonathan Richman. Madeline again sat this one out but encouraged me to go. Probably just as well; she would have been saddened by Jojo's condition—he was obviously ill. The usual energy level just wasn't there. Heck, there were even pauses between songs, which is never a good sign. Still, it's always nice to see Jonathan, even if he didn't do "Vampire Girl."

My mother and I moved a lot within Fresno when I was a teenager, and in 1988 we found ourselves back in the condo we'd originally moved into after leaving our old house in 1983. Barefoot and some of his friends had been living in the condo, and when they moved out they left behind some local concert posters on the walls. There was one of a 1985 R.E.M. show, a 1976 Grateful Dead concert, and a Jonathan Richman show, all in Fresno. I knew who the first two were because of my brothers, though I was unfamiliar with the third, and that may account for why I don't have it anymore. Kinda wish I did. (Not to mention I could probably sell the Grateful Dead poster on eBay if I wanted to...)

Speaking of the Addams Family (which I wasn't, really), a note to hecklers: calling a goth "Morticia" is not only unoriginal, it isn't even particularly insulting. The same goes for the "Beetlejuice" comments. Nice try, though.

6:09pm

I was in the middle of wrestling with cross-browser issues at about half past three when Lew told me about an impromptu meeting. It turned out to be the equivalent of a group hug for all the swell work we've been doing (and somehow related to some big bicoastal—heh heh heh, "bicoastal"—sales meeting thing going on), involving commemorative engraved glasses which were then partially filled with champagne, which I turned down owing to the fact that I didn't drink. In fact, I didn't even unwrap the glass from its womb of paper, resulting in a tad of awkwardness when the inevitable toast and clinking of glasses (which, in spite of said inevitability, I didn't see coming) occurred. The workday was then officially declared over, with a group jaunt to a nearby bar announced. I saw it as an opportunity to get home before the afternoon Muni rush, and took it. I doubt anyone was surprised, since I was never much the social creature before, particularly where alcohol is involved. Part of me is worried that my antisociability today will affect how much longer I remain with the company. I know it doesn't work that way, but that doesn't help.

Besides, I'm seeing The Billy Nayer Show at the Great American Music Hall tonight. That's a good excuse.

sometime after midnight

Stuffed bunnies flying through the air. Really, what more does a good concert need?