Though a lot of people (including myself) were expecting it to be a bigger hit, the fact that The Real Cancun only grossed 2.3 million over the weekend does nothing to restore my faith in American mainstream pop culture, especially when I consider it made because of the success of jackass: the movie. Besides, even a gross of "only" 2.3 million, at an average ticket price of seven dollars (a conservative estimate on my part), that's over a hundred thousand people a day who paid to see body shots and wet t-shirt contests. God Bless America! We fuckin' rule! Take that, Osama!

sometime after midnight

i'm tired of dying for your fuckin' sins

Both my endocrinologist and electrologist recently moved into a new office, sharing a building with a chiropractor. (From the street, the shape of the building reminds me of Deep Thought from the BBC series of Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.) I get the impression that the chiropractor was there first, and the decor more reflects her aesthetics than my endoc's. Which is fine, except that she evidently has a fondness for Warner Bros. cartoons, and as a result there are limited edition prints of various characters scattered throughout the office. In the bathroom, there's one of Bugs Bunny in drag, with a blonde wig and red lipstick in full pucker mode. I'm sure you remember from growing up just like I do. Y'know, it can be hard enough to maintain some modicum of dignity as a tranny without having to be reminded at your freakin' endocrinologist's office, a place which should be safe and reassuring, of how much of a joke the mainstream world considers the crossing of gender to be, that for most people it's played for laughs and/or humiliation. Then again, in the waiting room of the old office was a framed poster for The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, and while I could certainly pick nits with the way Bernadette was portrayed (sometimes I wonder if Terence Stamp cast because he has such a deeply butch voice), I consider it to be a generally positive movie. Maybe other people don't, or don't think the Bugs Bunny thing is any big deal. So I don't know.

What I do know is that I have a new definition of discomfort: nose-hair electrolysis. OwOwOwOwOW. Great holy Jesus Fuck but it hurts. It may be as close as electrolysis gets to pure electrocution, since the nose is just a relatively thin piece of cartilage, compared to the the face or neck which at least have muscle and nearby bone and surface area in general to absorb the voltage. (I'm nothing resembling an expert in the actual mechanics of these things, mind you, but there must be some reason why it feels so much more intense than elsewhere.) My reaction to it was wholly involuntary, with an order of magnitude more clutching and grimacing and brow-furrowing than usual. Except that I somehow managed to remain quiet (I think), I must have looked not unlike Nicholson in the electroshock scene in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.

I didn't even realize how tightly I was holding my eyes shut until I slightly loosened my lids and a tear rolled down the side of my face. I'd had no idea it was there, and it was followed by a few more, all from my right eye. Thu-Minh kindly wiped my face without saying a word; I think she's probably gotten to know me well enough to know that I was slightly embarrassed.

It's been quite a while since I've cried, and the old comforting sensation of the tears running down my face was dangerous; I was just emotionally drained enough that if I didn't keep certain thoughts out of my head, I would have cried more right then and there. It would have felt good, and might have even been healthy. But it was not the time or place, and somehow, I managed to keep it together.

I didn't ask, but I wonder how it compares painwise to genital electrolysis, which is strongly recommended before SRS. Ignoring for the moment that there were maybe a half dozen visible hairs at most to get in my nostrils, I'm guessing doing the nose is probably worse. The outside of the scrotum is practically sensationless, after all, and it's not like there's hair on the tip of the penis. Well, not on mine, thankfully.

Since I never complained about how much it all hurt, they kept referring to me as brave. I don't feel it. Brave would have been if I'd done this ten years ago. This feels more like making up for being a coward back when it would have really mattered.

They did get between my eyebrows, and the outer edges as well. Much better now.

I didn't post yesterday because I was dead.

Well, sorta. The afternoon was spent at a shoot for the author and publicity stills for (e)'s new book. Much of it involved lying dead in an industrial wasteland, sometimes in less than comfortable positions and usually at least partially intertwined with at least one other person (or, in (e)'s case, her hair). It was the most fun I've had in a long time—not least because it was nice to actually spend more than just a few minutes with Shauna, Lauren, Susan and Claude—and very satisfying, because the pictures are going to turn out great. Since the rest of us were dressed like blac bloc members (head to toe in black, with only our eyes showing) we won't be recognizable, but that's way it should be. (e) was-slash-is the rock star. Maddy elected not to be in front of the camera, and instead took on the equally if not more important job of holding the reflector, and as such is going to be partially responsible for how the pictures turn out. Which is going to be fookin' great.

In spite of what probably looked like relatively little energy expended, by the time it was over I was exhausted. I briefly considered claiming geez0rness and bowing out of that evening's party at Isotope, but after getting something to eat my energy level perked up a bit (funny how that works), so we went. In spite of an odd look from Maddy, I changed clothes first, out ot the jeans and black turtleneck I'd been wearing for the shoot into something a little more party-esque—pretty much what I'd worn to the Dirty Three show the night before. After all, I figured there wouldn't be anyone the party who'd been at the show. (As usual, I figured wrong.)

It wasn't until we got to Isotope that we remembered that it was in fact a tiki party, damnit, and what I was wearing was not only quite untikian, it didn't even lend itself to a lei. Using the fact that we forgot our digital camera as the primary excuse, I went back home (a five-minute drive at that time of night) and changed into my Anya dress, complete with pink fishnets. Judging by the reaction when I returned, the wardrobe change was a hit. Unfortunately, the person whom I'd hoped would still be there when I got back had already left. It's yet another Le Video coworker; I've seen him here and there around town over the last couple years, and he was in Isotope on Thursday night, though I didn't speak to him then since I was dressed down and was suddenly self-conscious of the fact. I figured that a pink and orange dress with pink fishnets, a lei and a flower in my hair is about as different as I could possibly look from the old days, thus making it the perfect opportunity to approach him and reintroduce myself, perhaps by telling him that the beret I'd been wearing earlier in the evening had belonged to our old coworker Pandora. Alas. We stayed at the party until after four, not bad considering how I'd felt earlier in the evening.

So, Friday night. Written on the piece of notebook paper which I'd thoughtfully put in my lunchbox (no timestamps because I forgot my watch):

4/25/03

I'm in line outside the Great American Music Hall, standing next to the door of the hotel Danielle Willis was living in when I took her to ForWord Girls last September. Someone walks up to the door, presses a few buttons, and waits. Finally: "Haaaaaaallloooo?" "Let me in." "Whaaaaaaat?" "Open the door so I can come in." "Ohhhhhhh." The creepy part is, I'm damn near positive it's the voice of the very person Danielle was staying with, a slow, stretched-out drawl which is more scary and powerful to me than a hundred eggs breaking in frying pans. Either it's the same person, which is possible, or the hotel is home to more than one methadone addict, which is also possible.
----
I had a hunch she'd be coming back. It was the look she gave me on the first pass, which seemed to say i know you. And she did, more or less, pegging me as a Dirty Three fan amongst what felt to me more like a Cat Power crowd. (I wonder if it'll be like the Bridge Benefit years when Pearl Jam played, and the crowd will thin out after Cat Power's set.) She asked me who I'd come to specifically to see, if I'd ever seen them before, how long I've been a fan, and so on. She seemed satisfied with my answers, and said she was working on a documentary about The Dirty Three, and that if I didn't mind, she'd look for me inside and take me to the Interview Room. I didn't mind at all. The woman standing behind me in line said I sounded very articulate, which was reassuring. I guess it means I won't be staking out a position in front of the stage after all. It'll be worth it, though. Of course, I haven't shaved in a couple days, but what the hell.
----
I actually think it went pretty well. I didn't say "um" a lot or stumble over too many words, and the majority of my thoughts seemed to have a beginning, middle and end. The interviewer (not the woman who'd originally spoken to me outside asked me to expand on some thoughts, which I'm taking to be a good sign, that I said some things which weren't completely idiotic. I took my glasses off beforehand, since I knew that if I didn't, if I ever saw the finished product I'll wish I had.

Interestingly, they didn't ask me much about my feelings about the group so much as the venue and how I decide what shows to see. (that most basic simplicity is beyond my potential) I also kept my jacket on, though it was open so hopefully the Good Vibes logo will show. When the movie is finally released (as a DVD through the band's label, I'm told), I should lurk on fan mailing lists and message boards to see if anyone speculates on the gender of the odd interviewee with the uneven bangs and entirely too much eyeshadow.
----
...tall and immaculate, perfect in the way only people like them are. Thank you, Tristan, for that most beautiful lie.
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This is wrong of me. I should not be standing right here. I did not ask to be this size, but just because it isn't my fault doesn't mean it isn't my responsibility.
----
What is my place? Do I have a purpose, a function?
----
I can't turn around. I don't like what I'll see. It hurts too much. Good god, but I'm a freak. What the hell is wrong with me? Does a rational being truly behave this way? I can only imagine what it's like to look into the faces of humanity and see yourself reflected back. I don't. I only ever see what am not. I have no precedent and will not be an antecedent. I am unique in a world which demands, craves, rewards conformity.

The woman standing behind me in line graciously offered to save me a place in front of the stage if I was in back being interviewed when Cat Power began, which was exactly what happened. I'd been given the option of cutting the interview short, but I decided to continue, though I missed a couple of the songs I'd wanted to hear. No biggie. As I signed the release form, I noticed that the person they'd interviewed before me was Jonathan Richman. Good company, indeed.

When I emerged from backstage, the front was too crowded for me to feel comfortable wading through, so I wandered around a bit during Cat Power's set. She made it all the way through without a breakdown, which isn't always the case. Sometimes it's because people are heckling her, trying to make it happen. I just don't get people sometimes.

The Dirty Three were fantastic. I've never seen a violinist come off so much like a rock star, and damn, it worked. My linemate left after Cat Power, and I took her place at the front of the stage. Not actually the best idea. In addition to feeling guilty about blocking the view of the people behind me, after a while the extremely hard floor started making my back hurt. I left the front of the stage a few songs before the end and found a patch of wall to sit down against. By the encore, I was back up on my feet and dancing in a carpeted area relatively free of people. I'll just go straight there next time.

4:58pm

I'm getting zapped tomorrow, and I really need to remember to ask them to get between my eyebrows. It's getting bad up there.

While we were taping Ripley yesterday, a customer said to us "Lemme guess: this will be going up on your website tonight." When we told him that it was for our public access teevee show, he said, "What's public access?" Y'know, I'll admit to being a big huge snob—one of the things that's making me the most nervous about the trip to the Midwest is that Maddy's sister and brother-in-law are teevee junkies, so I'll probably be forced to endure jackass again—but, please. For all the people who we've talked to about the show who don't have cable or even a set (and they are legion), not one of them has been unfamiliar with the concept of public access. Needless to say, it was quite annoying. Fine, fine, you're even more above it all than we are. Good for you.

I'm going to see The Dirty Three and Cat Power at the Great American Music Hall tonight. When I originally bought the ticket a couple months back it was just The Dirty Three, and when Cat Power was later added to the bill the price was raised and the show quickly sold out. (The cheaper ticket I bought is still good.) While I am interested in seeing Cat Power—Chan Mitchell's music appeals to the hypersensitive fourteen year-old girl in me the same way that Alanis or Natalie Merchant do, and I say that unapologetically—I'm kinda bummed about it, too. I'd been looking forward to what I hoped would be a low-key, non-capacity crowd, as opposed to the packed house it'll surely be. Alas. I'm sure I'll enjoy it all the same.

sometime after midnight

Getting ready to go out tonight took longer than it should have, mainly due to indecision on my part. I started out in a long black velvet dress with blue and black stripeys; then I changed to that dress with red and black stripeys; then those stripeys with the black half-slip of Maddy's which has evidently become My Favorite Skirt and my Good Vibrations baby tee over a fishnet shirt; then an Emily Strange tank top over that same fishnet shirt; and finally the Good Vibrations baby tee over a red and black stripey-armed top, with the aforementioned skirt and stripeys. Not, I reckoned, that it really mattered.

I bought the wrong kind of foundation the other day, a similarly shaped liquid-based one as opposed to the powder kind I usually get. The tone is correct (ivory, 'cuz I'm so goth it makes my elbows bleed), but the texture is considerably different. It didn't strike me until I opened up the package today, so it was too late to take it back. There was still a little bit of the old stuff left, but what the hell, I figured. Wouldn't hurt to try something new, especially in tandem with the new shade of lipstick I bought in a fit of intentional adventurousness. And if the experiment failed, no big deal. I was going to a relatively dark place, and it wasn't as though anyone would be looking that closely at me, right?

For as nice as just staying home and recuperating sounded, the outside world beckoned. We swung by Tristan's store to have him sign a copy of his comic book How Loathsome (already signed by collaborator Ted the night before) for us to send to Danielle Willis, who was one of the inspirations for the main character Catherine. From there, it was to the post office to mail the comic to Danielle, and then to Borderlands Books to tape the resident cat Ripley for kittypr0n. We'd had plans to do so ever since SpookyCon back in January, but, us being us, it took this long to get it together. I think we got some good stuff, and Ripley will be our first hairless cat on the show.

Afterwards, we went back to Tristan's store. (Okay, yes, I'm almost thirty and hanging around in comic book stores. By some definitions, that's a cry for help. But I'm videotaping cats, too! Isn't that healthy?) I confirmed with him something Ted had asked me the night before: the possibility of modeling for the cover of How Loathsome #4 as Chloe, the primary tranny and object of Catherine's desire. Complete with a blond wig. While I take no small amount of pride in the fact that I've never worn a wig, I've always been curious about how I'd look with blond hair, and this is the very definition of a good cause. As with the other covers it would be a photo which Ted would then draw over, so it wouldn't really be recognizable as me. But that's okay.

When Ted originally suggested it I was positively thrilled by the idea, but I refused to get my hopes up, especially for something which falls so firmly into the "too good to be true" category. Besides, it's always prudent to doublecheck good news, so I wanted to make sure Tristan was on the same page. (I had no reason to think he would be opposed to the idea, but, again, I wanted to be sure.) He had in fact already discussed it with Ted and was all for it. My answer, of course, was a resounding ohmygodyesyesyespleasethankyousoveryverymuch, shortened for oral communication purposes as "yes." Gotta keep up the cool exterior, you see. In truth, the thought of it is giving me a mild but extremely pleasant buzz which I can only hope will last for a while.

Which is why I'm not remotely suprised to read the comments of a Republican senator from Pennsylvania who supports sodomy laws under the guise of "protecting the family" and subtly puts bestiality on the same level as homosexuality. I can't help thinking there's more people out there like him than we realize. And even if he's in a minority, which I doubt, he still has a lot more power than the rest of us. So, as I say, there's no surprise factor at all. Is it worth being outraged about? Sure. But is it an outrage? Not really.

It's also a safety issue. I can use women's restrooms in San Francisco and even Fresno with nary a second look, but you can't be too careful in Omaha, Nebraska. I'm pretty confident, though, and that's the key: if you look like you believe you belong, then most people won't think any differently. (Does that make any sense at all? I doubt it.)

Of course, no matter how much work I have done, I'll probably never play Sally Bowles in Cabaret. Still, dare to dream and all.

It was a good weekend, though, starting with getting a new coat. A used coat, actually, the faux-fur-trimmed vinyl one of Dax's which I was coveting at the Penis Flytrap show back in January. She got a new jacket, and, as promised, gave me her old one. (Having grown up the youngest of four boys, I'm not unaccustomed to hand-me-downs, although this is like finally having a sister. A younger sister, perhaps, but pick pick.) I love it so very much. It's kinda on the falling-apart side, but I don't mind. It's exactly what I needed, especially after an unsuccessful attempt earlier in the week to find bondage pants that fit properly at Hot Topic (I know, I know). It looks good on me, and makes me feel like I'm almost real.

Later that evening we out for Indian food with Ashton, Shrike and Ladybug, hung out for a while back at the apartment (Mina actually made an appearance and let Ashton pet her), then went to Ggreg Taylor's monthly big gay bonfire on the beach. It was very cold and windy, but damnit, it was a big gay bonfire on the beach. Do I live in San Francisco for a reason or do I not?

Of course, gathering with fellow sodomites on the beach isn't the only reason to live in this city. (It occurs to me that of all my friends who have moved away over the last couple years, invariably while making loud noises about how much San Francisco sucks, not a one of them has been queer. Oh, they may have had their dalliances in the past, but otherwise, they were in straight relationships. I don't know if there's a connection there or not.) (And Charlie and Annalee don't count, since they moved for Annalee's work and are coming back soon.) Another is the existence of such things as my beloved Wave Organ, to which I took Maddy on Saturday afternoon. She appreciated it greatly, and wants to go back.

Though we stayed at the Wave Organ for a couple hours, we weren't quite ready to go home, so we went to Fort Point, under the Golden Gate Bridge. I hadn't been there since my first time visiting San Francisco on a fifth grade field trip, and perhaps most importantly, it's where Kim Novak threw herself into the bay in Vertigo. While the view was lovely and it was neat watching the parasailers do their thing, the presence of the army guys with machine guns was disconcerting. Even more disconcerting was the fact that tourists were having their picture taken with them. There's no doubt in my mind that they were there not so much to protect the bridge as they were for photo opportunities and generate valuable PR for the burgeoning military state. Of course, I'm a commie pinko rat, which is why my heart isn't warmed when I see a small child on the shoulders on a man carrying a weapon designed for mass murder. Just goes to show how bad I am at supporting the troops.

After a day of enjoying nature, it was only fitting that I close it out urban-style at Craig Baldwin's Other Cinema series at the Artists' Television Access, a place I don't go to nearly enough. The program was "Incredibly Strange Religion," which in and of itself would have been enough to get me there—I went in '98 and loved it—but the real heroin was Kenneth Anger's new short film, the Crowley arftest The Man We Want to Hang. I got the impression that the rest of the audience didn't quite know what to make of it—its tone was considerably different from the rest of the show, and not many people are familiar with Anger's work—but to me, it was bliss. On that note, his movies are finally going to be released on DVD. This makes me happy.

Sunday afternoon was spent at the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence's big Easter picnic shindig in Dolores Park, which we didn't even know about until (e) casually mentioned it while her and I were chatting that morning. Maddy and I hadn't been there five minutes before we were spotted by Kelly Crumrin, who invited us to join her camp. Then came Shrike and her entourage, and it all kinda grew. Which was nice. It's how these things should be. There's little better than hanging out with your friends, regardless of the exact circumstances, though I suppose on a blanket in Dolores Park beats a jail cell. (Really, I like Dolores Park better than that makes it sound.) We also saw Sister Edith Myflesh for the first time since she became a full-fledged Sister last December. The whiteface becomes her, I must say. After the picnic, Maddy and I had an all-too-brief (but better than not at all) drink at the Lexington with (e), ate dinner at the Baghdad Cafe, and gave a homeless woman a blanket we've been carrying around in the trunk.

So, you see, I'm pretty much alive.