Oh well. Maybe today will be the day the Boss takes me to lunch. He suggested it yesterday after we talked for a bit. I told him that I was really happy with my job (true), that I haven't felt this comfortable with a job since CNET (also true), and that I'd like to be involved with the company's online teevee program The Tim and Roma! Show (true as well). He seemed impressed by my own radio and teevee work, or at least vaguely curious about it, and also intrigued that I know how to get a show on public access. Hell, there's even an open slot after kittypr0n. I like the idea of our silly little cat show being followed by an even sillier though more ambitious talk show about gay pr0n.

Anyway, he said we'd have lunch sometime this week with one of the producers of the show and talk about it. Neat. Hope that actually happens. I have a few ideas of my own, mostly involving bringing more a tranny element to the show; it mostly focuses on gay pr0n, as does the company itself, but we do offer a handful of tranny movies, some of which are better than they look. (Just say that you're of age, and it'll take you to the proper page.) (Oh, and it isn't exactly safe for work.) Yes, co-host Roma! is a Sister of Perpetual Indulgence, but that doesn't count.

Being an unrepentant stage whore, I do hope to get on camera. With my luck, though, I'll probably end up interviewing twinks.

For the benefit of my curious Canadian reader (no, not you, the other one), the best definition of "twink" at urbandictionary.com is as follows:

An attractive, boyish-looking, young gay man. The stereotypical twink is 18-22, slender with little or no body hair, often blonde, dresses in club wear even at 10:00 AM, and is not particularly intelligent. A twink is the gay answer to the blonde bimbo cheerleader.

As has been established before, I'm not attracted to boys, nor excessive masculinity. I find some butch dykes attractive, but very few F2Ms. (M2Fs don't do much for me, either, which is odd considering how narcissistic my sense of attraction can be. I'm just not into other trannies.) So, you'd think that the more masculine a man is, the less aesthetically pleasing I'd find them, right?

Instead, it's the least masculine ones who squick me out the most, combined with the "barely legal" aspect—I've never fetishized youth, and find the quasi-pedophilic aspect to be more than a little creepy. Big, bearded muscle men? Sure, fine. I don't find them attractive, but they're pleasant enough to look at. Big, bearded muscle men with hairy chests? That's cool. It takes all kinds. Comparatively normal-looking if still well-toned men? Right on. Guys who, though eighteen or over, appear to be smooth young bois not a day over fourteen? Ew! Ick ick ick! That is so wrong!

Take this guy. (Please!) (Ha! I slay me...) Don't you just want to slap that face and tell him to shut the fuck up before he even opens his mouth? Oh, I'm sure in reality he's probably a very sweet and intelligent guy who values his brain even more than his cock, but that picture just screams vapid. I doubt he would use that word, though. Too many syllables.

It's intellectual snobbery as much as anything else. A recurring theme about twinks is that they're not too quick upstairs, and few things annoy me like airheadedness, especially combined with the sense that you don't have to be intelligent when you look good. It's been a bit of an internal conflict in my very occasional modeling work, the fear of being seen as nothing but a pretty face, or at least a tall mannequin. That I can think is also very important to me, and that has to come first. (I even lost some friends because I thought out loud about one particular shoot.)

In retrospect, the guy at CNET I used to call The Fidget Queen was a major twink. Maybe that's what it is, that I'm being reminded of him. My distaste for twinks existed long before I knew what they were called.

3:55pm

Today was not the day I got taken to lunch.

I fux0red my car yesterday. Fux0red it even more, anyway. There were no injuries and it still runs fine, but the passenger side door looks like hell. Long story short, I misjudged the distance between me and a parked, junky truck when I was trying to get out of the way of an oncoming ambulance. As I say, there were no injuries, and I don't think the truck even felt it. Crumpled the passenger door like the cheap piece of tin it is, though. Miracle of miracles, it still opens. That's what matters, even if water will probably get in during heavy rain.

At Petco, I had to tell the clerk several times how to spell my last name. No matter how slowly and clearly I spelled it aloud, he could not grasp that the E goes between the Ns and the Ls, not after the L. He even snarked at me one at one point that he had spelled it correctly. Pretty sure he called me "sir" at one point, too. My voice probably deepens when I get agitated.

It was pretty bad evening until Collette picked me up to go see the cats. Then it got much better.

Jim finished my new computer last night. It wasn't ready to go until nearly midnight, so I was up until about half past one futzing with it. That's okay, though. Jim tells me it's a (you should pardon the word) macho system, fast and powerful. I think I'm going to like it.

Jim certainly grew attached to it as he put it together, and he was almost sad when I took it out to my car, saying it felt more like an adoption than anything else.

Speaking of adoptions, Collette is taking me on Wednesday night to see some adult cats at a foster home. There's one in particular she's enthusiastic about, a female black shorthair with (count 'em) seven toes on each paw. How cool is that? I'm still a little bummed that the first cat she'd told me about, another black shorthair who'd recently given birth, ended up being adopted by the foster parents in spite of the fact that I was told I'd have first dibs. Alas. Them's the brakes, and it makes sense that the foster homes would have the right to first adoption, so it's not like I'm angry or anything. At least I never met the cat, so it could have been worse.

Seven toes per foot means upwards of twenty-eight claws. I don't like the sound of that, and I may exercise my right as the autonomous independent human being who makes the decisions regarding the health and welfare of the cat. Something tells me a lot of people are going to be upset with me. I can live with that. They can act according to their conscience, I'll act according to mine, and the twain need never meet.

If I don't hit it off with any of the cats tomorrow, Maddy's been encouraging to strongly consider adopting this cat, which is currently being held at a high kill shelter. (Many are, you know. Animals are put down every day. Some are even eventually consumed, like the duck and crab we ate the other night.) I think I'd have to change her name, though. It would just be too weird otherwise.

Friday night was spent transcribing and editing the Poppy interview. I shot it off to her when I was done, and she had a few minor editorial corrections and found several typos. How embarrassing. I'd like to think it was because I was in a hurry, but I still find typos in chapbooks. I'm just a tard, is all.

Got a haircut on Saturday morning. For as much as I'm looking forward to being entirely blonde—probably by the end of the year—I do like the Terri Nunn thing my hair is doing in the meantime. Almost looks intentional.

I'd hoped to work on the Wicked Messenger piece when I got home, but found myself cleaning the apartment instead. It still needs it. While far from a disaster since the move-out, it's just disorganized enough as to discourage any concerted full-on cleaning attempt. Rather, I find I have to approach from the side, from behind, a little bit here and there. Otherwise, the mental pushback too severe.

That evening, Collette and I went to a party at Temple's place in Oakland, the converted warehouse I helped her move into several months back. First time I've been since then, and Collette's first time there at all. Oddly, it was their first time meeting each other, in spite of mutual friends and...other things. Imani was also present. It was nice to hang out with her for a while, as we manage to do once or twice a year.

One of the highest points of the evening was a performance/ritual by One People's Voice, a Balinese-style processional orchestra and chant troupe. Attempting to do it adequate justice with my limited grasp of words would be pointless, so I won't try.

The Green Fairy was also in attendance, but, well, I still had to drive us back to The City, not to mention I had places to be on Sunday. (Note to self: never make plans for the day after a party at Temple's.)

The first place I had to be was Unimatrix Zero, to color Maddy's hair. I wasn't exactly looking forward to it, and came close to bailing entirely, but I went ahead and did it. I'm glad. I think I'm finally getting the hang of it, and the natural light flooding her apartment makes the job much more precise than the kitchen light of the Cozycave. That it felt more like I was doing it as a favor than as an obligation helped, too.

At five, I had an interview in the Richmond for a catsitting gig. Collette had tipped me off to an ad they'd put up at her veterinary office, and I've been talking with them on the phone on and off ever since. They seemed to like me well enough in person, and I passed the pilling pop quiz which I knew was going to happen but still hoped wouldn't.

They're now double and triple-checking my references, including my employment status. I elected to focus on the web design aspect of the company rather than pr0n. Just seemed prudent. If I get the job, it would be for three weeks, feeding and pilling a couple cats. I'm getting paid less than the standard wage for this sort of thing, but it's a start, especially if they like me and recommend me to their friends. That's what I'm hoping will happen, anyway. I owe a lot of people a lot of money.

Afterwards, Maddy and I had dinner together. We had various meats (Salted Crispy Duck and Crab Snowed with Fried Garlic) at a Taiwanese restaurant she'd gone to the previous week while Poppy was in town. While I was invited to join in that meal, I'd bailed at the last minute. Snarkiness had passed between Maddy and I, and I'd realized that I had the right to just walk away, something I could never do before. I wanted to hang out with Poppy, but we were going to be at table (or two) with eight other people, so it's not like it would have been anything resembling intimate. Instead, I ended up having a much more intimate meal with Collette at a Thai place. I was still helping Maddy move out at that point, and we were doing okay the following day until she saw the fading evidence on my neck of a dalliance with a friend. Her reaction was a tad...extreme. She agrees wholeheartedly, and is deeply embarrassed about it.

That all seemed very far away last night, though. It's only been a month, and there's certainly still a lot of pain waiting down the road, but it could all be a lot worse.

I recorded the interview with Poppy yesterday onto the voicemail of an office phone, then brought in a little tape recorder to transfer it to mobile form so I can transcribe it at home, rather than at the office with the phone between my neck and shoulder. Gosh, but I'm clever.

In spite of the fact that she originally asked me a month ago (and the original deadline was February), Tina would still like me to submit a piece about Wicked Messenger for her book. Wow. Makes me wish I'd been working on it since then, but it kinda fell by the wayside when I broke up with Maddy, as most of my creative endeavors did. Time to pick them back up.

To that end, I'm planning on applying to AIRSpace, the residency program at the Jon Sims Center. I really need to move forward with my writing and performing (what I so pretentiously refer to as my art), and this seems like the perfect next step.

5:28pm

So I was in the Inner Sunset picking up sushi which I couldn't justify financially yet couldn't talk myself out (is it truly comfort food if isn't ill-advised?) when I saw a flyer for a local R.E.M. tribute band called Chronic Town. The show in question is on a night I'm already busy, but I simply must see them someday. It also got me to thinking about something that's been in the back of my mind for a while now. The Craigslist ad would go something like this:

Marilyn Manson Wannabe Seeks Co-Conspirators
Goth tranny with no descernible musical talent but a striking stage presence and an unabashed love for Marilyn Manson seeks like-minded (and more musically inclined) individuals to back me in a tribute band in honor of the aforementioned pop culture icon. I'm blonde and staying that way, so a slavish imitation of the visual image is not nearly as important as capturing the spirit and having a good time doing it. Of course, being erroneously blamed for a school shooting would be a sign that we're doing something right. Are you my Twiggy? (Will also consider Madonna, Gidget, Daisy or even Ginger. You gotta start somewhere.) (If you don't know what the hell I'm talking about, you need not apply.)

The interview went okay. I was utterly unprepared—most of my nonexistent prep time was spent trying to figure out how to record the phone call while actually getting some of my work done—and my mind has a tendency to draw blanks at the worst moments. Thankfully, I have both a couple weeks to get it turned as well as Poppy's home number, so I should be able to squeeze out six hundred decent words.

Funny how your life can change on dime, though. Not that doing a glorified sidebar of an interview with Poppy is a life-changing experience, but hopefully this means I have a foot in the door at Girlfriends. That would be a very good thing.

2:42pm

note to self: don't open up.