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Friday, 10 August 2001 (blood and electronics) 9:03am "Honey! Honey! Over by the window! I love the stripes!"
Great. I pass to wild-eyed, stinky homeless guys on the train. There's an ego-boost.
(Yeah, yeah, I know, beggars and choosers.)
And, as I suspected, I hate being called "Honey" by strangers. Probably because that's what my
father used to call waitresses. Or was it "Darlin'?"
I don't suppose it's quite what Roosevelt had in mind.
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Thursday, 9 August 2001 (constant shallowness leads to evil) 10:23am It's difficult (at best) being good, but we're trying. Having no appointments after work or anything else compelling us to drive, we took the train this morning. As it was pulling up in front of us, a woman standing behind us dashed forward and cut ahead of us. I don't know, maybe it's because she had a fastpass and we were paying cash, so she figured she shouldn't have to wait for us. I don't know. It's just interesting how you have to deal with that sort of thing regardless of your mode of transportation. I still wonder, though, if that sort of thing is cultural (my eternal culprit, America), or just human. Pandora once told me that in Scotland, people waiting for the bus actually stand, and remain in, lines, as opposed to the mob effect usually employed over here. Which in turn reminds me of some of the propaganda my Spanish teacher in high school used to serve us about Spanish-speaking countries. Don't get me wrong, she was a very sweet lady, overall I enjoyed the class and I really wish I'd continued studying the language after completing my required two years of a foreign language. (I'll never understand why some of my friends took French instead. It's not like Fresno had anything resembling a French-speakng population. Then again, maybe I was being overly pragmatic.) One of them was that everyone, as a rule, says hello to one another on the streets. Period, no matter what, courtesy was the rule. Much of the class, jaded if multiethnic young Americans that we were, laughed at that very concept. Even now it seems a little improbable, in spite of a drawing in the textbook showing it in action, an illustration of a cafe where nobody's getting anything done because they're too busy greeting every one in sight.
She also once insisted that there were no homosexuals—or, as she put it with a slight twinge
of disgust, "The men who put on makeup." (Presumably the wealth of bad drag humor to be found
on Univision any given evening doesn't quite count.) It's not surprising that these are the
sorts of things I remember.
Anyway, on Monday I looked closely at a ticket on the car—it's not for being on
the wrong side of the street during cleaning, it's because they haven't bothered to
renew the registration. Since March. Oh, I had myself a hearty laugh over that one,
lemme tell ya. Unless this is the only ticket they've received it surely would have
been cheaper to just pay the registration fee in the first place, and if they weren't
planning on actually using the car, the non-operation fee still would have been less
expensive. (It scares me that I know these things. If I ever understand escrow, kill me.)
I can only imagine how many of these they've gotten in the last four or five months,
and all because they're just so...I don't know what the word for them is. But for me, it's schadenfreude,
baby, schadenfreude.
sometimes i feel so worthless
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Wednesday, 8 August 2001 (tunnel of goats) 9:08am I think I took too much vicodin last night (as usual), because I'm still a little out of it. As though to prove the point, while walking to the office I misjudged the distance between myself and a newspaper dispenser, tearing a hole the right arm of my jacket. I have no idea how I'm going to fix it, though for the first time I wish the jacket was white—then I could put some red around the rip and make it look like I got shot. Alas.
198 hours and counting.
Everything works out eventually, you know.
Okay, I take that back. It suddenly started talking again, about half a minute after I last squeezed it. I guess it's just feeling very sluggish, though surgery to replace the batteries is apparently in order. I'm a little nervous about it, but Maddy is determined. The patient will live. It's times like this that I'm kinda glad I'm more into Star Trek than Star Wars. (Six of one and a half a dozen of the other, but bear with me. It helps that I'm not a virgin, so I can discuss these things while retaining my dignity.) (And while I loved the universally-panned Voyager, I never put much effort into defending it, because I don't really give a shit what anyone else thinks; on the other hand, Lucasphiles have been displaying remarkably fragile egos lately.) I'd rather be planning on resurrecting a tribble than trying to explain why Attack of the Clones isn't a stupid name.
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Tuesday, 7 August 2001 (freebase chakra) 9:39am Ow. Ow, ow, ow. The moment I sat down at my desk my neck started hurting. My back's been okay, so I can only assume this is another part of my body trying to send me a message. I get it, guys. Really.
It'll all be silenced by vicodin and Green Death later today anyhow.
It's a damn good question. I suppose I may have shown it to him last October—I
honestly don't recall—but even if I hadn't, I'm sure he could tell
what I was going to do. And I'm not sure what the point is. I don't
think I'm going to do it anymore.
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Monday, 6 August 2001 (lowest common abominator) 11:04am As though it isn't silly enough that I try to schedule appointments during times that I'll already be away from work—I mean, I have plenty of both vacation and sick time stored up, plus a fairly decent insurance health plan, all of which we're encouraged to use (except for the getting sick part)—implicit in that approach is the notion that I'll be able to get in on those particular days, that these things are worked around my schedule. That's been proven false time and time again, but I keep trying anyway. To that effect, I just called my speech therapist to see about making an appointment on the 20th. Just like when I called a few weeks before my vacation in June, she's very much unavailable—in New York until the first week of September, in fact. There's a lesson to be learned in this, but it probably won't be. 10:26pm Rather than going to see the big remakes and sequels everyone is flocking to (Rush Hour 2 made $66.8M in its opening weekend—oh, the pain), we saw an arty foreign film tonight called Jin-Roh: The Wolf Brigade. Granted, it's a cartoon. Does that still make us pretentious?
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Sunday, 5 August 2001 (beige) 11:32am I keep flashing on the last time we went to The Black Angus for Thanksgiving dinner, in '97, and my mother's horrified response when I ordered a chicken salad instead of a beeg juicy hunk o' cowflesh: "Are you becoming a vegetarian?" In retrospect, I think she was mostly afraid of Earl's reaction to me doing something so faggy. After all, they did break up shortly after I came out, almost as though that was the last straw for him. (A psychologist might suggest that I'm displaying a typical characteristic of a child of divorce, the belief that I'm somehow responsible for the ups and downs of a parent's relationships. Then again, I don't recall having felt guilty about the original divorce.)
I wonder what she would think now that Maddy and I are experimenting
with different kinds of soy milk. Of course, I don't plan on
telling her if I can help it. I have a feeling that odd dietary
habits will get me into a lot more trouble with some people
than the whole gender change thing. What I do to my body
nutritionally can have much heavier political ramifications
than what I do it hormonally. "I don't mind if you want to be
a grrl, I support your right to live your life however you please,
but how can you not like a good steak?"
Mind you, if the day of the week started with anything other than an S she would generally roll out of bed five minutes before class, put on jeans and a t-shirt, only shave if she had extra time and wouldn't even consider makeup. When she would get back from class on Friday evening she would shave, get made up, maybe even put on a skirt or a dress, and generally be the way until Sunday evening, and the next morning she would give it all a miss until the following Friday night. The difference, you see, was that she was full-time, which meant that she didn't have to put any extra effort into passing on a daily basis. As far as she was concerned, the switch was in the "On" position, and that was that. You could tell just by looking. Although I'm not officially out at work and therefore still in what passes for boi mode there, lately on the weekends as a general rule I'm in grrl mode. Our therapist even commented yesterday morning that I've actually been en femme for the last couple sessions, I'm obviously getting more comfortable be out in the world like that, et cetera. And it's true, I am, finally. Of course, whether or not I'm going to have to use public restrooms still enters into the equation. We did some shopping this afternoon and I was in grrl mode, short dress and stripeys and the purse I bought at the thrift store last week, not even hiding behind sunglasses and my jacket. We were home before nature called, though, as I knew we would be. So I'm not sure I was being all that courageous. And I doubt The Other would think so. I will, however, give myself credit for the fact that I haven't shaved since Thursday night before the show. I'm getting zapped on Tuesday, so I'm letting it grow out. Used to be I wouldn't have considered going out in grrl mode with any degree of facial hair showing, but now I guess I'm not quite so neurotic about it. Partially because I'm so close to being done with it for good (ihopeihopeihope), and partially because nobody's getting close enough to look anyway. Facial hair is a major gender tell, no question, but I just don't have enough of it for it to leap out at a stranger from twenty paces. Anymore.
Getting there, y'know?
If you shove a microphone in a celebrity's face and ask them to name a transsexual role model (of which there are very few, lemme tell ya), it seems reasonable that under the pressure they might pick someone who doesn't qualify, like RuPaul. Especially if the celebrity in question is someone like Fred Schneider, who has worked with RuPaul and is a screaming queen in his own right. You gotta cut them a little slack. At least they're trying, and ultimately, they're on your side. That's all I'm saying.
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Saturday, 4 August 2001 (i am the green child) 6:09pm Have you noticed how "crook," as a synonym for criminal, has fallen out of the vernacular? I haven't heard anyone use it in a long time. I wonder if Nixon ruined the word. Miguel did our hair today. Mine's black again, and Maddy's is blue and black, just like nature intended. Costanza's twin brother Simon is in town, and Dana had a party for him last night. This time I wore the corset and skirt which I'd decided against on Thursday, and not too surprisingly, the compliments were coming fast and furious. (That probably sounds egotistical, but trust me, it was the kind of outfit which seems to demand it.) My lower back had been hurting all day long from what I'm guessing are work-related ergonomical issues, and the constriction didn't help, but again, hey, I looked good. Bottom line, yes?
I'm pretty sure Costanza and Simon are identical; Maddy thinks they're fraternal. I need to ask.
More than anything else, though, I miss the old commercials.
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Friday, 3 August 2001 (higher beings command) 11:01am I got to the DNA Lounge last night about fifteen minutes before they opened the doors; had I known they'd be opening late, I might not have left my jacket in the car. But I was parked right around the corner, so I figured I'd be outside for as long as it took to walk to the door. Alas. But I looked good, damnit. I'm glad that I just wore a simple black velvet dress with stripey'd arms and legs rather than the corset top and skirt I'd been considering, since comfortable clothing became very important: being one of the first dozen in I was able to snag a beanbag chair (it's called a lounge for a reason) in the front row. Oh, man, I was feeling so spoiled—I don't know if I'm ever going to be able to enjoy a show quite as much. Granted, it was just four guys sitting at tables piled high with audio mixing equipment, but it was still fascinating to watch, especially since I had a clear view of The Weatherman. It was nice to be genuinely comfortable (even if it took me a while to figure out the physics of the beanbag chair) , and it's probably the closest I'll ever get to a Robert Rich sleep concert. I did doze a little before they came on, and I might have a bit towards the end of the three-hour show. Considering that I've slept while listening to their radio show through headphones, it seems appropriate, and it takes your head to very interesting places. I think I'm going to stop being so afraid of staying out late on schoolnights. It sucks being tired the next day, but more often than not, it's worth it. Like, in a few weeks, :zoviet*france: and Tribes of Neurot are performing on a Sunday night, and I know I'll be disappointed if I miss it, so I'm going. Then again, I just requested the next day off from work, so that's probably not the best example. It's for a good reason, though, as I'm going to see about gettng a physical from my doctor, as well as going to the DMV to get a new California ID. The idea there being that when I change my name and gender with them they'll ask for my current license and I'll be without a photo license for a while, so at least I'll have some kind of valid ID. Clever, no? In any event, it'll be the first step in that particular process. Gotta start sometime.
Oh, and just to show that the best shows tend to occur in clumps (have you cleaned the
litterbox today?), later that same week Julee Cruise
is performing. It's not exactly a solo show—it looks like she's going to be with
Khan—but that's okay,
since I've seen wanting to see her ever since Twin Peaks. I'm finally catching up with the heroes of my youth.
Even if it's difficult to get up the next morning.
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Thursday, 2 August 2001 (e-bow the letter) 8:55am No doubt due to the unwanted publicity, Coca-Cola has removed the page I linked to yesterday. Thankfully, it's still cached on Google. See? It's not just for stalking! 11:18am Self-censorship: if not me, who? 4:20pm So it turns out that both Chas and t'm know the aforementioned ex-best friend, and think very highly of him. (No surprise there, as he's a very nice guy. At least he was ten years ago, and how much can a person change in ten years?) (That's irony. Hello, how are you?) If it's not too much trouble, could we make this world a little smaller, please? Thanks.
Negativland is at the DNA Lounge tonight.
Although my stomach is once again unhappy with me, unlike last week it's not accompanied
by a souljacking depression, so I'm going. If nothing else, they venture into public far
less frequently than Lucinda. Almost as infrequently as I do, it seems.
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Wednesday, 1 August 2001 (monochrome existence) 2:48pm It's been old home day. jonco had lunch with one of our mutual favorite teachers from high school, an odd little Brit who taught most of the upper-level computer classes, and in whose classroom people such as myself (read: nerd, geeks, et cetera) tended to hide during lunch. When asked how his brother Jeff is doing, jonco replied, "Slowly becoming my sister Sherilyn." Which, all things considered, is the proper response. Apparently he's cool with it, since he'll be in the area next week and would like to see me. It would have to be right around when I'm getting zapped, wouldn't it?
Also delurking is an old high school friend, one whom I haven't seen since, well, high school.
Actually, that's not true; we got together once in the mid-nineties, just long enough for me
to get the Vectrex machine which now sits on my desk at work, then we
both went into hiding again. And he's among one of the few that I've actually been curious
about. (In a better way than I've been curious about my ex-best friend from elementary
school and junior high, the one who abandoned me in high school when I became a social liability.
Thanks to a little online stalking (powered by Google™!), I've discovered that he's the
manager of a coffee house in Berkeley.) Coincidental to all this is the fact that my high school
reunion is sometime this month. I've done a good job of avoiding it, I think. Either
they've stopped bugging my mom, or she's stopped relaying the messages to me.
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