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Right. Well. Turns out 8pm means 8pm sharp. Hell, even if it wasn't exactly sharp, 8:30 is still entirely too late. So there you go. The ForWord Girls benefit is locked. Can't say I'm surprised, and really, it's nobody's fault but my own. I've been a little too late for many things in my life.
9:45pm After briefly considering killing some time at Sacrifice, even driving by and deciding it felt too scary (and not being able to find a place to park anyway), I say fuck it and cross the Bridge into Alameda. Got to Smoke and Mirrors before they started charging cover, thus lowering my spending for the evening from $11 ($8 for ForWord Girls + $3 for the club) to $0. Can't beat that with a stick. So I'm wearing a dress which I've owned since January of '99 but have never worn. It's a faux-snakeskin sheath dress which I bought on a long-considered impulse at a store across from the Club One in the Embarcadero Center. It had been on sale for $10, a swell price, but I also figured at the time that it wouldn't fit. And I was right; it didn't, at least not at the time. I could sorta get into it, but there was no way it was zipping up the back. I had it with me the weekend I stayed with Summer, so I guess I must have bought it that Friday morning. (I hadn't been home since then, you see.) I remember showing it to her, one of my many attempts to connect with her, to get a glimpse of the support and encouragement with which seemed to be brimming just a couple weeks before. Actually...no, that's not quite right. I told her about it and offered to take it out of my bag to show her. She was utterly indifferent to the idea, so I didn't bother. I needed her to be just the slightest bit interested, but she wasn't, and what would be the point of forcing it? For the longest time it didn't fit, but I kept it just...in...case. Then, a few months back while going through the closet trying things on (I do that occasionally), I discovered that not only could I get into it without too much struggle, I could zip it up, and by myself. There was still the problem of it being an M rather than an L, the slit on the left slide goes up a bit too far—let's just say that matching underwear is a must, as well as stockings of some kind—and then there's the slight flattening effect on my breasts, making my bustline a bit smaller than it would be otherwise, not much more than my ribcage, which seriously hurts the illusion of having a properly shaped body. But I'm wearing it out anyway, sitting here at a table by myself at Rooster's Roadhouse in Alameda (the current Smoke and Mirrors venue), wishing I hadn't been been struck earlier by what for me is an uncharacteristic shyness. But I suppose I'll stand up eventually. Indeed, I've already offered someone I've never met a ride home (they asked on the sfgoth-junkies list, and live nearby), so I suppose I will speak before the night ends, even if at the moment it feels terribly unlikely. I don't feel altogether here somehow. It's been that kind of day. But staying home, as I'd considered more than once during an oddly stressful afternoon, wouldn't have been a good idea. I suppose my main reason for wearing it out has to do with taking advantage of heated irons: I probably won't fit into much longer. I haven't stepped on a scale for a while, but I'm putting on weight. I know this because I've been eating a lot more lately, and haven't been exercising to match. (Much to Maddy's amusement, one of my big munchie foods right now is lavash. Been eating a lot of it.) It's an anxiety/comfort thing, I'm sure, and it seems like my willpower has all but disappeared. It's kinda scary, and a further reminder of why I stay away from addictive drugs. Going back to work is coming at the right time, I hope. I've actually lost weight at work before, in spite of it being a desk job. Seems I need the discipline and the schedule. It's shame that the thought of growing out of my favorite clothes isn't enough. i need my hype
10:20pm My glasses are off and my earplugs are in. I wonder if that makes me invisible. I hope Dax will be here. Did I mention I got mistaken for Danielle Willis the other day? True. I stood outside their hotel for a short while, working up the courage to go inside—look, I'm still inexperienced with this sort of thing, okay? Besides, they didn't know I was coming just then, and I wasn't sure what to expect. I finally opened the door and walked inside. Standing in the hallway, as though he was expecting me, is an old guy with glasses and thinning white hair. I didn't know it at the time, but it's the manager. He says that tomorrow is check-out day. Confused, I tell him that I'm just there to visit someone. He grunts, and I walk past him. Boy, that was exactly what I hadn't wanted, to be confronted the moment I walked in. Relating the story to Ixe later, he told me they did in fact have to check out the next day, and that the manager didn't like them and would be more than happy to see them go. Moreover, I was dressed essentially the same as she would be, with similar styles of hair, coat and even eyeglasses, so he all in likelihood thought I was her at first. That's agreeable.
11:05pm The other night, Matthue referred to Jennifer and I as "wagoneers" because neither of us drink. I said my only objection was that it implied that I've ever been off the wagon, when in fact I've never had a problem with alcohol at all. I just don't like the stuff, and have the convenient medical excuse (a hormone-embattled liver) if need be. I'm the same way with "clean and sober;" it implies having overcome a substance abuse problem, and that's not the case with me at all. Anyway, Jennifer said she wasn't suprised I felt that way because I was so "precise." That's an interesting way to put it; someone less friendly would probably have said "anal." (cf. my oft-mentioned pronoun issues.) We gave her a ride back to where she's staying in Berkeley, and when we dropped her off she said she liked hanging out with us because we're so "undramatic." Again, someone less diplomatic might say "boring," but considering that in working on the play her days were filled with people who were quite literally dramatic (including certain key cast members in her own play), it's probably a nice change of pace for her.
sometime after midnight My mood at Smoke and Mirrors did improve, and I enjoyed myself. "Christianity is Stupid" was played, and it didn't clear the floor like I was expecting; the few other people stuck with it. Later in the evening, Cyndi Lauper's "She Bop" and Josie Cotton's "Johnny Are You Queer?" were played back to back. I had to doublecheck to make sure Anastasia wasn't DJ'ing. Lorna was there. She didn't notice me, and if she had, I doubt she would have remembered. She looks as much like Pandora as she did three years ago. Me, a little more so than I did then, but not much.
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Because we wouldn't have been in the right place at the right time if we hadn't gone out to see the dress rehearsal of Let's Talk About Me, three one-act plays about Jennifer Blowdryer, Liberace and late Vegas in Space star Doris Fish (who therefore deserves credit as well). They did end up using the Jayne County song I'd supplied, which was cool. Afterwards, walking down Valencia towards the Lexington with Jennifer and Matthue, we saw in the window of Cherin's something unexpected: refrigerators which looked like they'd actually fit in our apartment. Being late at night the place was closed, but the next day our landlord went out there, found one with the correct measurements, and placed an order. And, for an extra $20 which we chipped in, we're getting it in black. Oh my yes. Before going to the Lex we were lured into Esta Noche, a bar which I'd heard of but never actually experienced—in the middle of one of the seedier parts of the Mission, it's a Hispanic gay bar with nightly drag shows. Being openly queer always involves an amount of risk, even in San Francisco, and the dominant culture of the Mission is one that very much values machismo; being gay and Latino makes being gay and white look like a cakewalk. It certainly requires more courage than a homophobe or basher of any ethnicity could ever hope to possess. The big discovery there, however, was that in any language, a drag show is a drag show. Seen one, and you've seen 'em, pretty much. Jennifer referred to us as "her gender-blurred couple." I guess Maddy's more butch than we realized. Yesterday afternoon I ventured out to the current residence of Danielle and her boyfriend Ixe, an SRO coincidentally right next to Golden Era. Danielle wasn't there, having gone to the methadone clinic and points beyond, but I chatted with Ixe for a while in their tiny room and walked around the neighborhood with him as he scavenged for cigarettes. He says one or both of them might be moving away soon to the relatively safer haven of the Midwest, to live with their families (possibly) and get away from the omnipresent drugs out here (definitely). Though it would be a shame if they left just as we're getting to know them, it may well be for the best.
11:04am No Burning Man for us, but we're keeping busy this weekend all the same. Tonight is a book release party for Michelle at her store, after which we're driving across town to the Great American Music Hall for a special screening of The American Astronaut followed by a performance by the Billy Nayer Show. We'd heard about it on Saturday morning, during a few rare minutes that I was actually able to pick up KFJC on the car radio, and after the movie we went to the GAMH box office to buy tickets. Shortly afterwards we realized that Michelle's party was the same night. Sometimes I think life was easier when we had nothing at all to do. Saturday night is a benefit for ForWord Girls at the Jon Sims Center, and then I'm going into Alameda for Smoke and Mirrors. (I regret having missed the submission deadline for the actual ForWord Girls event itself in September. I would have loved to read at it. Not that there's any guarantee that I would have been accepted, but at least I would have tried. Alas.) Maddy won't be joining me for either, as she'll still be recovering from the running around of the previous night, and hopefully generating some goodwill with her body for Sunday. Sunday being the third double-header in a row: K'vetch, followed by the kickoff date of Strombolli's Island of Donkeys and Dolls at Kimo's, the tour Michelle's been working on featuring herself, The End of the World, Bucky Sinister, Tara Jepsen and Ricky Lee (also as performing with The End of the World). If K'vetch starts on time and I read early then we should be able to get to Kimo's with time to spare. It helps that Tara co-hosts K'vetch, so I'm sure she'll want to move things along as well. If we end up having to skip K'vetch entirely, that's okay too. So it's not the desert thing, but we're keeping busy and spending a lot less money.
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We are getting a new fridge, and not only is it the right size, it's black. And we have Liberace and Jennifer Blowdryer to thank.
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We were lured to The Castro last night to see a restored, as-complete-as-it's-gonna-get print of Fritz Lang's Metropolis. Though they were remarkably well-behaved for the first half of the movie, eventually the audience remembered that they were watching a movie made before 1990 (in another country, no less) and treated it like the camp classic it is. From there, at least for me, it was to Jezebel's Joint and Death Guild. Those went better.
7:15pm It occurs to me that whenever I've gone to Jezebel's, it's for someone else. The first time was for (e) so she could unwind after a somewhat traumatic reading (more accurately, the circumstances around the reading), then a few weeks back for Shrike's birthday, and last night to see Belladonna. Not that I mind—I'd go to the ends of the earth for my friends—but it's not necessarily a place I'd go otherwise. Quite frankly, the neighborhood ooks me out too much. (Sacrifice isn't in the greatest area either, but has safer microclimates nearby. Not so much for Jezebel's.) I'm usually able to park within a block or two, and that first night with (e) I felt quite comfortable, but last night I didn't like the walk from and to my car at all. Especially back to my car after they closed. I keep my keys at the ready as a rule, and I really need to get one of those mondo pepper-spray dealies like Chupa has. And since not going into dangerous parts of town doesn't seem to be much an option... That said, Jezebel's was fun. It was nice to finally meet Belladonna; I hung out with her in the DJ booth as she spun for the sparse yet demanding ("Less industrial! More deathrock!") gaggle of babybats, who in all likelihood would have been happier at Death Guild. (Kinda made me glad I'd gone quote-punk-unquote for the evening: buetz and a schoolgirl skirt sans stockings—by my math, the first time I've worn a short skirt without anything on my legs—and one of my acquisitions from Michelle's garage sale, a ripped black tank top with a studded collar and the Nike logo with the words "CLASS WAR" above and "JUST DO IT" below. She says she bought it at a thrift store in Olympia, which automatically makes it the coolest piece of clothing I could ever possibly own.) They even barged in and started rifling through Belladonna's CDs, looking for songs they deemed worthy. Belladonna, bless her, played none of them. She's a DJ on KFJC, my favoritest radio station in the world, and in addition to her regular show she also produces segments for their weekly news program. In the near future Maddy and I will be getting together with her (in a quieter environment, presumably) to record an interview about kittypr0n. I love the irony in the fact that the KFJC's signal breaks up just as it hits San Francisco, so the majority of people listening to the actual broadcast (as opposed to online) won't actually be able to watch the show. It seems appropriate, somehow. Her set ended at about half past midnight, and shortly thereafter the bar closed. I'm not entirely sure why, but I'd guess it was for lack of business. Death Guild was probably at least somewhat responsible, and going there was discussed, even by the person who seemed to actually run Jezebel's. I figured I'd pop on over, but Belladonna declined, so we parted company. Shouldn't height be one of those taboo questions, like weight, age or birth gender? (Some don't think the third one is at all, admittedly.) Evidently not, as I got asked twice at Death Guild how tall I am. It's a shame Sara wasn't around to provide an example of another tall girl, and a real one at that. The first person to ask was a girl at the bar roughly Maddy's height, whom I thought was Yen at first. "Wow!" was her reply when I told her. The other was a guy on the dance floor. When I told him (twice, because it was very loud) (note to self: from now on, regardless of the sound level, answer by holding up six fingers), he said he was 6' 2". And? Where was I supposed to go with that? I didn't feel like saying "Wow," so I didn't. Instead, I went for my usual joke when someone's taller than me and said "My condolences." I again had to say it twice, the second time explaining that it was a joke. Evidently that made him change his mind about hitting on me, as he turned around and resumed dancing. Well, la de da. Laurel was there. She was actually at Death Guild the last time I went, the night when things didn't turn out very well, but things weren't going well for her that evening either so she didn't talk to me. Anyway, I haven't seen her since...I don't know. Been a while. She kept going on about how good I looked. It was very sweet of her. (And it probably didn't have anything to do with the fact that I wasn't goffed out, though she probably appreciated that detail.) I got to bed around four, and was up again in time to make a noon showing of The Kid Stays in the Picture, a brilliant documentary about producer Robert Evans and based on his book of the same name, which I'd not coincidentally just finished reading. There were maybe half a dozen other people in the theater, which is of course just about right. ("Perfect" is with Maddy or by myself, but I guess that's what DVD is for.) From there it was to the studio to finish up October's kittypr0n; somehow, we've managed to get two months ahead. Yay us. I haven't been to the gym for quite some time, possibly not since before the last time I worked. Pike just wrote asking if I'm available to work for the month of September and possibly beyond. Guess I'm not going back too soon.
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While at home lately, we've been watching a lot of rented movies. In the process I've been reminded of something I shouldn't have forgotten: most modern American movies suck, especially anything purporting to be a thriller. After Jeepers Creepers, From Hell and Joy Ride, I may never again rent anything just because it looks like it might be "fun." We also watched Fellini's La Strada (for free from the library), and it was like a breath of fresh air. It's as though the further I get from film school, the more pretentious I get. So Diane is in charge of showing films by female Bay Area filmmakers in one of the rooms at Girlworld, a "monthly Mega-Party for Women" held at the Sound Factory. She tells us that this last Friday, kittypr0n was among the offerings. Rocco has also suggested donating a tape to the SPCA. "Donating" is a strong word—isn't that for things of value?—but it's not a half bad idea. Meanwhile, I'm reading Shawna Kenney's I Was a Teenage Dominatrix. Any bad thoughts in my head when I'm done were there to begin with.
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We've had plans to get sushi with Michelle and Rocco for some time now, and it never seems to quite happen. It's okay, though, as we ended up hanging out at their place for several hours last night, and I got some terrific footage of Petunia for kittypr0n. She wasn't too thrilled about it, and I have some gnarly scratches to show for my effort, thankfully on my left (scar) arm. We also got to witness Michelle deal with a crisis involving the upcoming tour, attempting to fill a suddenly vacant spot in the lineup, before reaching the logical conclusion that the spot didn't have to be filled at all—indeed, not filling it would mean everyone would actually get a seat in the van. All through it, I had to keep reminding myself that they would be wanting someone with something resembling experience, as opposed to barely fifteen minutes of material, a grand total of five open mics on their resume and a name lacking in any kind of marquee value. So, needless to say, I kept quiet. Evidently my ambition's grandeur is even more delusional than I'd previously suspected. (Someday, though...) Maddy and I Ieft their place after one in the morning, and made the happy discovery that a Mexican/Salvadoran restaurant across the street from the El Rio is open quite late on the weekends, and proceeded to have one of the less healthy meals in recent memory, at least for me. Most of the time I can live without cheese, and if it disappeared from the planet tomorrow (along with, say, red meat, tobacco and alcohol) I'm pretty sure I wouldn't miss it, but damn, at that moment their nachos hit the spot. I made up for it, of course, by doing my regulation crunches when I awoke not too many hours later. (I can eat however much of whatever I want if I do some exercises the next morning, don't'cha know.) In spite of not getting to bed until well after three, were were out of the house again by ten, retracing our steps back into the Mission for Michelle and Rocco's garage sale. Got some pretty cool stuff, probably paying less than we should have, but you know how it is with friends. We hung out with them for a few hours before heading into the Haight to see The Cockettes at The Red Vic. We've now seen two (2) new movies this year. We may reach the upper single-digits by year's end, but that's mainly because movies released earlier in the year should be on video by year's end. Anyway, I liked it well enough, even though one ex-member of the troupe reminded me (in a bad way) of Pansy Division's "Negative Queen." He even gleefully talked trash about Candy Darling, who in addition to being a hero of mine also happens to be dead and therefore can't defend herself. Damn queers. The Dharma on Haight carries the same cheongsams as the one on Valencia. I discovered the XLs don't...quite...fit. I didn't see an XXLs, and I didn't ask. Had I been called "sir" anytime afterwards, I think I would have responded badly.
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It does help that I have a pretty good idea of my city's red zones. Like, I know that to get from the studio to Dalva on foot, it's safer to walk down Guerrero than Valencia. They're a block parallel to one another, and walking that strectch of Valencia would have been quicker, but that block can really make all the difference in terms of comfort level. Doesn't mean bad things can't happen on Guerrero, of course, but the odds seem considerably less, as it involves walking behind the big scary projects rather than in front of them. (I couldn't help notice that some people living in the projects, and other low-cost housing areas in town, have satellite teevee. That says something, but I'm not sure what.) I read another grass story. I think I'm out of those. I don't have anything interesting to relate regarding alcohol, having only been drunk a handful of times in my life, and I may or may not be able to extract anything useful about the encounter with the Stygian Triplets. I don't even have any stories of personal trauma regarding transitioning. I guess there's always blatant fiction. As it happens, I went first. I got lucky, actually; I'd signed up for fourth, but nobody signed up to read before me, so I defaulted to first. Bucky Sinister arrived while I was reading, and when I was done asked if he could slip into the third slot, i.e. reading next. If he'd been on time, I would have read after him. The last thing you want is to follow Bucky, especially with a (hopefully) funny piece. It went well, getting laughs in all the right places, though Embeth (who we've decided is my groupie) reminded me beforehand that Poetry Mission tends not to be as responsive as K'vetch, so I shouldn't take it too hard. Didn't seem to be a problem, though. It was easily the biggest crowd I've seen in that tiny back room; as brilliant guest host (e) pointed out, there were more people there listening than reading, which is an extreme statistical anomaly. Afterwards, (e), Matthue, Lauren Wheeler and I went to Sacrifice. Chupa excitedly showed me her dreads, which she'd just dyed in black and red stripes, saying they looked like my tights. For the life of me I can't remember the last time I wore stripeys around Chupa—Pride weekend, maybe?—but like so many people, she seems to identify them with me. Which isn't such bad thing, really, but still odd.
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I dreamed I was lost in New York last night. I get that one a lot. In spite of how gnarly my own city can get, I feel comfortable in it, but that New York practically scares me. Having never been further East than Minnesota, it's all very mysterious to me. We finally saw The Anniversary Party, which surely would have been one of my favorite movies last year had I actually seen it when it came out. Ecstasy is a major plot point. Drugs. Sigh. Today I'm going to the studio to work on the show, and then to Poetry Mission at Dalva to read a new piece. Well, not really "new," exactly. I've yet to read anything which isn't scavenged from my diary and rewritten. But I do have a few ideas for actual new things. Maddy won't be joining me today. Her and back and neck problems have been particularly bad lately; she's been having to wear a neck brace and is under strict orders from her chiropractor to take it easy. Those are orders she disobeyed when we went to the SFMOMA on Tuesday, and later that evening she suffered one of the worst headaches she's had in a year. It was nowhere near as painful for me to watch as it was for her to experience, but it was still very bad.
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