Afterwards, I ran into Pam and Liz outside of Osento. It's always nice to see them.

I dreamed last night, that I gave a spectacularly bad reading. Not just a tepid reaction—I've gotten that before, even at K'vetch a few times—but not being able to actually do it. Seeing as how you can't actually read anything in a dream, it makes sense that I couldn't make sense of the words on the page. It was pretty bad, and quite possibly my first performance-related anxiety dream.

11:52am

I should be hearing back about the part in the next couple days. I'll either get it, or I won't. Those are the possibilities as I see them, anyway.

It's still in the rumination stage, but while at Spanganga on Sunday I heard someone talking about possibly doing a one-time stage version of "Once More, With Feeling," the Buffy the Vampire Slayer musical. Ooooh. I so want to be Willow in that, it isn't even funny. Beyond the fact that she only has two solo singing lines and as such is low-pressure musically (by all accounts Alyson Hannigan doesn't like her singing voice), she has a great look in the episode and gets serenaded by Tara and goes down on her. Oh my yes.

1:24pm

I walked by Osento last night because I was heading to Modern Times to restock my chapbooks there. Unfortunately, the person in charge of these things is out for the next two weeks. I almost went into Dog-Eared, but I suddenly felt very shy, probably because I know people who work there. Besides, as of a few weeks ago, they still had both of them in stock.

Note to self: even if it's still has a few days left before the date on the package, check the lahvosh for mold before you start eating it.

Ick.

2:38pm

It figures that after being alone in the office for an hour or so, I would finally work up the courage to call the cafe owner right as people start returning from lunch. On the plus side, that means her lunch rush was probably over, which is good. Anyway, she's not uninterested in the idea, although she's curious as to who the hell I am and what I've done. Of course.

Ironically, I had my little calendar book thingy open, ready to try to find some time in the near future so we could actually meet and discuss things, when she asked me to email her the pertinent info. Oh, yay. For as much as I ultimately prefer to exist in the offline world, sometimes, well, it's just easier...

The cover of How Loathsome #4 is in the cover gallery, although the issue itself won't be in the stores until at least next month. I wonder if Dax will recognize the coat.

11:31pm

We saw Kirk Read at A Clean, Well-Lighted Place for Books tonight. He was fierce, as always. Maddy and I were in the front row with Horehound, yet we all somehow managed to avoid getting spit upon. (Kirk was, as I say, fierce.) Among other things, he was all kinds of excited about getting to read there, which he says is like a dream come true for him. I believe it. I don't know what my comparable dream gig would be. It may well have already happened.

While he was performing, I got the inspiration for my next piece. I should have thanked him for that.

I scare myself sometimes.

9:07am

Saturday night. Long, and probably more than you want to know.

And I will awake your highness
I'm so high I cannot walk
And I will await
You cripple
You take away my pride
My peace, my empathy
No babies sleep on atrophy
Your unborn love and fetal stress
Hard bitter candy, legless caress

Maddy went off to the Springsteen concert with Allegra, and the thought of spending the night at home sounded positively dreadful. After a perusal of Larry-Bob's eternally useful Queer Things to do in San Francisco page, I decided to give In Bed with Fairy Butch a look. I'd heard good things about it, especially from Pam and Liz. And maybe they'd even be there. It had also won a Best of the Bay for "Best Place to Cop a Same-Sex Date," almost as high a compliment as Pam and Liz's recommendation. Granted, that was 1997, and for all I knew over the years it had become one of the best places instead of the best, but pick pick. Best of all, it's right around the corner from the Mission Bartlett garage, helpful for a lightweight like me.

Not having learned my lesson after nine years in the City, I got there when the doors were supposed to open. They weren't—again, nearly a decade in San Francisco and I still haven't gotten the hint—so I went back to the car and listened once again to Hole's "Old Age," my musical obsession of the moment. I also decided that since I was wearing my bondage pants (mit cutoff Final Girl shirt, cowboy hat and hair in pigtails), and therefore had pockets, I'd just take what I needed in them and leave my bag in the trunk. That way, I wouldn't have to worry about finding a place to stow it in the club. Sometimes I'm so clever it hurts.

What was she for Halloween?
The ugliest girl you've ever seen
Someday she will die alone

What was she for Valentine's?
An old forgotten concubine
Someday she will die for no one

Thankfully, the ample pocket space and overall bagginess of the pants (the main reason I was reluctant to buy them) now allowed me to carry the basics without looking like I was loaded down: single car key with pepper spray attached, ID, some money, a piece of paper and a pen, and my watch. In the unlikely event that I really needed something else, the car wasn't too far away. But it sounded like everything I could possibly could need, and there would still be room for my glasses, which I would probably take off shortly after getting there. Being a vain whore and all.

I could have just brought my bag in anyway (next time I'll split the difference and use my lunchbox), since I never made it very far past the front of the club. Volunteering at the Mingle and Tingle table were a couple of girls who recognized me before I could place them; one, Kiernan, had run the remarkably unsuccessful "Erotic Kissing Booth" at the Camp Trans Benefit. She had been dressed and done up more that night, and although the corset had been nice, I suspect the Booth might have done better business if she'd gone with the more casual look she was sporting now. Or maybe the word "Erotic" was too much pressure for most people.

She seems to me to know
All that glitters is sour
All the lies in her place
Jesus saves
Old age

The other girl was wearing a short black dress with her hair tucked up under a fuzzy gray hat, and looked like Seeley Quest's younger (and, it kinda goes without saying, femmier) sister. Neither of us could quite remember where we'd seen each other, just that we had. Happens a lot. She invited me to hang out with them, and I accepted, stashing my jacket on the back of the couch directly behind the table.

The Mingle and Tingle Game is basically a third-party messaging system. You choose a number to wear (being unimaginative, I was 101) and fill out a brief yet intrusive questionnaire about your relationship status, top or bottomness, how fast and how far you want to go, that sort of thing. (One of the relationship options, right below "Single," was "San Francisco Single." Lots of people asked what that meant.) Then, if someone thinks you're cute ("tingle") they look up your questionnaire and leave you a message ("mingle") in a sealed envelope taped to the Board, a full-length mirror propped up against the table. Pretty simple, and working the table didn't amount to much more than explaining the concept to people and distributing forms.

The key principle to sex in San Francisco (and hopefully elsewhere, but this is where I live) is mutual consent. Being at an event such as this meant you might be propositioned on some level, but it also meant you were free to say no. A good thing, since there were quite a few people who did nothing for me.

It's okay to kill your idols
Just pretend you have no rivals
We all know that she is friendless

Spits at mirrors, it's not an issue
Just remove the hateful tissues
We all know her rage is endless

The show, mostly strippers and burlesque acts with some audience participation and hosted by Fairy Butch, was quite literally at the other end of the club. When it started, Kiernan and Seeley's Sister were itching to go watch. I offered to stay behind at the table, and they gladly accepted, checking back every so often to make sure I didn't want to be relieved. Naah. I was seeing more than enough from where I was.

The only busy time was between the two major sets of the evening, and it wasn't anything I couldn't handle. Weighing on my conscience were the mistakes I'd made recently and the argument from earlier in the day, so it felt good to be useful. I didn't even mind that I'd paid for the privilege.

Working the table also meant I could see what people, or at least what numbers, were having messages left for them. Nobody ever did write 101 on their envelope.

And then she begs and she says "Pretty please?
I'll make her pure again; I'll make her clean"

Earlier in the evening Seeley's Sister and I had been ruminating about what we were each in the mood for, and it seemed there was a certain compatibility. Pro-activity was clearly called for. The problem was, I couldn't quite remember her number, so I ventured away from the table during the latter half of the second set to do a little recon, somehow managing to get close to enough to see her number without appearing to be simply looking at her breasts. (I'm not an ogler, and don't like coming across as one.) Ah. 104.

I'd just finished up the note (i'd be happy with a nice long kiss. or possibly two.) when she returned to the table and sat on the arm of the couch. I folded it and put in a blank envelope, saying that I still hadn't decided whether or not I was going to go through with it. She said I should. Good enough for me. I wrote her number on the envelope, sealed it and handed it to her with a piece of tape. She put it on the Board.

one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand...

After about ten seconds she realized what number it was, laughed, and opened the envelope. Her eyes widened and she asked how making out on the couch sounded. I told her.

"Yay for volunteers not working," she said as we each took off our hats. Strictly speaking I wasn't a volunteer, but it hardly mattered.

No one knows she's Hester Prynne
Someone please tell Anne Boleyn
Chokers are back in again

Someday she won't have to fake it
Living will itself seem sacred
Someday she will just refuse

My glasses had been in my front pocket for much of the evening, but I moved them to my jacket pocket, lest they get ground into a fine powder. That would have been bad, you see, because I don't have any insurance and they'd be expensive to replace.

Afterwards, she thanked me for both being less shy than her (what a concept) and offering, as well as for allowing her to indulge her more exhibitionist tendencies. I assured her I was more than happy to oblige.

Standing up, I was even more glad that my pants were baggy. If I'd been wearing just about anything else it would have been a little uncomfortable, not to mention obvious. Nobody would have cared, but in spite of the fact that it occasionally comes up in my spoken word pieces, in general I like to keep my surgical status something of a mystery.

My hair had been pulled out of place, so I kneeled down in front of the Board to fix my pigtails. (I had to kneel both because even if there weren't still envelopes covering the upper half, when you're my height, there's no such thing as a full-length mirror.) It was then that I realized I'd left something fairly important back in the car, something which I always have on my person 'cuz even when I'm wearing pants and a cowboy hat I'm a huge femme: makeup. The bottom half of my face was completely bare. Of course—it had migrated over to Seeley's Sister's neck and chest. Duh. Usually I have at least my lipstick, for which there would have been plenty of room in my pockets. And it's not like I hadn't known on some level that this might happen. Alas.

She seems to me to know
All that glitters is sour
All the lies in her place
Jesus saves
Old age

(Rest in pieces) I'm sorry
(Me in pieces) So sorry
(Rest in pieces) I'm sorry

It was after one in the morning, the table's usefulness was pretty much ended, and I had a hunch my evening on the town was done. I said my goodbyes (though not to Seeley's Sister, who'd moved on to another Mingle) and left. Back in the car, I reapplied my makeup. I was going straight home, but Maddy was probably back from Springsteen by now. I had every intention of telling her—one of the foundations of the Arrangement is full disclosure—but there was a question of taste. I didn't want to look too obvious the moment I walked through the door. If she was even home.

She was. And she'll be coming along next time.

1:55pm

The Boss is out of the office for the rest of the day. That's always good. He's actually a nice guy and I don't mind having him around, but by definition the stress level can't help but be a little lower with him gone. I'm an employee, after all. It's the way of things. He's actually going to be gone for two weeks starting this Thursday, on the trip which the whole ticket brouhaha had been about. Thankfully, that situation has mostly died down. The credit card company is going to be sending us paperwork to contest the charge, and they seem to think we have a pretty good shot at it, since a lot of people have been complaining about the new policy. Naturally, no progress was really made until the Boss called, but he also acknowledges that I gave it my best shot. Girl Fridays can only get so much done in a telephone-based bureaucracy, even if they are called "sir" on the phone. Most importantly, he doesn't seem to think any of it's my fault, and I never got the chewing out I was expecting. Hooray for small miracles.

Anyway, he'll be gone for the next two weeks starting Thursday, and Kelly will be at Burning Man next week. I could start coming in late and nobody would notice. But, knowing me, I'll probably start arriving earlier and earlier.

4:16pm

It may seem self-evident, but:

If you're going to call the owner of a cafe about starting an event there, it's for the best if you can read your own handwriting and get their name right. Otherwise, there's a huge potential for a lousy first impression.

Ugh.

Thankfully, I didn't actually speak to the person in question, nor did I leave a message since I'm leaving in ten minutes. I'll be calling back tomorrow, armed with the correct name and hoping she doesn't trace it back to me.

Going to the Waddell today for the actual poke 'n' prod and, presumably the results of my blood and urine test. Unfortunately, cholesterol won't be one of the numbers, or if it is, it won't be too reliable since I hadn't fasted beforehand. I'm sure it's probably the same as that other number I shouldn't be so concerned about, my weight: low enough.

10:19pm

According to my blood and urine, I'm perfectly healthy.

The Irish Girl was there, however. We talked for a quite a while, and when I mentioned that we'd kissed on Wednesday night—she'd forgotten, y'see—her immediate reaction was to apologize, followed by a look of embarrassment and near-horror. I guess that qualifies as ironic. And, yet, it also figures. (Can something both make sense and be ironic? Isn't that contradictory?)

Maybe it had something to do with her disbelief at me being queer (aside from being trans). She'd first hinted at on Wednesday night when she asked, not unkindly, just what brought me to the Lex. She seemed surprised when I told her that I like girls. Evidently I look like I should be into boys. Well, then, do girls like me? Only one that I know of for sure, yes. Beyond that, I don't know. I have my doubts sometimes.

Intrigued, she then asked what kinds of girls I like. God, that's a tough question. There's really no one type. My preference is slightly more towards femmes than butches (if I may get binary for the moment), but there are some butches which I find quite hot, and some femmes which do nothing for me. It varies.

I couldn't blame her for asking so many questions; she was genuinely uncertain about a lot of things, to the extent that she was surprised that I asked to be referred to as "tranny girl" rather than "tranny boy." She must not know many F2Ms, either. Education is a continual process.

12:32pm

Though I'd never do heroin, sometimes I imagine myself ending up like Tommy from Trainspotting: the first time I shoot up, I'll contract AIDS and die. Metaphorically speaking.

4:15pm

I'd just like to state for the record that while I'll use it, I greatly dislike the phrase "making out." I think it's because it reminds me of high school terms like "going around"—at least we've evolved beyond that one. Still, Embeth's right: as phrases go, "making out" is better than "sucking face."

It was worth it, though.

4:52pm

My Night of the Living Dead audition was finished, and I was told I'd get a call in a few days. I was a couple blocks away from Spanganga, about to put my headphones on, when I heard my name called out. I looked back and saw someone out front, waving at me. A literal callback, as it turned out, to read the "They're coming to get you, Barbara" scene with Joe Donohoe. I already read it once before with someone else, but evidently they wanted to see how we'd do it together. Pretty well, it seemed to me, but I guess I'll find out later this week. Not getting my hopes up, but I'm not completely without them, either.

Fun fact: the concept of zombies eating brains was not actually introduced until Dan O'Bannon's Return of the Living Dead in 1985, and is not present in George Romero's original trilogy. Some brains are eaten, yes, but because heads are eaten and that happens to be where the brains are. The Romero zombies do not crave brains, nor do they say "Braaaaaaains." In fact, they don't say much of anything at all.

Although I love that opening scene and her interaction with the other character—and the fact that she alternates between comatose and insane for the rest of the movie—my big problem playing Barbara is her scream when the zombie attacks. I don't do the blood-curdling scream very well, and I don't like my voice when it's raised—basically, the louder it gets, the more male it sounds. To me, anyway. The casting people heard it at least once before asking me to read the scene again, so presumably it isn't necessarily a deal-breaker. Again, I'll know when I find out, and I'm not going to worry much about it until then.

That being the perfect thing to shout when Lynnee's improvising on stage and asking the audience for topics. It's worth it just to watch him cringe—he hates clinical words like that, preferring the elegance of "tang" and "puss-aaaay"—plus he'll get a good five minutes of material out of it. What are friends for?

6:30pm

They're only patterns if you choose to acknowledge them as such. Otherwise, it's just stuff that happened.

sometime after midnight

And, sometimes, if you just ask at the right moment...

Being the third weekend of August, c0g's mother's annual party in Bolinas is, well, this weekend. Tomorrow, in fact. Maddy's going to see Bruce Springsteen with Allegra, and I'd been trying to figure out what to do with myself, so the timing is pretty good. Provided I get back into town in time for the audition at Spanganga on Sunday morning, that is. I had tossed around going to the Lexington tomorrow to see if lightning might strike twice, but c0g in Bolinas is an even rarer thing. Besides, I can always swing by the Lex this evening after Chick Nite, seeing as how it's all of a block away.

I've reformatted my root page a little and included fly0rs from past shows. There are people even more obscure than me who have devoted much more energy to this sort of thing than I have, I remind myself, so it's okay.

3:10pm

8/13/03

Truth is destructive.
Boundaries are not to be crossed.
I took one great liberty in my life.
To look as pathetic as I feel, I'd have to be covered in pig's blood.
I don't think this is what Matthue had in mind, but I don't know what else there is.
I hope Meliza is coming back.
Too alien. Too untouchable. Too.
I was nothing before. I am less now.
Honesty kills.

She just moved into town from Metropolis two weeks ago for a teaching gig at at SFSU, something social work related, having to do with urban race and gender studies. I think. Sounded pretty neat, whatever it was. Anyway, this was only her second time at the Lexington. For some reason she'd been unable to get drunk since she'd moved out here—I theorized that it had to do with the different time zones—and was determined to change that tonight. She was successful in both achieving inebriation and collecting a few phone numbers, including mine. I brought her luck, we figure, so she wants me to go out with her again.

The Irish Girl and her Gaelic companions had evidently been there ever since I arrived, but I hadn't given them much thought. Just another group of girls in a bar filled with them. (And the occasional straight bioboys—why, yes, I can tell by looking, thanks for asking—some of whom were clearly barhopping, not to mention the one guy who I always see there, usually standing by himself at the bar, a blank look on his face. He harmless, but he creeps me out, and I don't like how he often ends up standing next to me. I don't like that one bit.)

She and her friends were about to have the bartender take their picture when she insisted that my new clubbing companion and I join them. It was then that she broke her silence and started going on about how beautiful she found me, listing off my attributes (posture, style, etiquette, makeup, even saying my jawline and high cheekbones give me a supermodel visage) beyond the point of simple embarrassment and well into absurdity. She certainly sounded like she meant it, though. Later on she also mentioned something which I'd been curious about: that one of her friends had clocked me from the start as a tranny. The Irish Girl didn't believe them at first, but when I confirmed it, she seemed all the more taken. I suppose I can never underestimate my novelty value.

I wasn't the only objet d'desire, though. On the other end of the scale from me and my approximation of the patriarchal beauty ideal, there was a barely twenty-one baby butch still slightly scuffed from the turnip truck accident. She couldn't quite understand why so many people were making such a big deal, and rejected praise in a manner which reminded me of myself from not too long ago. I tried explaining that in the San Francisco dyke community, a girl of legal age who looks and dresses like a twelve year-old boy playing trucker is a very hot commodity. I don't think she quite believed me.

The baby butch felt very strongly about sex, and even kissing, as things which should wait for the right girl. A noble position, no question about it. The Irish Girl was hanging onto me as the baby butch was espousing her no-casual-kissing philosophy, both because she was the cuddly type and because I hadn't been drinking and would thus help her not succumb to gravity.

Now, The Irish Girl had mentioned more than once that she was in a committed long-term relationship (as am I, slightly modified by The Arrangement) and thus said shouldn't be so much as kissing anyone, let alone doing anything else. But she was more than willing if the baby butch was as well, which she was not. I asked The Irish Girl if, given her characterization of me as the "most stunning girl in the bar," she would settle for kissing me. She said she would, gladly, so she did.

Of course, I went home alone, as I should.

sometime after midnight

it's crazy what you could have had
it's crazy what you could have had
i need this
i need this

The hallway outside of Primary Care yesterday (and presumably every Tuesday), was a tranny zoo. All shapes, sizes and distances were represented. It was a beautiful sight. I didn't get any reading or writing done, since I didn't have to wait as long as I'd expected, and there were enough casual friends and acquaintances to keep me occupied. I'll probably recognize someone every time I go.

The interview was a basically a more in-depth version of the intake, delving more into my personal history, relationships, feelings on gender, and the like. It's interesting to be asked those questions every so often, especially on gender, since I'm sure my answers are constantly evolving. The social worker said she looks forward to those the most since the answers vary so much. As well they should.

Lynnee doesn't play guitar. I'd figured as much.

Michelle was the organizer and host of the show at the El Rio, and talking to her about it firmed my decision to start an open mic of my own. (Not that her show is an open mic, but still.) I'm told the owner of the venue I have in mind is actually leaving today for Michigan, so I'll have to wait until next week to actually talk to her about it. Which sucks—I feeling the need to start planning it now, to convince myself I have some purpose, to prove something unprovable to myself—but it won't kill me to wait.

Mark Schaffer, aka Schaffer The Darklord and formerly MC STD of The End of the World, answered a question which Maddy and I had been curious about: "formerly" isn't an entirely accurate word. The End of the World hasn't broken up, exactly, but all three of them are concentrating on their own stuff, and the group is kinda hiatus-y. Rocco (who also performed last night) was right up front during Mark's fuckin' killer set, and Ricky lee was videotaping, so it's quite obvious they're all still friends. Yay.

He talked about a recent gig at Lucifer's Hammer which, if you'll pardon the expression, went over like a lead balloon. The word "poseur" was thrown at him quite a bit (though the people saying it probably think it's spelled "poser"). Seems metalheads can be even more humorless than goths are purported to be. Can't say I'm surprised.

2:25pm

The errant filing cabinet key has been found. Whoever used it last put it back on the hook used for the men's room key. Needless to say, it never crossed my mind to check there. Ugh. That's one crisis over, anyway.

As for the other crisis, I'm apparently not the only person who thinks that Continental's policies are fucked.

sometime after midnight

Dark Sparkle was canceled, so I went to the Lexington instead and, despite my original intention of only being there for a little while, stayed until closing. Question: was the fawning of the cute little Irish girl, the one who kept insisting that I'm the most beautiful creature to ever walk the planet (did I mention she was hammered?), worth the fact that I'll be getting no more than two and a half hours of sleep before I have to get up for work?

I should probably ask again in about three hours.

He said he'd like to get some kind of definite answer on the ticket business tomorrow. I could have given him as definite an answer as possible right then and there, but if he's willing to wait until tomorrow, sure.

At least I'll be getting out of here on time. I had this awful vision this morning of him saying that I can't leave the office until it's resolved. Unlikely at best, but my physical at the Waddell Clinic is this afternoon, so of course I'm feeling paranoid about getting there late, even though I'll almost certainly be in a hurry to sit and wait. Anders loaned me his copy of Leslie Feinberg's Stone Butch Blues (thankfully whether or not I'd ever read it didn't come up when I met Leslie) and I have a story to pound out for the writing group tomorrow night. I know what it's going to be, I just need to make it exist. For me, though, having the idea is always the tough part. I admire people who can do that on a regular basis. It's always tough for me.

After that, it's El Rio for the Sorry You're Poor show, and then points unknown. Or home. Home certainly seems more likely.

sometime after midnight

Yep. Home. I was tempted to go to the Lexington and indulge in The Arrangement, but I was too tired, partially because Laurenn's grass was quite strong. Just as well, since my luck never works that way.

I've smoked grass three times in as many nights. It's been a long time since that's happened.

I didn't get a physical at the Waddell today, just a blood test. I'll be returning for the actual physical next week.

The social worker I spoke to recognized me from the Lydia Lunch reading back in March. She didn't know who Danielle was, though.

Tallulah says I have a great radio voice, and wants to have me on again. We talked a lot about kittypr0n and music, and I read a story. Aside from practicing at home, I think it was the first time I've read a piece aloud without a physical audience. Tallulah and her boyfriend were there, of course, but they'd heard it before, and aside from Violet (our lone caller) and the people in the house I have no idea if anyone was listening.

Musically we focused mostly on the ambient/experimental stuff I brought, though Bigod 20 did slip in. While that was playing I told Tallulah how it takes me back to my babybat days four years ago, when I'd just broken up with The Ex and began transitioning and started hanging out in the goth scene. Not a period I necessarily want to relive, but one which I get wistful about all the same, probably because of the cataclysmic changes in my life and the sense that the future was wide open, even if the present was in something of a shambles. And one of my my more pleasant, specific memories is dancing to "The Bog" at Shrine. It was a Good Thing, amidst many which were Bad.

Tallulah's boyfriend commented that, as usual, the best conversations were happening off the air. So, when we went on and Tallulah back-announced the songs, she gave me a perfect lead-in and I more or less repeated what I'd said before. Hopefully, it sounded natural.

12:51pm

Turns out Chick Nite at Spanganga next month is not Wednesday, September 10, but Friday, September 19, the same night as the Litquake Kick-Off Party. Please shift your paradigms accordingly.

1:19pm

Not that I'm completely worthless as an employee, though. I can file like nobody's business. When those checks come in, I photocopy 'em, punch holes through the copies, give the originals to The Boss, and put the other stuff in the large filing cabinet.

Except for when I can't get into the filing cabinet because the key is missing, which takes the luster off my mad secretarial skillz. It's supposed to be in the smaller cabinet next to my desk, but, well, it isn't, and hasn't been since last Wednesday. I've asked around to see if anyone might have it, with no luck. Asked everyone might possibly have it except The Boss, of course, because, well, right about now, I don't want him to know that on top my inability to keep the plants healthy or resolve the airline ticket situation (non-refundable equals no refunds equals you can't get your money back equals sod off) I can't even keep a key. The funny thing is, I still think firing me and hiring someone else would be more trouble than it's worth, so I'm not worried about losing my job, but I'm already feeling useless enough as it is. And I don't know how well I could handle a genuinely raised voice.

Did I lose the key? Moreover, did I lose the key? I don't know. I don't remember losing it, and I'm not sure how I would have lost it, given the relatively short distance it would travel with me. But I don't know where it is, and the responsibility for it is mine by default, ergo I lost it. Thankfully, someone else has a copy—a boy who looks to me like a very young Bill Pullman, and Kelly agrees that he's way prettier than he has any right to be—and has loaned it to me so I can make a copy tonight. So I'll have a new key that'll work just fine and He'll be none the wiser.

4:05pm

Lauren (who is also performing at Chick Nite, which makes me happy) has brought it to my attention that according to the current info the Litquake party starts at seven that evening and Chick Nite at ten. Since they're all of three blocks from each other, event-hopping is not only an option, it's a darn good idea. And you have over a month (they're both on September 19) to work out your own personal logistics.

Per Allegra's suggestion, I've whipped up a sloppy yet functional where I'm reading next page, at the root of my sfgoth site. The page in question has been blank for years since I've never really been sure what to put there (my diary is, of course, in the /diary directory), and it's nice to have something there which isn't completely useless or vain. To keep it from becoming either or both of those things, the primary content is a listing of events I'm not involved with but look cool, mostly because friends of mine are performing. It's never going to rival Larry-Bob's Queer Things to do in San Francisco in terms of sheer usefulness, but it'll help me keep track of stuff I wanna see. And maybe, just maybe, that's enough.

11:58pm

I think I've figured out how to get my hair just right when I do Patti Smith with Anders: soak my head. Seriously. My hair was underwater during most of the photoshoot tonight, and when I got out of the tub I towel-dried it a little so it wouldn't drip, but otherwise left it be. By the time it dried into place, it was totally Patti. More of the makeup also survived the water than I'd expected, and overall I was approximating the cover of the "Because the Night" single. Not my favorite song, but it's a great (if somewhat atypically glammy and commercial) look.