|
| < 8/21 8/22 8/23 8/24 8/25 8/26 8/25 8/27 8/28 8/29 8/30 8/31 >
|
On Friday night we rented Steven Soderbergh's remake of Solaris, the only studio film I've wanted to see over the last year. (I don't count House of 1,000 Corpses as a studio film in this context, since since its low budget and distribution problems pretty much grant it indie status.) Wow. Just...wow. I loved it. Somber, deliberate, philosophical, cinematic, and very non-American. I can totally see why it flopped and got some of the worst audience reactions in years. And we're not talking Gigli-esque "we worship celebrities but ultimately want to see them fail" snarkiness either. People actively loathed this movie, it offended them, and for all the same reasons that it worked for me. I kinda wish I'd seen it in the theater, but considering the way people behave at movies they're actually enjoying, it's probably just as well that I didn't. This is one of those times that I really wish we had an anamorphic teevee set, though. My DVD collecting habit has long since been kicked, but I must own this one—and the Tarkovsky original, too. (And although the palettes of the two films are very different, I loved the occasional visual shout-outs to the Tarvoksky version. What some would probably call laziness or a lack of originality felt to me like a reward for paying attention.) I think they're going to be the kinds of movies that I return to every so often as spiritual comfort food, like Eraserhead or The Last Temptation of Christ. As is so often the case with movies that touch me, I wouldn't recommend it to anyone. Those who dislike it have valid reasons and are clearly in the majority. I'm the one that's out of step.
10:25am We'd considered going to Bolinas for the weekend, but decided to stay in town. For starters, it's one of the biggest travel weekends of the year, which could make the traffic on a trip even as relatively short as the one to Bolinas (which we can see from the beach a block away from our apartment) more than a little gnarly. There was also the cost, the fact that we probably wouldn't get to hook up with c0g and Melissa and thus be without a native guide, and an editing appointment we had scheduled for Saturday morning. Besides, as I say, everyone else is travelling or already out in the desert. What better time to stay in our beloved City and keep the faith? After editing yesterday, we went to Rainbow. Every time I go there I see someone I know, or at least recognize. In this case it was Seeley's Sister, who was in the little cafe/reading area on the Folsom side of the store. Maddy was understandably intrigued to finally meet her, and was also relieved to discover that she wasn't quite as butch as I may have led her to believe. I do have more a taste for butches than I used to, it's true, but she doesn't have anything to worry about in that respect. I can still appreciate long (or longish) hair and makeup on a girl, too. They don't have to look like twelve year-old boys. Honest. We continued our queer/alt/veggie tour and had lunch at Herbivore, which has become practically a weekend ritual for us. Maddy's been craving their shawarma, and we can share one with a bowl of soup and be satisfied for cheap. Rocco came in while we eating, on his lunch break from Dog-Eared down the street. As we were leaving, we happened upon a friend who recently moved to Mountain View but comes back into town whenever he can to make the Valencia circuit. He said it still feels like home to him. I understand, since I live across town but that area feels like home to me. We walked with him down to Borderlands, where Ripley was making on her rare appearances. From there we hit Paxton Gate for the first time and 826 Valencia for only the second (I didn't get mopped this time) before going to the Community Thrift Store for the zillionth. I found very quickly that I wasn't quite feeling up for the browsing the racks, but thankfully Maddy was, since she found me two pairs of really neat pants: one red faux-snakeskin (chupapants!) and one black faux-leather, both hip-huggery, and both actually a tad too big on me, which is not a bad thing. (Bulge isn't generally a problem with me, but the tighter the clothes, the more of an issue it becomes. And tucking isn't really an option, for the same reasons that bulge isn't a problem. It's all about the mechanics.) Best of all, they were both less than ten dollars. I forget exactly what led up to it—she complimented my appearance, and things went from there, I guess—but I told the girl behind the counter at City Blend Cafe on Wednesday that I generally spend more on clothes than I do on food. It's not strictly true, but it's not far from it, either. And I don't spend much on food. At least that particular score mostly made up for the unpleasantness of an employee accusing Maddy of locking a filing cabinet for which they didn't have the key. She didn't lock it, though she had been looking at it before, and when someone mentioned that she'd been looking at it the employee assumed she'd done it. Things didn't go quite as ugly as they could have (like, as ugly as the employee—damn, but he was a sight best left unbeheld), but it still put a slight damper on the afternoon. It also demonstrated something I'd said earlier: Maddy has really bad luck sometimes. It's nothing she deserves or brings on herself. It's just an unfortunate, unintentional tendency to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Still, at least I got out with the chupapants. Which I changed into at the Lexington. I'd suggested a lovely beverage might help to improve her mood, and she agreed. While we were there, a couple obnoxious straight guys came in. (Why, yes, I can tell by looking.) Happens all the time. It's a free country, after all. And there would be more of them before the night was through. As were leaving in search of a record-breaking second restaurant meal of the day (it's unusual for us), a girl out front said she remembered seeing me wearing a t-shirt that she'd really liked. At first I was at a loss as to when that might have been, since I really don't wear t-shirts anymore. We finally realized it was the Nike "Class War - Just Do It!" shirt I wore to the Drag King Contest last month. I told her I got it at Michelle Tea's yard sale, which is true (and whenever anyone compliments me on what I'm wearing I feel the need to tell its origin story), then immediately felt like I was name-dropping. Maddy assured me that didn't count. After dinner at Zao we went home, found that nobody had responded to our open invitation for karaoke at Annie's (buncha damn hipsters), and went anyway. Things started out slowly, and the emcee said that the previous Saturday she'd ended early for lack of interest. That seemed a possibility now, especially considering that our usual karaoke cohorts Ted and Kelly were at Burning Man, so presumably other regulars might be as well. The evening was saved from a premature end by the arrival of a birthday party comprised of drunk straight people. Hey, they make the world go 'round, not me. The birthday boy had just turned twenty-one and was pretty much acting the way you'd expect. (He was wearing a baseball cap backwards, which may or may not say it all.) They hadn't quite arrived when I did U2's "Hold Me Thrill Kiss Me Kill Me" but during my otherwise not-entirely-sucky "Raspberry Beret," he got a little...um...intrusive. So much so that the emcee had to pull him away at least once. She and Maddy both said I handled it quite well, and didn't seem to be flustered at all. And I wasn't. Annoyed, yes, and I never like having my personal space invaded by men who reek of alcohol (I tell ya, if I could get past the ickiness factor, I could be making bank), but that was about it. I was more bothered by a couple of girls in his party. It was bad enough that they were terribly amused by the way I danced—I saw one of them nudge and point at me, and they both started making exaggerated movements with their arms while staring at me. Ooooh. Clever, that. Made me think of a regular on Tuesday nights, a lanky John Cale-lookalike with whom Danielle had hit if off terribly well last time. I was hoping he'd be there so I could give him her contact info, if she hadn't done so before. I know she'd love to hear from him. He wasn't, unfortunately. Anyway, he's been given the nickname "Swirlies" because of his dancing style. Ah, Norms. Their cleverness is matched only by their jealousy. Anyway, I wasn't bothered by them making fun of me nearly as much as what they were doing to one of their own. She was a blonde girl who looked not unlike Sarah Michelle Gellar as a Hitchcock object d'desire, with that Grace Kelly/Tippi Hedren ice queen quality. Although it might seem cruel in its own right, Maddy and I referred to her as "Smidge." (Sarah Michelle Gellar's initials. I stole it from Fametracker, actually.) At the start of the evening she was a voice of reason, telling one of them that her shrieking was extremely irritating (which it was), but as the night wore on they pressured into drinking more than she wanted, and mixing. By the end of the night she was hammered and not at all happy about it. She's a grownup and can make her own decisions, but it was also obvious that the others were making it extremely difficult for her to say no, and, as we've all discovered at one point or another, sometimes it's easier to just say yes. I came home to find sfgoth back up. Yay. | ||
 | ||
Last night wasn't quite as late as we'd expected. After picking up (e) at nine, we found parking across from Sacrifice. Within a couple hours, though, the queer element had been mostly replaced by the straight, grabby bio-boy element, and the vibe was far less hospitable. The End of the World's long-awaited "Hella Hos" video had its premiere, though, so that was a fitting send-off, even if the guy with the open shirt insisted on beginning a game of pool while it was playing. My cool, disaffected veneer finally cracked and I asked Bucky, who's up for the part of the sheriff (and would thus get the best line) if he's actually heard anything back from the people doing the play. He said he hasn't, and doesn't expect to until next week—they're at Burning Man right now. Of course. Of course they're at Burning Man. Any illusions I might have harbored about being intelligent were shattered at that moment. It only makes perfect sense that they'd be at Burning Man right now, and yet it hadn't even crossed my mind. I mean, how else was I able to get the aforementioned rockstar parking? Because everyone's at Burning Man, that's why. Naturally. Big fat duh, that one. I also wouldn't be surprised if sfgoth, which has been down since Tuesday, will be down until the City is repopulated. The ripples are usually more interesting than the stone hitting the water. Anders tells me we have dates for our club at El Rio, both Sundays. The first is late November, and the second is mid-December. There are no conflicts with existing clubs that we're aware of, and we have Michelle's blessing, which is important; the format will be not entirely unlike Sorry You're Poor, and we don't want to seem like we're moving in on her thing. Now we just have to make it happen. It'll be a good thing, I think.
10:30am A woman from another company in the building asked if she could borrow my restroom key, since she forgot hers. I gave her one of my extras to keep for the day; I had a few made for precisely this sort of thing. (Well, that, and my unfortunate tendency to leave them in the restroom.) She was very grateful. See? I still do nice things. My favorite coworker-who-isn't-Kelly, the person with whom I have the most contact by virtue of the locations of our desks, is resigning. His last day is next Wednesday. Fuck. I really like him. He was one of the original employees, but he's had enough. I can't say blame him, but still. No fair.
3:04pm We were at Violet's with Tristan last week, and, as always, the teevee was on. I think it's a stream-of-input thing that helps keep him centered, something to distract him from other things going on in his brain. Anyway, he and Tristan were watching Paradise Hotel, a quote-reality-unquote show. Tristan said he loves watching shows "where straight people make fools of themselves." This one certainly qualifies. The set was facing away from me, but I could hear it, and whenever I risked a glance, what I saw freaked me out. It was like I was on a low dose of acid or something. My god, these people, they're just—I mean, what's wrong with their faces? (Tip: the tiny button to stop the music is to the immediate right of the pictures, below the keyring.) Is this what the straight world finds beautiful? Was teevee always this fucked up, and I just didn't realize it when I used to actually watch? Then again, I think it's across the board. American pop culture is an alien landscape to me. I was reading a profile of a character actor on Fametracker—which, along with Salon, tells me everything I need to know about the mainstream media without making me want to kill myself the way actually experiencing it does—and in a list of the actor's more memorable roles, I encountered this sentence: "He's the dude out of whose ass the monkey flies in Bruce Almighty." Oh, man. And that movie grossed two hundred and forty fucking million dollars. I may be an American by birth, but it wasn't my idea, and sometimes I feel like I don't have a damn thing in common with the rest of that lot. And speaking of Salon (to which I have to give a big "fuck you" for forcing paying subscribers like me to look at Ashton Kutcher's big face today: fuck you very, very much) , I think Neal Pollack pretty much nailed it about that awards show last night: "Everyone else is going to make a big deal of the fact that Madonna tongue-kisses Christina and Britney, but to me it just reeks of desperation. Tatu is hotter, ladies." Yes. Oh, yeah. I heard on NPR this morning that Fresno was the first stop on Arnold Schwarzenegger's campaign trail. No. Just, no.
| ||
| ||
Now I know how one of the chapters of my book will begin: "The closer Mars got, the more my back hurt. It was probably a coincidence."
9:52am Maddy, (e) and I were walking up Telegraph towards the Mediterraneum last night when a very fey gay boy started talking to us. I think he was originally trying to bum a cigarette from (e) (boy, it's a good thing nicotine isn't addictive, huh?), but when he saw me, he asked if I was a boy or a girl. I asked him which he thought I was. He said he wasn't sure, and as a result couldn't decide if he wanted to hug me or not. I asked him why it even mattered which I was, that I might be willing to either way since he was kinda cute as boys go. (In retrospect, he kinda looked like the lead singer from Fine Young Cannibals.) (Not that anyone remembers what he looked like.) A mental coin was tossed, and he concluded that I was "the hottest guy he'd ever seen." Likes 'em uber-femmey, I guess. Granted, I was in my plaid bondage pants and cowboy hat, but even though I also made up and baring midriff, it's questionable as to whether or not I was at my femmiest. Anyway, I told him as kindly as I could that he'd blown his chances for that hug, and that maybe he shouldn't be quite so binary about it. He then asked where we were from, and when we said San Francisco, he practically skittered away. Of course, I was being just as binary as he was. My response should have been "Why do I have to be one or the other?" I need to embrace my androgyny. It's mine and it's not a bad thing.
10:37am (e) featured at Steven and Monique's open mic last night. In spite of the room being even more sweltery than usual, she killed. (She'd tell you otherwise, of course.) As is so often the case when watching her perform, I had more than a few moments of i am so not worthy-ness. Although I am somewhat influenced by her (especially when attempting poetry), it's a good thing our primary writing styles aren't the same. I'd be way too intimidated, I'm sure. I read a new piece, one that I'd completed earlier that afternoon. It was partially inspired by Kirk's reading last week, and it works for the writing group's assignment tonight. Beyond the fact that it still needs a lot of work, it became very obvious that I haven't been reading in public enough lately. The last time was Jon Sugar's birthday party at A Different Light two and a half weeks ago, and that's entirely too long. Rust never sleeps, after all. I need to start hitting open mics more. I so need the practice. Otherwise it's like I'm resting on my laurels, and, quite frankly, I have none upon which to rest. I am devoid of laurels. Afterwards, we drove back into the City for Sorry You're Poor at the El Rio. We got there an hour and half after it was supposed to begin, and, amazingly, it was almost over. That never happens. Michelle told me that even though it started late, the show ran short. It was okay, though. The hanging out before and after is half the fun. A slightly schnookered girl recognized me, saying I was "The pretty girl at Chick Nite." I told her that perhaps I was a, but certainly not the. After all, I spent much of that evening with Lynnee's girlfriend Jenn, who is empirically much prettier. My handwriting is bad enough under the best of circumstance, so rapidly jotting down a post-it's worth of notes is not a good idea, not if I intend to make sense of it the next day. Oh! "Story in context of book, The Ex." That's what it says. I think it means I wanted to write about my new piece in the context of an actual book, which I've been becoming more and more inspired to attempt while reading Kirk's How I Learned to Snap. It took Lynnee nine years to write his, so at least there's no rush. Anders talked to one of the El Rio honchos about him and I doing a club there, and it looks like Sundays will be available starting in November. (Presumably once a month for starters, and not on the first because I really don't want to compete with K'vetch.) Yay. Scary, but yay. Lauren Wheeler and David West are also up for doing a one-shot with me on a Friday night at the Dolores Park Cafe in October, unless I get the part in the play, in which case my October weekends are pretty well booked. Either way, keeping busy is good. Sacrifice's final night is Thursday. It was nice while it lasted.
| ||
| ||
We're taking my car to the mechanic this morning. Beyond the fact that it needs a general checkup and an oil change, the brakelights still don't work, the smog certification is due in a couple weeks, and I discovered yesterday in a Santa Cruz parking lot that there's a hole or three in the antifreeze tank. This is going to be painful. We found ourselves in Santa Cruz after a fit of impulsiveness that started with a drive to The Mountain House. The original plan was to have a friend or two over for dinner, but the collective mood shifted after a disagreement about Arrangement protocol (I'm taking a mile), so we decided to go for a drive to get away. We'd been talking about going to The Mountain House for a couple years now; it's something of a mecca amongst Neil Young fans, being just down Skyline a piece from his ranch (though those who know exactly where his ranch is are keeping it to themselves, as well they should) and was the shooting location for at least one of his videos. Foodwise it's an overpriced steakhaus, but there's also a bar, and it's in an utterly gorgeous area, surrounded by tall redwoods. Seemed like as good a way as any to salvage a Sunday afternoon. I hadn't actually set foot in the place since before transitioning, and when we arrived we stood outside by the car, more than a little nervous. It's not quite like a bar in the Midwest, but we still imagined going in and it being like a movie—the locals would suddenly stop talking, and even the jukebox would come to a screeching halt, complete with the sound of the needle scratching off the record. After a few minutes I decided that I'd never be able to forgive myself if I chickened out. Of course, nobody really cared about us. We were mostly ignored by the few people in there, and the bartender was extremely pleasant. The drunk old barfly didn't even focus on us as we were afraid she might. And, otherwise, the place is just about the same as it ever was, although the framed collection of concert stubs and backstage passes is a bit more current, including one from the Springsteen show a couple weeks back. When we left, I decided to drive south on Skyline rather than north back to San Francisco, since I'd never gone that way before and it was still relatively early in the afternoon. Eventually we made our way to Highway 1, at a point halfway between Santa Cruz and San Francisco. Santa Cruz was sushi at Pink Godzilla. San Francisco was home. We knew we'd be back there eventually.
10:35am I'm playing hooky from work. Sort of. I called in and told them some complications had arisen with taking my car to the shop, which isn't a lie. They'll be able to muddle by without me. Besides, I have some writing to do, and Oscar has a vet appointment this afternoon. So I'm being productive.
6:57pm And the wheel of karma, she continues her spin: the answer is no. From the venue, that is. Seems the current every-other-month show, the host of which originally suggested I contact the owner about doing alternating months, is going monthly in January. The irony is so beautiful you want to buy it dinner and fuck it till it bleeds, huh? The owner did say that they have a single open Friday in October to which I'm welcome if I want. That's going to depend on whether or not I get the part in the play, about which I was supposed to have heard something "in a few days," and that was a week ago. So there you have it. I got my car back, and it didn't cost as much as I was expecting. Yay.
| ||
| ||
ooooh! look at all this rope! how cool! thank you! it's just what i've always wanted...there's so much i can do with it...
6:45am Going was the Wrong thing to do, especially on that night, but I did it anyway. My impulse control is non-existent these days. this is me indulging myself On the way to Tarin Towers's birthday party on Friday night, I walked by Edo at the corner of Haight and Steiner. It's a salon which doubles as an art gallery (not in the way that most salons in the eighties were Patrick Nagel galleries, mind you), and although it was after ten a crowd was spilling out onto the sidewalk. An opening party, I gathered. The Irish Girl had said she worked there, and, yep, there she was. She seemed pleasantly surprised to see me, especially since she neither of us had been to the Lexington since the last time we spoke, nor do we see ourselves going again in the near future. Seasons change. I finally met her oft-mentioned girlfriend Mary, a cute butch who reminded me of a slightly younger Sini Anderson, and we hit it off fabulously. She mentioned that she was a bike messenger, and I asked if she'd read Godspeed. Turns out that she worked for Lynnee's all-girl bike messenger service Lickety Split back in the day, but hasn't seen actually Lynnee for a few years. She asked if K'vetch is still happening. I imagine they'll be there next month. Tarin's party was at the Peacock Lounge on Haight between Fillmore and Steiner, with a few bands playing and a cover which had thankfully been reduced by the time I got there. I didn't get to talk to Tarin very much, but she thanked me for providing her with a bio for the Chick Nite press release, and a fairly entertaining one at that. Evidently she usually has to write them herself, and considering that she may not have heard of me before this month, that would have been tough. Hell, I've known myself for a long time, and it's tough for me. She mentioned that I'm going to be the first goth in the series, and I get the feeling it fascinates her and that she'll be playing it up. Which is fine. I don't have Label Fear about it, and it's not why she asked me to perform; she probably didn't even pick up on it until reading my bio. The bass player from Kung Fu USA, Dan, was someone I knew from Fresno; we used to work at Video Zone together. In fact, if memory serves, he and Jonco used to be in the same grade in elementary school, making him the person in San Francisco whom I've known the longest. I last saw him in '99 at the South Beach video store of another old friend, Greg, who was also present that evening. I did acid in his apartment in Fresno at least once. They pretty much look the same as they ever did, at least compared to me. "You've gotten so thin!" Among other things. I don't think they necessarily grokked right off the bat that my deal is a gender change and not just me going way emo. (Or would that be way twee? I get the two confused.) You can never be sure in this City, and that's one of the things I love about it. I love that a genetic girl wearing makeup or a Wonderbra can qualify as drag. Anyway, male pronouns were occasionally used even though I requested they not be, but for how long I've known them, that's okay. When I told Greg I'm going by Sherilyn now, he observed that I broke the "J" pattern in my family. Yes, indeed, happily. Saturday morning I went to the gym. There's a new sign up: "For your enjoyment, the radio is kept on set stations. Please do not change them or ask that they be changed." Those first three words slay me. It's for your enjoyment, so quit your bitchin'! The set station is one of the local dance stations, which I actually prefer to the cock-rock stations. They're much easier to drown out in my headphones, which I did with Neil Young's new album Greendale. Oh my god but it's fucking brilliant, especially after the severe letdown of Are You Passionate? (and this is from someone who thinks Landing on Water and Trans are underrated), it's so nice to have Neil back, fucking shit up as he does so well. I still probably won't actually buy the CD itself since I want him and his family to starve, and the tour which I concert which I can't afford anyway has already come and gone (Horehound went and said it was amazing), and there's some cat harshness so playing it around Maddy is problematic, but damn, it's good. We ran into Seeley Quest later in the day. I didn't mention hir long-lost Sister. I got my latest prescription filled; same dosage of premarin, and now spironolactone. I wonder if it'll make me feel different than I've been feeling lately. I wonder if I really want it to. But I know I don't like how much thicker my body hair has gotten over the last month or two, how long the hair on my chest gets, and how quickly. Since I've been so impulsive and neglectful and self-destructive and generally not good lately, I really cut loose and had a pint of Soy Delicious Mocha Almond Fudge last night. It was okay, I guess. And then, to compound it, I not only didn't go to the gym this morning, I didn't even do the stretching and crunches I do every morning, spending my time instead sitting at the computer, attempting an indirect exorcism. Lock up yr daughters, I'm outta control.
| ||
| ||
The Boss is out of the office for the next two weeks, which means I can breathe normally for a change. Not because of the stress level being lower, but because there won't be any cigarette smoke. I won't miss his constant hack, either. At Maddy's suggestion, Violet and Tristan are working on a homegrown reprint of Danielle's first book Corpse Delectable for the next Alternative Press Expo. It's going to be an expanded edition with some new material from Danielle as well as a few other people, and Violet has asked to use something of mine. You can probably guess my answer.
1:30pm I used to avoid trailers because I didn't want the movie itself to be spoiled. Nowadays I go to or even rent so few movies that I might as well see the trailer, since it's as much as much enjoyment as I'm likely to get out of sitting though the movie itself, and for a lot less money and stress besides. Anyway, I just watched the trailer for The Matrix Revolutions. Ehhhh. Looks the same as the trailer for the second one: lots of people running and jumping and flying and shooting and big things going boom, mostly shot through an ugly green filter. Wheee. I just don't care. Lest I seem too pretentious, I also find that I'm not particularly interested in American Splendor, even though I love the comic. Maybe I'm not so much pretentious as I am jaded. Or maybe I'm just bitter because I'm still paying off my Cinema degree.
2:18pm Twice today I've been asked if that strange sound was coming from my computer (Coil's Time Machines), and the second time, was asked to turn it down (Monos' Nightfall Sunshine). In both cases, the people were in other rooms. I guess I get carried away with my drones sometimes.
4:09pm
at this moment, you should be with us
sometime after midnight My City is very small. Sometimes it all seems to be within a single block.
| ||
| ||
Although I was up until half past midnight formatting my setlists page, I woke up at five. The alarm is set for twenty to six, but five is when my body decided it had had enough. The crash will happen this afternoon, I'm sure. I didn't buy it last night on account of brokeness, but Staying Alive: Real Poems for Unreal Times may well have the best cover ever, perhaps even moreso than the original Prozac Nation. Yes, I am a pig and I am judging these books by their covers. I'm that way a lot.
9:49am While I'm very happy in our little apartment by the ocean in the 94116 zip code (even if the walls close in on Maddy sometimes), I can't help but notice that all the cool people seem to live in 94110. No wonder Michelle named her second book after one of its streets.
9:12pm The lineup for Chick Nite next month has been officially announced: Kitten on the Keys, Lisa Geduldig, Charlie, Lauren and myself, with Tarin Towers hosting. Neat.
sometime after midnight I've reached a conclusion about publicity: if your name is spelled right, the rest can slide. If you can't handle that, you probably shouldn't be doing anything in public in the first place.
| ||
| ||