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Sunday, 9 December 2001 (still feel gone) 9:10am If it wasn't for the fact that it can get expensive, involves a fair amount of contact with the general public, and that we were doing it under duress last night (and as a result got snippy with one another at times), the whole "dinner and a movie" thing can be kinda nice. We were about to make our escape in the afternoon when there was a knock on the door, never a good thing—it was the evil (though innocent-looking, which simply increases the evil) upstairs neighbor, reminding us that he was having a party that night. As though we couldn't have done the math on that one ourselves, seeing as how the only time they ever clean their house is when they're expecting guests. Okay, yeah, we make a point of cleaning on those rare occasions when we're expecting company, but the evidence of said cleaning doesn't pile up in the entryway. I wonder if their guests have ever noticed that from the outside, their place looks always looks like they've just had a party? Presently, we told him that we were going to be gone. Still, since he gave us the opportunity to put him on the spot, I took it and asked if the doorbell was working. He said that yes, it was, and as such the gate would be kept closed. Considering that in the past he's said that he keeps the gate open purely for convenience's sake, I don't know if that qualifies as a victory on our part or smoke-blowing on his. And I don't wanna know. Anyway. Hedwig and the Angry Inch. After six months of hype, can any movie live up to expectations? Yep, though personally this one didn't. It was okay, and the music was swell (I'd long since stolen the soundtrack), but it didn't do much for me; I thought some of the themes were muddled and the relationships between certain characters weren't defined very well. But that's just me. And I'm not even going to ruminate on whether Hedwig was representative of real transsexual or the way SRS is used as little more than a plot device—others much angrier than myself have surely tackled that issue by now, no doubt to be met with shrugged shoulders or rebukes of "Oh, lighten up." (I'd imagine it's been the subject of a Dina rant on Tranny Talk by now.) What I find more annoying is lazy reviewers invoking Velvet Goldmine, usually along the lines of Hedwig being what Velvet Goldmine "should have been." It's almost as bad as when eXistenZ was being constantly (and unfavorably) compared to The Matrix. Just because two movies may have certain thematic similarities if you squint and use your imagination, or use the same kind of music, doesn't mean they're both telling the inspiring story of the same handlebar-moustached Olympic runner in the '70s, y'know? Granted, I liked eXistenZ and Velvet Goldmine better than The Matrix and Hedwig, so maybe they know something I don't. It's tucked away in an obscure corner of the arcade, but The Evil Sony Metreon has an air hockey table. At $1 a game it's a little expensive, but it's a great way to kill time before a movie. Most of the kids nearby paid us no mind whatsoever, and the only other people to show any interest in it at all was another white gen-X couple. The youth of these days have no appreciation for the classics, what with their hula hoops and poodle skirts and chocolate sodas and all. Except for a positive comment from an employee about my purple-and-black stripeys (she said she had a pair at home), I didn't seem to get a second look from anyone. When I do finally get audibly clocked—and it's bound to happen eventually—I really don't know how I'm going to react. Somehow I doubt showing them my driver license will quite do the trick. Americans, at least when going to movies, are a bunch of fucking pigs. That was the impression I got when we walked into the theater before it got cleaned up and saw the nauseating, sticky mess of soda, popcorn and chunks of what once might have been a big meaty sandwich left behind by the previous crowd. Accidents will happen, but this was clearly beyond the occasional spill. It's a vicious circle for theater employees that if not for the concession stand they wouldn't have a job—in spite of steep admission prices, if a mainstream theater sold only tickets and not food it couldn't stay in business—but audiences are sloppy, degenerate pigs who not only can't clean up after themselves (depositing your trash in the clearly marked bins is for faggots and terrorists) but seem incapable of not splattering food and drinks everywhere. Beyond the lack of personal responsibility displayed, it's terribly inconsiderate to the people who have to clean up after them. Indulgence without responsibility or consequence, the birthright of being an American. (Is it like this in other theaters around the world? Possibly, I don't know. The Canucks are looking into jamming cellular phone signals in theaters, so that implies they might not be as slovenly as us Yanks. Bless their flapping little heads.) I wonder, when off-duty theater employees watch movie, do they make a point of cleaning up after themselves, or do they figure that they're on the other side now and don't have to worry about it? Why, yes, littering has become a pet peeve of mine. And where, one wonders, do these bad habits begin? I have no idea. (Well, I have a theory, but it might give the impression that I think some people aren't very good parents, and as a non-parent that would clearly be bigotry on my part, wouldn't it?) (Aw, damn the torpedoes. Earlier in the evening we went to a salad buffet restaurant which shall remain nameless. As we were working our way through the bar, a child on the other side was having a sneezing fit. Needless to say, he was well below the sneeze guard and was expectorating directly onto the food. Thankfully, his father was right next to him to say "Bless you" after each one, and one can only hope that the child will develop that good manner. Never mind teaching the kid to cover his mouth when he sneezes—he has to eat with that hand, after all.) Harry Potter and the Sorceror's Stone. God, it started out so promisingly. There was nobody in our immediate vicinity as the movie started, and if anyone was talking, we couldn't hear them. There was a chance in hell we might enjoy the movie in peace. A snowball's chance, as it turns out, as a group of loud young men entered the theater about twenty minutes in and sat right down behind us. They immediately started laughing and repeating words from the dialogue, finding particular amusement in anything which was either British vernacular or spoken pronounced differently than an American might. Because, you know, the British talk funny. I hoped that they'd just popped in while waiting for another movie to start (at a quarter to midnight?), or that they'd get bored and leave, or fall asleep/pass out, or something. But, no, they'd paid their $9.25 to spend their late Saturday night making fun of the movie, and by the name of Our High Commander-In-Chief President George W. Bush, that's exactly what they did. (Take that, Osama!) As I was constantly reminding myself, it could have been worse. Much worse. You go to a mainstream movie theater, that sort of thing is going to happen. Period. End of story. Deal with it. As for the movie, I liked it well enough. Very faithful to the book (inasmuch as is possible for even a two-and-a-half-hour movie based on a book which already reads like a screenplay), which I guess is a good thing. The more I see digital effects, though, the more I miss the old-fashioned kind. We did end up at JT's afterwards, though we didn't come home first. It really is fascinating once in while watch the drunk people in their natural environment after the bars and clubs close, i.e. 24-hour restaurants. And we've now determined that Maddy does not like their denver omelette. We got home about half past three. The gate was closed, and the upstairs was silent. The mission was successful. |
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Thursday, 6 December 2001 (woman driving man sleeping) 6:16pm Is it unrealistic to expect to go to a twenty-three year-old movie in the early afternoon of a schoolday at a theater in the part of town where those dirty fags hang out and not have to deal with loud, obnoxious teenagers? Apparently so, as I discovered when I went to a matinee of 2001: A Space Odyssey at the Castro today. About ten of 'em in a row, no doubt there because they either heard that A) "it's a great movie if you're on drugs" (which is true, if you have the right drugs) and didn't realize that the really psychedelic stuff didn't happen until over two hours into the movie, or B) that it was the biggest laff-fest since The Exorcist, what with the fact that it was made before 1980 and therefore a comedy. A little of both, perhaps. When the monolith on the moon transmitted its high-pitched signal to Jupiter, I glanced over and noticed that a number of the kids had their hands over their ears and pained looks on their faces. Good. They deserved it. Fuckers. Earlier in the day, the landlord (the wife, precisely) called to ask about our energy usage. The reason for the increase in our rent was the electric bill, and apparently the upstairs neighbor has been problematic about it; she was unspecific, but my guess is that he doesn't think we pay enough. The call was mostly a formality, as the landlords are on our side on this one. They know we're conscientious, whereas our neighbors (to name but one example) leave the garage light on then don't bother to replace the bulb when it burns out. It really does pay to be nice sometimes. It also finally came up that I'm unemployed, though I didn't mention for how long. She sounded distressed, not in a "You'd damn well better be able to pay rent!" sense but rather genuinely concerned. And it turns out I'm not the only downsized dot-commer she knows. Imagine that. (I'd never liked to think of myself as a dot-commer, but...) |
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Tuesday, 4 December 2001 (4st 7lb) 3:11pm Not unconcerned, but not alarmed, either. Rather, she's very happy with my weight loss (30 lbs, it turns out), saying that I'm at my optimal weight, visible ribs and all. My breasts aren't quite as large as they might because of the lack of fatty tissue (it's all around my gut), but the upshot is that what's there is real. The other upshot to me being in shape—or, at least, not overweight—is that, along with being under thirty and a nonsmoker, my body can handle the currently high dosages of the hormones longer than most, so I have a bit more time to decide on my surgical fate. Which is a good thing, since I won't be able to afford whatever it may be for a while. We also talked a bit ruefully about the inherent advantages that thinner women have in society, particularly in the job market. It's wrong and bad, but it's the way things are. Of course, for that to work to my advantage, I'd have to be regarded as a woman rather than a tranny. I suspect that if a hiring decision came down to between me and a genetic woman, regardless of her appearance, she'd still have the advantage. And it's not that forced horse pregnancy (yes, I am very cognizant of the moral issues) is on the decline, but that premarin isn't being made in 2.5mg pill form so much anymore. Seems it's not a very popular amount, and Adam Smith's invisible hand took it from there. After calling around to various local pharmacies for a while, I found an indie place that actually still has them in stock, and they didn't laugh at me when I said I'd be needing sixty a month. Best of all, they charge considerably less than Long's. Not that it'll matter next month, when I should be added onto Maddy's insurance for real. She also suggested that my low red blood cell count may not be from my eating habits, but rather from the estrogen, and that they probably were probably comparing my test results to a male standard. Makes sense. Best of all, since I'm so (in her words) stable, my next appointment won't be for another year. Yay. My new credit card arrived. One problem: it's under my old name. I called to find out why, and was told that it was a "graduation upgrade," unrelated to my request for a new card with my new name, and in spite of the fact that I graduated four years ago and the credit limit is the same. In other words, it's the same as it ever was. My real new card, with the proper name, should be arriving any day now. Just to be on the safe side, though, I cut up and threw away the "upgrade" card. Can never be too careful. |
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Monday, 3 December 2001 (color, sound, oblivion) 11:00am A recurring theme in job-hunting tips is persistence. My problem is that I'm too damn passive, and afraid of being a nusiance. All the same, I called the guy with whom I interviewed before Thanksgiving, the one who said he'd get back to me last week. I figured I was justified, since he was late in responding, but I still couldn't help feeling pushy. After all, if I've learned anything lately, it's that nobody's required to communicate. My old company, to name but one, never acknowledged any of my attempts to get another position, even though their hype was that downsized employees get first consideration. To slightly paraphrase Woody, it's worse than dog-eat-dog out there—it's dog-doesn't-return-other-dog's-phone-calls.
Anyway, he said that a decision hadn't been made, but probably would be today, and
that I should hear something by midweek. We'll see.
The eels show was quite different from last year's, which is impressive considering they only have a few albums of material to work with, the latest of which hasn't been released in the states yet for reasons known only to their monolithic record label Dreamworks. (I was familiar with the new material because I got the album off the usenet, which surely goes to prove the RIAA's contention that mp3s are destroying the music industry. Granted, I bought their last two albums on the days they were released and go to their shows when they're in town, but I'm stealing from the group because I've gotten some of their music on mp3.) No Lisa Germano this time—which is the primary reason Maddy didn't join me—and the overall sound was louder, noisier and angstier, with plenty of tortured guitars and feedback. Which is to say, it was glorious. As for choice of material, the opener was a heavy, electrified version of the normally quiet "Elizabeth On the Bathroom Floor," about his sister's suicide, and from there it got depressing. Again, glorious. I'm going to see my endocrinologist tomorrow morning. Funny to think it's been a year since my dosage was corrected. I imagine she might be concernted about my weight, since I've lost at least twenty lbs since she last saw me. Or she might not care. Nothing to be concerned about, perhaps. |
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Sunday, 2 December 2001 (...your secret is safe with us) 11:33am I'm feeling so damn butch right now it ain't even funny—I just installed a new toilet seat. It's probably the most hardware-oriented think I've ever done to this place, and that's including pre-transitioning. Hell, I'm probably more adventurous in that respect now. Go figure. Meanwhile, with me two months unemployed and the holidays approaching, we've decided to bite the bullet and upgrade our computer. An AMDK6-2/550 CPU and 256MB RAM extension have been ordered and should arrive sometime this week—for under $100, which makes it feel worth it. The extra RAM we can put in ourselves, but we're going to wait for Newman's (offered) assistance with the CPU just in case. With any luck I'll be getting the new mystery graphics card from Fallon in the near future. These things will equal "happy." Oscar's feline herpes has inflamed in his eye once more, so he got to sleep with us last night and probably will again tonight. Normally we have to shut him and Mina out of the bedroom, at least if we want to get any sleep at all. He started out between my ankles, but by around 5am had stretched out to the extent that it was easier for me just to move to the couch in the living room. (No, moving him wasn't an option.) Doing so, unfortunately, triggered another "working at Le Video" dream. I'll know better next time. |
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Saturday, 1 December 2001 (poor places) 7:51am At least one part of my dream involved nothing but surrealism, like driving down a hilly road and seeing it populated with oddly angled doors, like Cristo had done a tribute to Dr. Caligari. Penny ante stuff, perhaps, but pleasant compared to my usual dreams. Naturally, it didn't last, morphing into a George Carlin show at (what didn't really resemble but my mind interpreted to be) the Warnor's Theater in Fresno in which I was responsible for yet unable to get the lighting at a proper level and had to be cut short anyway because spinal fluid started spurting out of an audience member's head. Standard stuff, really. We ran some errands last night at the mall and Chez Target. At the mall my primary mission was picking up the hormone refill I'd called in on Tuesday, and I was particularly nervous since this would be the first time in years I'd paid for them without the benefit of insurance. Coincidentally to being uninsured they'd just happened to run out of premarin (what, horses aren't getting on it like they used to?), but of course they don't have any system in place to notify me of this fact until I actually come in and the low-energy employee gets all confused when they can't find my prescription on the shelf. They gave me an advance of four pills (two days' worth) and told me that they should have it in on Saturday, but we returned home later to find a message on the voicemail saying that I could go to one of their other locations, where they could give me fifty more pills. Mind you, the usual amount is sixty. What I'm probably gonna do is go in, pay for the four pills (did I mention that the full amount for all sixty is $120, down from the $10 copay with insurance? I'm so glad I'm doing my part to help CNET stay competitive) and cancel the rest of the order. I'm seeing my endoc on Tuesday and will be getting a new prescription under my new name (it had previously been under the old 'cuz that was the name on my insurance) and take it to the Walgreen's three minutes away, rather than a Long's in a mall twenty minutes away. It's only inertia that's been keeping me there all this time. I'll still have to pay full price for this month's supply, but after the first of the year I'll be on Maddy's insurance and will be covered again. Yep, that's a goddamn plan, it is. Even if it is terribly bourgeois. Anyway, walking around in the heart of consumer culture last night in full battle gear (I haven't been getting made up much lately, and kinda missed it), I got very little attention. I made occasional eye contact with people whom, under normal circumstances, would probably say that they could always spot what they would consider to be a man in women's clothing. I'm not a mindreader, but I think most queers (particularly those of us who are more visible) have a sort of reverse gaydar—you can just tell when you're in the presence of hostile norms. And there's no shortage of them at a mall on a Friday night. The funny thing is, I'm still loathe to use the p-word. It's too loaded. Maybe because it's so easily abused, or used as a status symbol. (Miguel lived with a haughty, borderline queeny tranny for a while who pretty much lived to talk shit about others, always going on about how much more passable she was—a debatable point in and of itself. Then, of course, there was The Other, who decided she was simply by declaring it so, like it was a birthright.) Besides, sometimes all I have to do is open my mouth, and the cover is blown. Which may or may not account for why I never heard back about the job interview. |
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