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Tuesday, 20 February 2001 (baby let your hair grow long) 12:28pm Okay, I think it's out of my system. I think my current indulgences have been satisfied. In addition to getting The Conet Project, I also broke down and ordered the Cosmos DVD box set last week, and it arrived today. Those were the primary toys which I'd been talking myself out of, and apparently giving in was the best approach. I even had my Happy Drug Experience this weekend, and that always has a calming effect on me. (It had been so long since I'd done a decent hallucinogen, I'd forgotten how nice it can be.) And now, I behave. Even going to the gym tonight, in spite of how much I'd like to get home and start watching the new acquisition. All in good time. The fun stuff is more fun when it's balanced out with necessity, and exercise is a necessity. In hopes of making the experience a little less stressful, we're going to a different gym tonight. It's in SoMa, and my experience with it (at least, when I used to go on a regular basis two or three years ago) suggests that it won't be as insanely busy as the one on Ocean. Maybe things have changed, I don't know. We'll see.
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Monday, 19 February 2001 (lacuna) 9:47pm In addition to attending raver/drug and goth/bondage parties, we've been catsitting for Dana and Costanza while they've been scouting potential homes in Seattle. They have three cats and have been gone since Friday, yet as of this afternoon the coffee table in their living room is essentially how they left it—which is to say, in spite of the cats having free run of the place nothing's been knocked off. And yet, we can't turn around without Oscar and Mina pushing something down somewhere. It's quite peculiar. Back to work tomorrow. This is the first time in a long while in which a three-day weekend doesn't feel wasted.
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Sunday, 18 February 2001 (the lincolnshire poacher) 11:34am After a better night's sleep than I've had in a while, I've come down completely. Now it's safe to go back into the world, and even drive.
Which, unfortunately, we did yesterday. It was raining, we were tired and still
a little dazed, though not entirely in a bad way. The perfect day to stay
inside. But we had errands to run, and ran them we did, diving headfirst into
the biomass at the mall and Target. The theory was that it might wake us up a little
(why would we want to wake up? I'm still not sure), and I suppose it did. It
also served as a reminder that this isn't really my world. It's a feeling I get
whenever I'm on drugs in public, which is one of the reasons I try not to go out
much in that condition—I'm just a visitor in this place. It wasn't made for me.
I wore my Dead Tech waist cincher to the GGPET tonight, the first time I've worn it in public. I got a few comments on it, from Tiff and from one of the people working the door, who really liked it. And to think I was worried that I wasn't quite following the dress code since I was wearing it with a sports bra. Well, I'm sorry, I just don't have anything else that works as well... Y'know, Sunday nights just aren't the same since Reel Wild Cinema was cancelled.
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Saturday, 17 February 2001 (ready ready (15728)) 2:34pm If I was antisocial, could I have stayed up all night doing acid and nitrous with a bunch of ecstasy-soaked ravers? I don't think so. We only did the nitrous three or four times. It took that long to get the hang of it (inhale and exhale into the balloon normally) and by that point, we realized that for as much fun as it was, that much oxygen deprivation in such a short period of time can't be good. Moderation. That's the goddamned key. And I'll say this for driving while on acid, even coming down: it's still better than driving stoned. In fact, on a number of points during the course of the evening various pipes were offered to us, and were politely declined. After all, Orky had liquid acid, purer than anything I'd ever had before—why would we want to ruin it by smoking grass? Though we've come down, the druggy stupor is still with us, and I expect it will be until we go to sleep tonight. We napped a little this morning, after going out to the beach and then descending upon a local diner (where the waitress, surely having seen our look in many other sets of eyes, was determined to serve us coffee), but it's not that cleansing sleep. When we wake up tomorrow, we'll be completely sober. I'm not so much looking forward to that as I am resigned to it—but, y'know, at least I'll be more comfortable driving. Although we're not gonna stop in bat country.
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Friday, 16 February 2001 (disconnect) 9:20am I'd like to suggest a potentially controversial notion: impressions of William Shatner aren't all that funny anymore.
Just a thought.
At the top of the stairs was a man handing out flyers. Being the morning rush there were more people exiting the station than entering, so he was focusing his attention down the stairs and I slipped by unnoticed. I got my change and proceeded to exit the station. Rather than be smart and exit the station from somewhere else (I had three others to choose from), I went back the way I came. Now, it's a set of stairs with an escalator on the right. The stairs are about two or three times as wide as the escalator, and the flyer guy was trying to work both, although favoring the escalator. Captive audience and all. With that in mind, I walked up the stairs, keeping to the left. I put my hands in my pockets and looked down. No eye contact, no available limbs—surely that would get the point across, yes?
No. Sensing a challenge (somebody needs a hug!), he actually stepped towards me,
flyer outstretched. I was suddenly very angry, and I put my hand out, palm upright, the universal
sign for Stay The Fuck Away From Me. I wanted to speak, but didn't—which is for the best, since I probably would
have shouted unpleasant things. When I'm going about my business in public, all I want is to be left
alone. That's really it. (Except in the case of friends, of course.) And I'm still too stupid to
realize that, yes, it is too much to ask.
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Thursday, 15 February 2001 (the sporting life) 8:45am Actually, it wasn't shrimp cocktail; it was larger (jumbo?) shrimp which we then dipped into cocktail sauce. Apologies for the factual error. 11:42am It appears Keith Knight and I are in agreement about Ellen Burstyn's chances of winning an Oscar. 4:53pm I finally listened to Eminem's The Marshall Mathers LP today. I've had it since June—downloaded it off the usenet, which is why it sold so poorly and Eminem is destitute—but never got around to it until now, and only because I was looking for something else and it happened to be on the same disc. Anyway...well, I'm not entirely sure what I think of it. I found myself laughing through half of it, shuddering through the other half and not taking any of it seriously. No doubt it's people like me who think it's all just a joke that are the real problem. Or not. I doubt I'll be returning to it much, and I'm certainly not going to play it around Maddy. (I promise, dear. Honest.) But now if I ever find myself near the center of one of the debates surrounding him, I'll at least be somewhat well-informed. I won't join in, but I'll be well-informed. It's so hard for me to get that worked up about mainstream pop culture these days, (even? especially?) hot-button topics. Temptation Island? Ask me if I give a fuck. What difference does it make? I do find the connection between him and Manson interesting, though. Of course, Eminem has become the new parental boogeyman, and really, when you compare the two Manson becomes a much vaguer threat. Which is why, according to conventional wisdom, Manson's record sales have slumped so much. If you believe people can be directly influenced by lyrics, then there's much more to be influenced by in Eminem's words, while Manson's all metaphoric and stuff. Personally, I suspect anyone who would commit violent acts after listenting to Eminem is inclined to in the first place, and I'd try to stay out of their path regardless. Of course, the Eminem's homophobic lyrics have been well-discussed; however, there's at least one positive reference to Marilyn in his lyrics (in "What I Am," regarding Manson getting unfairly blamed for Columbine), and in spite of Emimen's stated distaste for men who wear makeup, Marilyn joined him onstage last month (for "What I Am," natch), and at the end of the performance they even hugged. So, to recap, Eminem—he of the violent, misogynistic, homophobic lyrics, and if you've never heard the album tracks I can assure you they certainly are those things—invites a man wearing makeup on stage and then hugs him. And Manson is the huckster? I don't think so. At least you know he'll continue wearing makeup after his career has faded. Even Andrew "Dice" Clay drops the middle name when it suits him, y'know?
What I'd actually been looking for was a few tracks I have from the The Conet Project, a collection of recordings taken from so-called shortwave
"Numbers Stations." Nobody really know what they're called, since nobody has ever fessed up to operating one, but it's generally
believed they operated by intelligence agencies both foreign and domestic. Sometimes it's just a voice reading off numbers or
letters, sometimes it's beeping and other sounds, and always it's spooky as hell. If you're into that sort of thing. Which,
apparently, I am. (It's tangentially related to a major plot device in Cryptonomicon, though I found the stuff long before
I read the book.) Finally, after a bit on-and-off Googling, I found a
store in town that carries the complete four-CD set. I think we're about to have some new bedtime music...
Either 195 or 200, depending on which scale you believe. And since I'm
about to go to the gym anyway, I'll be getting a third opinion.
Oh, yeah. The scale said 193. So who knows?
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Wednesday, 14 February 2001 (flies are waiting) 9:45am Having learned our lesson last year, we're staying home tonight. It can't possibly be less romantic than dealing with the traffic and inevitably crowded restaurants. We even tried to show a little foresight a couple weeks ago and make a reservation for tonight at The Mountain House, and they were all booked up. So we're playing it safe. 1:16pm The garage just called; my car's all better now, and it's going to cost me much less than I was expecting. So much so that I can more comfortably afford to make a zapping appointment in the near future. Because, you see, the only prominent shadow on my face anymore is the upper lip. Everywhere else is fine—still with blond hairs and the occasional dark one, but the presence of the hair underneath the surface, just waiting to sprout, is gone. Except on the upper lip. And what really kills me about that is it makes me think of the m-word. You know the one. First syllable rhymes with "bus," second syllable rhymes with "gash." For some reason, that word bothers me more than any other, or at least what it implies. Yep, I have a penis and probably will for the forseeable future, and I'm fine with that; it was there when I was born, and it's never been a strong influence on my personality one way or the other. It's just kinda there—and, like they say about L.A., there's no there there. Hell, as long as I have it I'll be viable for tranny pr0n. (Though my midsection surely disqualifies me. Alas.) In view of the significance of the phallus in histories both global and personal, mine's always been an underachiever. Which is how it should be.
On the other hand, the notion of having a (*cough*) moustache, or just the hint of one, bugs the hell out of me.
It wasn't even so bad when the beardshadow was prominent, since that's comparatively natural. A moustache
is an affectation, an intentional symbol of masculinity. Ick. It's fine on other people, but...
It turns out the "Service Engine Soon" light was on because the last time I'd gotten gas, I hadn't put the cap back on securely enough. As if I don't feel like enough of a gimp around mechanics. Still, they didn't charge me for that particular wild goose chase in spite of the fact it caused them to keep it an extra night, so I can't complain. While I was waiting to pay, one of the mechanics, apropos of nothing apparent, was doing the "Help Me Kirk/Help Me Spock" bit from the "Savage Curtain" episode of Star Trek. Sometimes it's best not to wonder why. At home, our Valentine's feast consisted of shrimp cocktails and Madeline's yummy homemade quesadillas. For dessert I indulged myself with chocolate chocolate chip ice cream, something I haven't had in years. The funny thing is, it was nowhere near as good as I remember it, and I doubt I'll be revisiting it anytime soon. Which is for the best. I gave Maddy a discman, she got me an Emily watch—nothing with the Hallmark logo was exchanged, thank you very much—and we watched the recently released Mystery Science Theater 3000 DVD "The Wild World of Batwoman." All in all, a perfect evening. Even if right now, at quarter past three in the morning, I find myself wishing the gym on Ocean was open...
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Tuesday, 13 February 2001 (mfc) 7:20am And so it begins: the Oscar nominations have been announced. (I'm going to avoid making a joke about our cat Oscar not getting nominated for anything. Aren't you glad?) I just know this next month is going to feel to me just like the holidays—while I'm mildly interested in the event itself, I absolutely hate the buildup to it, the whole "going into Petco in early November and hearing xmas music" kinda thing. I must be careful not to stand in one place too long, especially near the nonstop chatfest which is the Accounting department, lest I get pulled into a Gladiator vs. Erin Brokovich debate. All I can say is, except for Ellen Burstyn's Best Actress nomination, Requiem For a Dream was robbed. Now leave me alone. 10:27am I dropped off my ailing little car at a garage this morning, and am now anxiously waiting for The Call. I don't feel so much like a nervous parent awaiting bad news so much as a nervous parent awaiting really expensive news. 11:13am The Napster drama continues. I'm not following it very well, partially becuase depending on what aspect the reporter decides to focus on, the stories tend to contradict one another (it's all over! they're saved! it's all over!) and partially because I don't use Napster, opting for the decentralized and less media-friendly usenet for my piracy needs. Anyway, in a recent Q&A on the official eels website, bandmaster E was asked his thoughts on the subject:
What I find odd is that this is coming from someone who, while on a major label (Dreamworks), doesn't sell many records. I buy every new eels album the day it comes out, but in spite of me buying rather than downloading them—which would be like stealing from E's pocket, right?—they never seem to make a dent in the charts. I'm doing my part, so what gives? And believe you me, when Napster (and all the other file-trading systems, but let's stick to the one with the evil-sounding name and kitty logo for now) finally gets shut down, I'll be keeping an eye on all those Metallica albums as they shoot to the top of the charts. It was Napster that was keeping them from selling, right? Isn't that why Ride the Lightning hasn't been in the Top Ten? For that matter, the latest albums by Emmylou Harris, Neil Young, Marilyn Manson and R.E.M. all did poorly in spite of me buying rather than downloading them. I just don't get it. Interestingly, Pete Townshend has a similar view of the whole music-on-the-internet thing. Pete used to be a big rock star who sold millions of records, but now he's just content that his music is being heard. It's almost as if neither of them are making enough money to have powerful lawyers pulling their strings, as seems to be the case with Metallica and (though it pains me to say this) Neil. Maybe if you're on either fringe of the music industry, the system doesn't really protect the "artist's right to control their material," which Napster and the like allegedly threaten.
I'm probably wrong. I'm an immoral person, y'know.
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Monday, 12 February 2001 (low light) 8:51am In all fairness, I should point out that one of the local PBS stations showed Corman's Attack of the Giant Leeches 1am Sunday morning. So somebody's trying to keep the faith, even if it is the people who are only supposed to show "quality programming you can't find anywhere else." Which, in this case, is completely true. 10:07am Things went very well at Howard's yesterday. We watched Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon on DVD (one less reason to go to a multiplex, yay); I liked it well enough. Probably it'll grow on me with time. But it was wonderful to be hanging out with him and Melissa again. As Maddy observed, they didn't have any problems getting my (newer) name or the pronouns right; I'd guess that's because unlike most of my friends, I'm not the first m2f they've known. I haven't asked, but it stands to reason, since Melissa works in the fashion industry (previously a designer for Bebe, she's now a honcho at Joe Boxer), Howard's been in and out of the music scene for years, and they're both out-of-practice goths. The odds of them not having come across a tranny or two are pretty slim. Of course, they've known me since before so I'm willing to give them plenty of slack, but all the same have made the adjustment better than most. 2:34pm While walking down Battery street in search of Chinese food, I saw a person in a shark suit (presumably representing the semi-local San Jose Sharks Sporting Collective) being followed around by a guy with a video camera. Needless to say, I immediately turned the corner and hid from them. This is why it's dangerous to go outside sometimes. 4:52pm I still get calls from headhunters occasionally, both at home and at work. Their tactic has changed with recent events; they emphasize terms like "solid" and "stable" when referring to companies. I imagine recruiters have probably been hit the hardest. Poor lost souls. 7:23pm A copy of what was probably the only print advertisement ever for Manos, The Hands of Fate is now underneath the nameplate outside my office. (Next to the Cecil B. Demented postcard.) Why? Because if I don't, nobody else will.
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Sunday, 11 February 2001 (no way) 9:28am Having caught the end of the 1963 version of Bye Bye Birdie twice in the last twelve hours, I can safely say that regardless of the material she was working with, Ann-Marget was quite the hottie back in the day. Otherwise, late-night Saturday teevee continues to blow. It's like they aren't even trying anymore. A generation of film geeks grew up watching everything from the Universal horror movies to Ed Wood epics in the middle of the night, and we get nothing but informercials. No wonder this culture is slipping away. Anyhow, we're going to Howard's today. Maddy's meeting him for the first time, and she'll finally get to see what our ideal home would look like. Let's just say 5.1 surround and blackout curtains are involved.
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