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Monday, 10 January 2005 (inches and miles) 11:20pm Maddy managed to dragged herself out of bed and to work today, with some assistance from me. Her boss took one look at her this morning and told her to go home, all the while freaking out about her being contagious. Of course, if she'd called in sick, she would have gotten in trouble. Classic transpolar damnation. Unlike last week, Pirate Cat Radio was broadcasting tonight. Still haven't heard back from the legitimate radio station about the job yet, though, nor the place that emailed the quasi-interview. I did get a ping from a pr0n company I applied at last month. They have at least as much queer stuff as straight. There are worse places to work.
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Sunday, 9 January 2005 (purge) 9:40pm Maddy is quite ill. It hit last night after we got home, thankfully, but she didn't get much sleep, either. We're thinking it might be food poisoning from a Thai restaurant in the Haight, except that we ate the same things, and I'm fine. Odd. Today's tip: it's hamster, not hampster. Please make a note of it.
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Saturday, 8 January 2005 (meshing) 7:12pm It rained much of the day. Being the brave souls that we are, it didn't stop us from venturing not only into the world, but into the Haight, never the most pleasant place to go on the weekend. Our mission was to find various accessories for my reading at the Cotillion next Saturday. It's safe to say that I've already spent too much time and energy on it. Keeping the money to an absolute minimum, though; the majority of my ensemble will be stuff we already own. Maddy's stuff, to be precise. Unlike myself, she was a girl in the eighties, so she has more to work with than I do. In addition to keeping it cheap, the trick to is to not get too costumey about it, to not become a caricature. I'm not sure why it's so important to me in this particular context, but it is.
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Friday, 7 January 2005 (jetsam) 11:53am The CPA called back. The message was what I expected. Evidently, that job wasn't the "better thing" which is allegedly coming my way. Meanwhile, I've applied for a position at a local newsradio station. (As "local" as a station owned by Infinity Broadcasting can be, anyway.) The host of an open mic which I don't attend nearly enough pointed me towards it. She works for the station, in fact. Her fingers are crossed enough for the both of us. From my notebook, a litany of identical store names in and around the French Quarter: zydeco blues; jazz gumbo; zydeco jambalaya; decatur gift center; new orleans gift center; crescent city gift center; rainbow gift center; riverfront gift center; gator country; spice of life; zydecajun gifts; cajun planet; cajun party; cajun carnival; jazz funeral; bayou spirits; discount city There were probably more, but I only started writing them down the day we left. Seems like all you need to do is take two New Orleans-related buzzwords and several hundred dollars' worth of cheap tchotchkes (many quite offensive and having nothing to do with the city, even if the store name is "Jazz Gumbo"), and bam, you've got yourself a store. Almost every one of these places was blasting zydeco music, frequently "My Toot Toot." I never liked that song before, and now I actively hate it.
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Thursday, 6 January 2005 (flotsam) 2:11pm I was almost in an accident this morning on the way home from dropping Maddy off at work. I had the right of way, no stop sign, and another car crept into the intersection. They probably didn't realize that I didn't have a stop sign. Most people don't look that closely. I slammed on my brakes and blared the horn. They didn't move at all, just waited for me to crash into them. I didn't dare turn my wheel, for fear of flipping or rolling or something. (In some alternate timeline, that did happen, and my life is heading in a different direction.) Good thing my brakes were recently fixed. My car stopped just barely in time. There was contact, but it was kinda like when you're parallel parking and nudge the car ahead or behind. By pure sheer dumb luck, there was no damage to speak of. With the possible exception of my nerves, that is. I was shaking when I got home, all of five blocks away. I hadn't showered yet, so I hopped right in. But enough about trivial matters. Oliver Stone, who was my favorite director during much of the nineties when he was more prolific than David Lynch (and I'd yet to really develop an appreciation for Cronenberg), has really lost me over the years. Couldn't make it more than twenty minutes into Any Given Sunday, and I couldn't motivate myself to be interested in Alexander. Regarding the latter film, he's blaming its American box-office failure on moral fundamentalism, because filmgoers were scared out by the queer content. So. The man who not only removed the homosexuality from his script for Midnight Express but had the main character actively refuse another man's advances (even though the person the movie is based on is open and unapologetic about his prison-time buggery) is now complaining about perceived homophobia. Sorry, Ollie, but it just don't work that way. Ironically, right around the time that Alexander was flopping, he officially apologized for offending Turks with Midnight Express, but didn't say a word about glossing over the homosexuality. I think that qualifies as ironic.
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Wednesday, 5 January 2005 (eros and logos) 5:10pm Yesterday afternoon, I got a followup email from a company I applied for a month ago. It was a bunch of interview-esque questions, the vague sort of "Where do you see yourself in five years?" kinda thing, though that was thankfully not one of them. The company itself is an internet firm in San Mateo. Farther away than Sausalito, and the commute to this job would just be getting started where the commute to the construction job ended. But that's not relevant. That timeline, that life, is gone. Erased, over, out. Hey, at least I wouldn't have to cross a bridge. The Dark Room is staging more Twilight Zone episodes later this Spring. I won't be directing this time around; it just doesn't seem like a proper use of my energy. I do hope to act, though, almost as much as I hope to have a job by then which allows me to act in the evenings. There's an article about Pirate Cat Radio in the latest SF Weekly. Take a wild guess as to what's the, like, one show they don't mention. Go ahead. I dare you. Guess.
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Tuesday, 4 January 2005 (bunker archaeology) 12:37pm My heart started pounding the moment I was buzzed into the storefront office on California. too bright, it's too bright in here, and they're wearing ties... I calmed myself down: just deal with it, okay? It was the best I could do under the circumstances. The interview seemed to go well. I laid on the charm, and was mostly honest. When he asked why I don't work for my father, I didn't lie: we live in different cities. The truth, right? Then there's the fact that my father has worked out of his home for many years, and other reasons too numerous to go into. There are a few things that I don't know how to do, but nothing that I can't learn, and as I pointed out to him, a lot of it was things I was starting to learn at that ill-fated last job. He'd asked me on the phone yesterday about my salary expectations, and as always, I'd panicked. I said twelve an hour, which in some cases has been too high and in other cases has been lowballing. Fact of the matter is, if I'm not going to get a job, it won't be because I'm asking for less than they're prepared to pay. Tiny office, which is nice. Just the boss and an accountant. I didn't ask about the dress code. Business casual is a safe bet. The thought of a work environment in which ties are worn daily makes me nervous, but, y'know what? I'm a girl now. Girls don't have to wear ties in the straight world. So it's okay. He said he'll be calling by the end of the week to let me know one way or the other. Seems he's inundated with responses to his craigslist posting. Go figure. I left with my heart pounding in a different way. Anticipation. It's a killer.
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Monday, 3 January 2005 (pigtails and wasabi peas) 9:20am Thursday, December 23. Commander's Palace. The main appetizer, ordered by Poppy: It was exquisite. There was another appetizer, unordered, which was truffle mousse on endive. Or something. I forget. I can only assume this was the kind of truffle for which Snoopy used to hunt. It was also amazing. My vocabulary is insufficient to describe most of the food that night, except to say it was the best meal I've ever had. It's good a thing I'm well acquainted with impermanence, or else I'd have a hard time going back to regular food. Knowing how many other wagons I would be exiting, I decided to order a Bloody Mary. Always thought they smelled good, y'know? My father used to have a thing for them, but I decided not to let that negatively influence my decision. The waiter rattled off a number of different vodkas. I know next to nothing about these things, so I repeated back the only one I could make out: Gray Goose. Poppy's husband Chris assured me it was a good choice. Hey, he would know. All things considered, I was a little disappointed with it. There wasn't even a piece of celery, and isn't that what makes a Bloody Mary? Then again, we weren't there for the booze garnish. Mercifully saving us from having to actually choose something from the intimidating menu—and, worse, having to answer questions I surely wouldn't begin to understand—Poppy and Chris ordered the tasting menu, also known as the "Chef's Playground." The four of us had a little bit of everything: The crab in the first course were substituted for oysters, much to Poppy's chagrin. The only thing I didn't eat was the dessert. I have issues with apples, particularly cooked/sweetened apples. Due to how I'm wired, I don't get along with them very well. Even the sight of an apple cobbler can make my stomach turn. It was hard not to feel like I'd chickened out a little. Still, though. As if my fondness for sushi wasn't enough to gross out most Americans, I'd eaten (and enjoyed) escargot. Y'know, snails. They were cooked—seared, really, like they'd died in a car explosion—but they looked like snails. Not only was I not grossed out, I actually ate one of Maddy's, since the texture didn't agree with her. The caviar was hard to taste, since there was so little of it. The sweetbreads, a thymus gland, were actually really damn good. Not sure what I was expecting, but there was almost a doughy consistency to it, which I guess accounts for the name.
Foie gras. Meat that literally melts in your
mouth. Again, exquisite. Now, there are extremely valid moral questions
about how foie gras is made. Here's the thing. The way the shape of my body has changed over the last six years, the development of
my hips and breasts, the changes in my face (except for the hair)—it's all because of my willing, daily ingestion
of a drug which is the result of cruelty to pregnant horses.
I fully acknowledge that fact. I am not a hero,
nor did I ever claim to be. By virtue of existing in this society, I benefit from human suffering every day, and I
don't do as much as much as I could do end it. There aren't any heroes, but, well, we've been over that, haven't we?
If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go pet my cats now.
God, it's scary out there. If I'm qualified for something, it's a repost of a position I've applied for in the past. Aren't too many of those, even.
(And if I do get in, the person I'm replacing decides not to leave after all.) (Don't laugh, it could happen.)
It's so, so so very difficult not to get discouraged.
The job would be full time through April 15 (which us Adult Children of Accountants know to be "Tax Season"), and then part time with a possibility of full time if business is good. Not ideal, but better than what I have now. I do not believe that this is the mythical "something better" that everyone insists is coming my way after losing the construction job last month. But it doesn't have to be, either. It needs to help me pay my share of the bills, and maybe regain a shred of my self-respect. My hopes remain firmly under my heel, right where they belong. | ||
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Sunday, 2 January 2005 (faded like charity) 9:07am I applied for a "night auditor" job at a downtown hotel. Experienced preferred, don't'chaknow, but they're willing to train the right person. I'm not sure if a night auditor if the same as a night porter, but if so, it still probably won't involve lots of rough sex with Charlotte Rampling. Damnit. 5:39pm K'vetch is tonight, but I'm not going. Heather Gold's cooking slash comedy show starts its new run tonight. She's a pal, and tonight's performance is sliding scale (normally tickets are thirty to fifty dollars), so that's where we'll be. Breedlove will be her guest host, which means I won't be the only one playing hooky from K'vetch.
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Saturday, 1 January 2005 (outnumbering the dead) 11:10pm Last night was the probably the first time in twenty-five years that I was in bed before midnight on New Year's Eve. It's a weird feeling, going to sleep (or trying to) with the knowledge the rest of the world is awake and celebrating. Didn't feel like I was missing out on a whole lot, even though there was at least one party at which Maddy and I were expected. Leaving the house wasn't an option. I simply couldn't fathom the thought. As though on a weekly schedule, something had snapped, but unlike xmas eve, I lost it. A hard, heavy crying jag, just as Maddy's eyes were starting to run dry. It was the pain of the year, all the things I've lost, the friends who have gone away, the fleeting sensations which evaporated before I'd really gotten a chance to experience them. I experienced it all at once, and was more than a little overwhelmed. We'd recently run out of tissues, nor did I have a hairtye. I was a mess, and it was okay. I need to wallow, to bathe, to sense everything my body was producing, to connect physically with the emotions, to confirm that I was really experiencing it. To feel. I suspect this year will bring great disapproval, demonization far worse than coming out as trans. I will endure. Escapism was required this morning, so we went to the last second-run double-feature theater in town to see National Treasure and The Incredibles. We only watched National Treasure because it came along with the other movie, and it was about as idiotic and insulting as I'd expected, with some outdated misogyny thrown in for good measure. Thank you, Jerry Bruckheimer, for putting mouthy women in their place. The Incredibles was much better, easily my favorite Pixar work since Toy Story 2. Of course, Maddy and I still have to be killjoys, so it's hard not to be a little bothered by the fact that in a film ostensibly about individuality, Elastigirl submerges her identity so much in marriage that she doesn't mind wearing her husband's logo. For that matter, the children are their own people as well, and yet they're also regarded as though they're simply offshoots of their father. I know, I know, it's only a movie, I should really just relax. Look, it's hard enough for me not to hold the two hundred million dollars' worth of licensed promotional items against the film itself, okay? It was probably the most shamelessly marketed film since The Cat in the Hat. In a way, it's almost a shame to see a good movie like The Incredibles being treated that way. All that said—in a weird way, I'm glad I no longer have disposable income, because I'm not tempted by this. Thank goodness my trainer decided to keep her job after all, huh? It's like saving me from myself.
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