I'm doing my radio show for Pirate Cat tonight, for what is either last or third to last time. Won't know for certain until next week, I suppose.

The theory which doesn't appeal quite as much to my half-assed rebel/martyr stance yet is almost certainly the actual truth is that co-host Donna didn't actually go on stage until after I'd read, and was too busy preparing herself to pay much attention to what was happening onstage before then. The monitor system backstage was not so good, especially when you're standing in the wings, so it's entirely plausible. Outta sight, outta mind, and it's not like she could list everyone who was in the show, especially someone who was as tangential as I was. It's fairly obvious she's not getting paid by the word like Sister Dana in Bay Times.) No slight intended, and, in fact, no offense is taken on my end.

So what happens now, of course, is somebody totally misinterprets this as an attack on Donna, me saying horrible things about her in my damn blog. After the initial brouhaha about it dies down they'll continue to fester and brood about it, until I'm in the middle of something personally controversial (say, a breakup) and they're able to cash in on that anger, acting as though they're trying to be protective of someone else's feelings when in fact they're indulging in old issues with me.

Don't laugh. It's happened before.

After my BAVC class last night, I met up with Vash for a friend's birthday party at the Eagle. I'd originally planned on seeing Emperor Norton at The Dark Room first, but when the "chance of rain" turned out to be a sure thing, I decided to cut my losses and go straight to the Eagle. Remarkably, it was only my second time there; the first had been Wednesday night, when Vash and I stopped by for a drink before an opening at New Langton Arts.

While we were there, a very drunk guy glommed onto us. He kept asking me if I was "real," though for the life of me I couldn't quite tell if me meant whether I was a real girl, or in some more drunkenly philosophical way. Whichever he meant, I assured him I was. References he made to Bambi Lake suggest that he meant the former, though I'm still not sure what he meant by the Brokeback Mountain comments regarding Vash and I. Even if he doesn't consider me to be a "real" girl, there's still no way her and I qualify as two men, since she's kinda obviously a genetic girl. The one sensical thing he said was to comment that Vash resembles "that woman in Green Card," i.e. Andie MacDowell. I wouldn't call her a ringer by any stretch of the imagination, but yeah, I can see that.

Among the revelers last night was on the facilitators of my Girl Army class a year and a half ago. We chatted a bit and got caught up; much to my surprise, she not only knew about the breakup, but she claims that I'd mentioned it on my announcement list. Thing is, I know for a fact that I didn't. Maybe she saw Vash and I macking on each other (it's hard to miss) and did the math, but then again, she'd never met Maddy, though perhaps she knows Vash well enough to know that we weren't together in the Fall of 2004. I'm honestly not sure.

In any event, we discussed the class fondly, how the psychological aspect was at least as important as the physical, if not more so. My life really did start changing drastically around then, either peaking or culminating (not sure which) in the breakup less than six months later. I wonder how much of that was related to learning how to fight. Heavens knows I did a lot, and most of it was worth it.

In addition to making sure I'm wide awake and alert for the class (which was the point), the mocha also made me hyper-chatty on the trip to the BAVC. More and more I'm delving into subjects with Vash which I'd originally promised myself that I wasn't going to bring up (moving beyond just the raking of flesh, which itself continues on quite happily), traumas and dramas which she shouldn't be burdened with, of my decline from grace over the last few years and the controverseys I've created, wittingly and otherwise. My primary fear, of course, is of scaring her off, that she'll realize that being with me is probably more trouble than it's worth.

On the other hand, she's excited that I'm going to be in the 2nd Annual Devil's Valentine's Ball. So at least she's enjoying the ride.

There's a guitar store near my office, and for the last week or two a book in their window has been catching my attention. The book in question is Robert Johnson: The New Transcriptions, and something about the picture has seemed off to me. (Aside from once again being struck by the resemblance to a kid who used to willfully intimidate me in high school. He also continued on to Fresno City College, and after a few years we became something resembling friends. Gosh, isn't that heartwarming?) Google Images has revealed that my suspicion was correct: the publisher removed his cigarette. I don't get that at all. Are they afraid that kids are going to look at the picture and want to smart smoking? Does it make him look more friendly somehow?

Speaking of things changing, Annie's Cocktail Lounge has moved into the old Cherry Bar location, which I still tend to think of as the Covered Wagon Saloon. (I miss Stinky's Peepshow, I do.) New Year's Eve was evidently the final night in the old space across from the Hall o' Justice, though I didn't find out about it until Saturday night, when Vash and I were trying to decide what to do with ourselves after the Cotillion. We got as far as finding nearby parking (never easy on a Saturday) and making it to the front door of the Power Exchange before discovering that it was the night of the Fetish Ball, and therefore would cost ten bucks to get in. We declined. Aside from the fact that it probably would have been even more crowded than usual thanks to the Ball, I simply will not pay to get in to the Power Exchange. Standards, y'know.

So I had a meeting with Tim the other morning. Not a review, but to talk about me doing SEO stuff on the site. I mentioned that there's any of a number of things in the code that have been bothering me, and he (gently) chewed me out for not having spoken up about them before. I pointed out that I had during our QC process for the current version of the site, but nobody paid attention. And now, unsurprisingly, I'm having some difficulty getting certain people in other departments to listen to me, or at least to bother to read my email. Funny how that works.

Delving into the SEO world has resulted in me getting back in touch with my old supervisor at the place in Sausalito, for those last two months that I worked there, largely out of the bad man's grip. I'm told that the fat, irradiated bastard doesn't come into the office much anymore. Figures that the nicofuck would wait until after kicking me out to go into semiretirement. (Tangential observation: Vash smokes. She isn't a chain-smoker, but lights one up every few hours or so. Kissing her is, however, is not at all like kissing an ashtray, not even when she's in the middle of or has just finished a cigarette. If ashtrays felt like her mouth, people would probably kiss them a lot.) I still hold out hope that something bad will happen to him, if he doesn't die first. Maybe a long, painful death, one where he can't...quite...reach his cigarettes. That would be a good start.

Anyway, my supervisor (always a really sweet guy) has suggested that I consider running Google AdSense on my site. Says it's not a bad way to earn a few extra bucks. Might even help finance those new boots I so desperately need, not to mention helping to pay off my various debts. The scary thing is, I'm actually considering it. My main concern is that colorwise, it'll stick out like the sore design thumb that it is. Otherwise, I'm not too worried about appearing to "sell out" or anything like that. Who am I trying to impress?

Another shift in reality: I'm ending my radio show. The station itself is moving into a new physical location which is beyond inconvenient for me, and the station's philosophy is also moving in a direction which I don't much care for. It was fun while it lasted, and I'll probably revive the show elsewhere before too long.

Yours and Hers
Her pain is greater than yours. It burns brighter, lasts longer,
flies higher, runs faster, never coagulates, clings to the walls and
stays crunchy in milk. It's the eternal flame behind every word
and thought and deed, it encompasses and encapsulates and
overtakes and overcomes and devastates and recreates everything
in its own image. Yours does not. Yours is not worth mentioning.

Other than that, I've been a right bastard lately. I gotta be me, I guess.

Today, I got to look through some tranny pr0n for similiar issues. So, so much nicer.

11:43pm

I had to ask, okay? I had to try.

The reading itself went well, in spite of the odd technical glitch or two. The mic stand was too low (as always), and while attempting to adjust it, the black plastic bit at the top that actually holds the microphone came off. As I put it back on, I announced that it was the first mishap of the evening while deciding that i would deal with the mic at whatever height it decided to be. Meanwhile, I realized that my Public Enemy intro was still playing. It had been turned down, but not all the way down. Fuck it. I've only read with musical accompaniment a few times in the past, and it could only help the tone of my performance, especially since it required me to raise my own energy level to ensure I could be heard clearly. Besides, now the flash-bulbs were popping, and I just knew that if I wasn't careful, for the second year in a row the main picture of me to emerge from the show would be me motioning for the sound to be turned down the rest of the way. The photo itself is technically very proficient, but I hate how I look in it. (For some secret reason known only to herself and her g-d, Vash printed it out and taped it to her work cubbyhole.) As it is, I'll probably just dislike my posture in this year's picture.

What feedback I did receive from the piece was positive, sometimes enthusiastically so. It stands to reason that if someone didn't like it, or if they were offended by the language, they would just avoid me rather than giving me static about it. The salty language tally was one "goddamn," one "fag," one reference to "getting laid," and three uses of the word "fuck," although two of them were simply quoting the killer in The Silence of the Lambs ("I'd fuck me. I'd fuck me hard!"). I fancied myself as being the first person to swear so intentionally and repeatedly at the Cotillion, which some would say speaks more to a childlike need to shock than anything else. I actually disagree (I would, wouldn't I?). I think it was all quite necessary. Kara Flynn suggested that most of the attendees would probably consider swearing to be un-ladylike. She probably has a point, but I've never really seen it that way. With the exception of my mother, I've always been around girls who were pottymouths. The Ex swears like a sailor, as does Maddy, and Vash could probably tell a memorable version of the Aristocrats joke if she wanted. Inasmuch as I have role models in terms of feminine behavior (most of the time I simply act as comes naturally, and I get along just fine), they're my contemporaries, products of what I'm inclined to call a more enlightened age. Fuck yeah.

Speaking of ages of enlightenment (however doomed they may have been), Vash and I saw the Shotgun Players' production of Cabaret at The Ashby Stage last night. It was a lot of fun, and, predictably, made me miss acting all the more. Doesn't take much.

It would be an exaggeration to call me "healthy," although "better" does apply. There's no telling whether or not I'll be able to generate the vocal energy the piece deserves, but how it comes out is how it comes out. I might try to beg off actuallty reading the whole thing during the rehearsal this afternoon, saying I want to save my voice for tonight. The main reason I'm going to the rehearsal is to deliver my intro and outro music.

3:58pm

Oh, man. I'm going on second. The theme for the show is "Hooray for Hollywood," and the name of my piece is "Burn Hollywood Burn." That'll set the tone for the evening nicely, huh?

Ironically, my current reading material is The Whole Equation: A History of Hollywood by David Thomson. At least, I think that qualifies as ironic.