There are frequently helicopters overhead. Sirens and car alarms sound louder, for some reason.

The trip down here wasn't so bad. It's like driving to Fresno, only moreso. I've always found it odd that so beautiful a state as California is so ugly and boring to travel through.

I had a Moment in the parking lot of a truck stop. I have no idea which one; just an anonymous huddle of service stations and fast food joints somewhere between Northern California and Southern. The moon was a thin, gorgeous waxing crescent, the kind where you can see just enough of the rest of the surface to make it look fake, a cutout on a theater set. The air was warm with a slight, refreshing breeze. We were in the middle of Nowhere on our way Somewhere...and I felt wonderful. Content. Everything was right. It was an odd place for a spurt of transcendence, but there it was.

Not really sure what we're going to be doing during the day this week. I know Lynnee has people he wants to see, so I'll probably be tagging along with him. Most of the people I know down here didn't respond when I told them I'd be in town, so I'm open. There are certain places I'd like to visit, but a lot of them wouldn't feel right without Maddy, and I doubt Lynnee would be all that interested. Besides, Maddy made me promise not to go to the Vasquez Rocks, aka "The Star Trek Rocks," without her.

I have no idea what my internet access will be like. Dialed up late at night on my laptop at Anna's or Flipper's homes, perhaps. Or maybe not at all. This was one of the reasons I'd wanted wireless access through the Treo (my codependent side especially likes the idea of being able to keep in touch with Maddy on IM, or at least send text messages back and forth) but it simply wasn't to be. I'm sure I'll survive somehow.

sometime after midnight

There's a palm tree in front of Flipper's house. We're staying in a bungalow behind the house.

Yep, this is Hollywood.

It's weird to think that I won't be in the play again for two weeks, although I've offered to help out backstage next weekend. On Saturday, anyway, when I'll definitely be back in town. For no fathomable reason, my understudy Glenda said she's nervous about playing the part with me there. Really, really no need. Heck, if anything, I should be worried about her blowing the roof off the joint, resulting in a mid-run cast change. I'm not, though. Honest.

Pending actor availability, the aforementioned run of the play has been extended into the first weekend of August. Go us.

Shouted during the curtain call. I have no idea who it was; the same person who applauded when I made my first appearance, perhaps, though at the time I'd assumed it was one of our friends in the audience. None of them did it (or would cop to it, anyway), so I can only assume it was an actual stranger. Neat. Our friend Tracy seemed particularly enamored of me in the wig, as do a lot of people. It's flattering, since an argument could be made that with the brown hair and lighter makeup I look more like "myself" than when I'm wearing the daily gothenmask, but maybe, that's the rub, the novelty value. Nothing quite like the feel of something new.

Last night's show went well. A few mishaps, to be sure, but that just comes with the territory. Nothing has really gone wrong during any of my scenes yet, which is as it should be. Nothing can go wrong. It's not an option. (For more on this zero-tolerance policy, check out the first track on the second disk of Henry Rollins' spoken word album Think Tank.) As Maddy pointed out to me, the audience responded very strongly to my second scene, especially what's become known as "The Princess Leia part." I was somewhat aware of it, but I also have to try to disassociate myself from audience reaction. It'll derail me if I'm not careful.

Not that there isn't any danger of things going wrong, though. The greatest risk comes during the second of the two "freezing," moments, when I have to stand perfectly motionless for what feels like an eternity. (I've considered asking Jim just how long it is, but really, it's for the best that I don't know.) The problem is, being an angel at a low-budget theater, I'm in a spotlight. A few, in fact. I'm not staring directly into any of them, but they're still aimed right at me. I've grown accustomed to stage lighting, both in acting and spoken word, but in those other instances I'm moving, interacting with other people, reading something aloud, the sort of thing. For Zippy, I'm looking straight ahead, and the lights are especially designed to make me the unnaturally brightest thing at any point of the play. It's obvious just from glancing at the thumbnails, really.

Now, I wasn't predestined to be goth just because my body image issues (why will I probably always wear black? the slimming effect, baby, the slimming effect); I'm also sensitive to light. Honestly. I don't like bright light. I can deal with it, but would really rather not. It makes my eyes hurt. Having to maintain a single position and expression while my pupils are starting to burn, when all I want to do is close my eyes and let them water, is really brutal. They probably don't look like Zim's eyes after staring at the sun, but it sure feels like it. It's easily the most difficult thing I've ever done on stage. I can't let on to the audience that I'm in mild agony; my character, such as it is at that particular moment, cannot be broken.

It doesn't help when my brain starts yammering at me, usually along the lines of boy, this sucks, huh? yep. pretty sucktastic. it'll be over soon, probably. how long can "a summer place" go, anyway? find a spot and look at it. straight ahead. whatever you do, you can't move your eyes. can't shut them except to blink, and no matter how much they start to waver, you have to keep them open. focus on a space beyond all of this, someplace beyond the halo of the lights and the dust motes and what you know to be the back wall of the theater. don't let it out of your sight, keep your eyes open, don't break, and soon this will be over, and look at it this way, at least you'll get one of those diary entries you're so fond of out of it, the italicized internal monologue which reaches an emotional crescendo and suddenly cuts off—

I'm considering trying the eye-wettener drops Maddy uses for her contacts, theoretically giving my eyes a bit more moisture to work with in the first place. Unfortunately, as has already been established, I have sensitive eyes. They don't like drops, not one bit, even when it's something fairly benign. (My eyes react badly to other people applying eyeliner to me, as well. They get very jumpy.) It might make things worse.

Not that the ordeal is over when I do finally get to move and look away. I still have to sing. That's a different form of torture, though, more for the audience than for me. Jennifer Blowdryer, who hosted a show after the play, told me that I was "spazzy" while singing. From anyone else that would have really stung, but from Jennifer, it only stung a little. Constructive criticism, really. Jennifer tends to be...forthright like that, and she was not unkind. She certainly sounded like she meant it in a good way.

Equally forthright, but not nearly as constructive, was the question from the crackwhore. Okay, I don't know that she was a whore, and I wouldn't care if she was, since a number of my friends are or have been whores. (I have Jewish and black friends, too! I'm a good little liberal.) But I'm quite convinced that she sucks the glass dick. She had that sort of impulsive, off-kilter quality I've come to associate with smokers of the rock, the lack of distinction between "outside" and "inside" voice.

Jennifer and I were in the lobby of the Dark Room between Zippy and her show. She had just introduced to a guy who recognized me from the Sacrifice reading with Danielle last year (speaking of once-and-futures). The fellow's companion stumbled closer to me and said, Are You A Man?

Though I'd like to think I keep a fairly cool veneer at most times, I'm actually easily flabbergasted. The more brazen or inappropriate a question, the more likely I am to answer on autopilot. Which is why instead of saying that's really none of your business, I replied not anymore. For some reason, I showed her my ID, as if she would know to look for the "F" and that would explain everything.

She wasn't through with the questions, though. How Big Was Your Cock? Huh. Never been asked that one before. Instead of telling her to piss off, I heard myself reply it still is just a couple inches.

Oh, Is That Why You Wanted To Change?

um, no, but i consider myself fortunate, since bulge isn't much of a problem. Was I really going along with this conversation?

I Totally Thought You Were A Woman Until I Heard You Talk.

At this point Jennifer leapt in, telling the woman that she really needed to stop with the questions, that it wasn't funny. Not surprisingly, the woman got all defensive, insisting that she was just amazed because You Look So Beautiful and Your Skin Is So Clear, Not Many Men Could Do What You've Done, And Your Hair, It Reminds Me Of—What's Her Name—You Know, That Old Model With The Straight Hair—

betty page.

Right! Betty Page, Like Her.

yeah, i hear that a lot.

What You Really Need To Do Is Work On Your Voice, Don't Speak From The Top But From The Bottom, Breathy, Like Marilyn Monroe—

As the woman demonstrated her Marilyn Monroe voice, Jennifer again asked her to please leave me alone. I'm not sure where her friend got off to. He probably figured that she isn't his responsibility (which is true), and has seen her obsess on shiny things like myself more than once.

She continued to insist that she was just trying to be helpful because she thought I was really beautiful, and I assured her that there was no harm done and I could tell she meant well, eventually managaing to extract myself from her. Didn't run into her again, thankfully.

When I told Maddy, she was understandably furious. At first she wished she'd been there, but came to the conclusion that it was just as well that she wasn't, since things surely would have gotten ugly. (Uglier, anyway.) I believe it. Still, it would have been interesting. Even better? If Meliza had been there, too. She's experienced at dealing with people harassing me (we've stood on 16th between Valencia and Mission quite a bit) and is more than fearless. That would have been a sight to behold.

While looking for a decent link for the Henry Rollins piece I referred to above, I came across this. Our society is so doomed.

11:17pm

Our best show yet? Possibly.

Rumor has it a photographer from the Chronicle will be at the show tonight, and we're getting a writeup of some persuasion in the Pink Pages next weekend. So I guess it's in my—our—best interest not to suck.

I picked up the 2000 edition Best Bisexual Erotica at library. Not exactly my flavor (seeing as how without boys involved it doesn't really qualify as bi) but I was curious about a story Sid told me about. He said it was set a regular event which he and I have both attended, and having read it, I can only conclude that he's absolutely right. I know that house. Hell, I know that bathroom, even if I've never done anything remotely as interesting in it.

Even though the action of the story itself was certainly fictional and not based on any one particular event, it was still reassuring to read something set in a real place, even if the name of the event was changed. I've been dealing with an ethical dilemma on that very topic lately, even about writing about things that go on in there. So, it's good to know that it isn't completely taboo, even if a large degree of fictionalization is in order. I'm not a big enough name to get away with it otherwise.

2:50pm

Today is passing slooooooowly. Of course it is; I'm gone all next week, and time always expands on the last workday before time off.

Lynnee is predictably psyched that Vaginal Davis is the host of The Unhappy Hour on Tuesday. Vaginal has introduced Tribe 8, and can apparently be at least heard (if not glimpsed) in Rise Above, the documentary on the band. I, on other hand, was only vaguely aware that she existed before seeing her open for Margaret Cho in '01. Sheltered, remember?

I'm also told that Steve Ramirez, one of hosts of Two Idiots Peddling Poetry, won't be there on Wednesday. Kinda bummed about that, since I was looking forward to meeting him. Oh well. It'll just make the name of the show that much more ironic; now it'll actually be One Idiot Peddling Spoken Word. Not quite the same ring, I suppose.

Looks like we'll be heading back home on Friday. Lynnee is no more interested in going to The Big Show that night in San Diego than I am, and he's trying to get a gig for himself back in San Francisco for Saturday night, so it's just as well. If nothing else, I'll get to see Glenda as Janis.

3:23pm

Then again, why not? Maybe certain people cringing at your words simply means you're doing something right.

Because the vials contain anticoagulant, the blood is not potable. That's okay, though. She bought a small bottle at 826 Valencia for receptacle purposes. Eventually, her blood will go in there too, and we'll have...well, a bottle of our blood mixed together. Bet you don't have one of those. And if you do have a bottle of mine and Maddy's blood, I'd really like to know how you got it.

If Google can be believed, nowhere else online does the phrase "the blood is not potable" occur. Lookit me, blazin' trails.

Wanna know how you can tell it's an election year? Not because February had twenty-nine days, or because of the Olympics (the Olympics are happening this year, right?), but because there's suddenly a lot of rhetoric about "trial lawyers." I first noticed it in a commercial for a Republican candidate during the '88 election. Evidently, trial lawyers were responsible for everything wrong with America. What I couldn't figure out was why nobody seemed to be up in arms about this scourge when there wasn't an election coming up. Now, of course, it's been handed to the Republicans on a platter, what with the Dem Veep Nom John Edwards being that very Evil Thing.

I'm not a big fan of lawyers, mind you. The few I've dealt with have always made me uncomfortable, which may have as much to do with my distrust of men in suits as much as anything else. The defense attorney at jury duty a few months back was particularly slimy, a snake-oil salesman in counselor's clothes. But I know a convenient straw man when I see one, too.

Besides, we all know trial lawyers aren't the gravest threat faced by America—queer marriage is. You aren't surprised about Kerry and Edwards not voting on the amendment, are you? You do realize that they're pussies-in-the-pejorative-sense, desperately afraid of being called "liberal," right? Just checking.

Here's the thing. Even if Kerry becomes President—and, between electronic voting machines manufactured by Bush supporters and the possibility of the election being quote-postponed-unquote, I have no reason to believe he will be—it's not like he's going to immediately overturn the USA PATRIOT Act or end the war in Iraq, even if he were inclined or empowered to do those things. Remember the broken promises of the early days of Clinton, resulting in "Don't Ask, Don't Tell?" Kerry's going to make Clinton look bold and fearless.

But fuck all that. What's really important is that pictures from the opening night of Zippy are up on Laughing Squid. I am once again struck my how much I resemble my mother in the 1970s, which figures since I'm roughly the age she was then. In two years I'll be thirty-three, the age she was when I was born. Isn't that some kind of milestone? Shouldn't there be a word for that? Actually, now that I think about it, it's the age of the Crucifixion. Everything makes sense now.

Bonus points if you can spot Jon Fast in the pictures.

But I don't want to go with just any registrar, either, not even necessarily the cheapest one. After a bit of hunting around, I think I've found the perfect match: Spooky Media. Because I'm all spooky and stuff.

10:17pm

The search is over. The coolest band name ever has been found: I Love You But I've Chosen Darkness. They're playing at Cafe Du Nord next month. I believe I must see them.

We purchased a small knife at a hardware store today. Nothing too fancy, not much more than a starter model, just right for us. What we'd really like is the same kind as Lynnee used to such great effect in our Twilight Zone episode, but the Remington store at which he bought it has gone out of business. (Surprise factor? Nil.) Maddy made me promise that it would be used for good energy. It's a promise I intend to keep.

At our local organic co-op, the cute little dyke with crayon-red hair asked if we were the ones in Zippy; seems she's planning on seeing it, and recognized our names in the cast. Unfortunately, she's going Friday of next week, when I'll be out of town. Hell, even if I'm somehow back by then, I still won't be onstage. It's my understudy Glenda's weekend no matter what, and Zippy's guardian angel will mysteriously change from Karen Carpenter to Janis Joplin.

The details for next Tuesday's show at the Parlour Club in West Hollywood have been finalized. Sharing the bill with us is Tess. Lotta (the period in her name is not a typo), and Vaginal Davis is the host. Lynnee "Tranny Chaser" Breedlove should certainly appreciate that.

Man, how legit are we? Mr. Steve's pictures have been posted to the official Zippy site. That's how legit.

Does anyone else already miss the old version of the AMG All Music Guide? Beyond the fact that it's now designed for IE 5.5 and above, whose friggin' idea was it to not include the discography on the artist overview page? Oooooh, it's so much more useful to read arbitrary lists of "influences" and "followers" than to see what they actually recorded. Feh. It's the decline of the CDDB all over again. And, for all that, their URLs are still long query strings and their code is still topheavy with javascript and bloaty code, so they're just as search engine-unfriendly as ever. Dipshits.

On the way, we stopped by our local hardware store and bought some nylon rope, EMT scissors, and a box of latex gloves. It's not too hard to imagine what the employees suspected the purchases were for, and, in fact, they were two-thirds correct. The gloves were for the haircoloring, and the rope and scissors were inspired by a beginner's S&M class taught by Mistress Morgana at Femina Potens yesterday. Fascinating stuff, and we're hoping to take more classes with her.

As it happens, Tina Butcher has asked me to share a bill with Morgana at Femina Potens show called Sizzle, an "erotic spoken word/hip hop/burlesque/sex-positive porn night." Fortunately, it isn't for a while yet—August of 2005, in fact—so I have time to grow.