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Tuesday, 20 June 2000 (lullaby) 6:51am the water is evening now, the catacombs are filling in 9:35am Beat got me wondering what it would be like to compose on an old-fashioned typewriter. Not just typing, but actually composing. It seems very alien to me, no doubt because I'm so spoiled by computers and how customizable and forgiving they are. I can type as fast as I want because it's easy to corrent mistakes (when I see them, anyway) or revise/delete entire chunks of text on a whim, and good ol' Textpad allows me the red-text-on-a-black-background writing environment I apparently crave. The discipline required on an analog machine is all but beyond my puny leetle mind's comprehension. I briefly used an electric model sometime in the eighties for some reports in school, but that was just retyping what had already been composed. I graduated to word processing on a computer as soon as the opportunity presented itself in the form of my own Atari 800. I still have a case full of floppys (floppies?) containing the bulk of my writing from my teenage, and dog only knows what else. I attempted to hook up my old computer when I visited my mother last year, but wasn't able to get it working. I still harbor a fantasy that I'll be able to resurrect those discs and see just where my head was at back then. I remember some of it, but I'm often surprised by what I've written a few years ago, let alone fifteen. I suspect it's mostly unfinished stories. I seem to recall a lot of those. (Maybe that's why the only project of any length I've ever kept with is this fucking diary: it doesn't necessarily have an end, so there's no pressure.)
As if I haven't been sucking satan's pecker enough lately—and that's
not me confessing that we actually paid for a movie at Ballbuster,
not at all—I couldn't help noticing that there are allegedly
operational Atari 8-bit
systems for sale on eBay. Would certainly be a timesaver, since mine is still in Fresno and doesn't work properly anyway...couldn't
hurt to make just a tiny bid, could it...?
A coworker asked me today where I went on my vacation last week. I had to laugh.
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Monday, 19 June 2000 (admonition) 7:29am I neither emailed nor called my father yesterday, and the card I bought late last week remains unsent. I need to rectify that. 10:57am Rectification complete, more or less. The card is in the mail, suitably altered to reflect the tardiness. I'm not quite so bad a child now.
TFQ is apparently not on vacation this week. I had no reason other than
wishful thinking to suspect that he might be, but hope springs eternal.
There's a certain clip in Grass which I'd love to show my mother: newsreel footage of soldiers in Vietnam using a rifle as a pipe, and a statistic is given that at least half of the troops smoked. Like any statistic it's nothing more than a number, but considering the power of the numbers thrown about and accepted as gospel in anti-drug propaganda, I have no reason to disbelieve it. I suspect that if I was in a similar situation, I would constantly be baked. (If nothing else, it would distract me from sinuses. This is the kind of thing that goes through my mind when I have a cold, that soldiers probably have constantly sore throats and runny noses. Like the whole "being at war" thing isn't bad enough.) But it's clearly impossible, since according to my mother's ex-boyfriend Earl, there was no drug use in Vietnam. Anything you might have heard about such things was just made up by Hollywood. (That darn Hollywood!) He didn't tell me this himself; it was something he'd told her which she later repeated to me, apropos of nothing in particular. This happened a lot, and I was never sure if she was trying to convince herself that he wasn't full of shit, or if she was desperately attempting to sway me from my apparent path of self-destruction with his wisdom. Once you realize that everything you know is wrong, honey, then you'll realize that you should cut your hair and stop coloring it, listen to us, listen to him, he's older and he knows what's right...because you're scaring me, you're really scaring me...
I have no particular desire to show it to Earl, since that would probably require being
in his presence. Yuck.
I went ahead and scheduled appointmets for both Monday and the following Thursday,
since that should be enough to clear me for the next couple weeks. It damn well
better be, since I have to report for jury duty the following week. Not looking
forward to that one at all. The company will pay for the first two weeks that I'm
gone, if (doG forbid) it should last so long. I sincerely hope not. The eternal question is, of course, what am I going to wear? The official dress code is as follows: "Proper attire is required. Dress as if you were going to a business meeting. Ties and business suits are not required. Please do not wear TANK TOPS, SHORTS, BEACH SANDALS, ETC. Temperatures in the Court facilities can vary. Please dress accordingly." Well, shit. I guess the exclusion of TANK TOPS means I can't wear what I wore on Saturday before and after the show. I was going for maximum comfort and ease, so by my own Shrine standards I was more casual than usual: velvets, a black tank top and a fishnet shirt over that. It made me feel very stealthy, which was kinda the point. I didn't want to be in the way; I just wanted to be a silhouette, a shadow in the corner. I wanted to disappear when I turned sideways, like Lee Meriwether in "That Which Survives." ("That Which Survives" being...oh, never mind. You get it or you don't.) I wanted to simply be there, a cog in the broken machine. I didn't quite accomplish that level of stealthiness, though the waist cincher at least helped me feel a little better about said silhouette. Fortunately, I was able to slip the skirt of the dress on over my velvets without the line of the dress being affected, meaning I didn't have to take my velvets off, which would have involved getting out of and back into my buetz. A pain in the ass, given the cramped space in which the models had to change. The tank top and fishnet shirt were all that needed to come off (the top of the dress is essentially a corset with shoulder straps), and afterwards after taking the dress off I only put the tank top back on. It was a bit too warm for the fishnet, and considering what I'd just done (i have no business being up here, i know it and you know it, but the trick is to make you think i actually do belong under these lights and i'm going to give it my best shot), I figured my comfort level could handle it. Except for the waist-cincher, there was nothing reshaping or obscuring my body; the dress was built so that there was some mystery as to where it ended and I began. Not now. I didn't even have stripeys on under the velvets; this was my body, more or less. The bulge in my groinatalogical area, I told myself, was mostly unnoticeable in the dim light, my unpadded breasts were more obvious, and it's not as though I was fooling anybody anyway. Still, I fancied I looked not unlike Cecilia Roth in the advertising for All About My Mother. (I did finally see both that and The Girl Next Door in a double feature at the Four Star. An afternoon of documentaries and foreign films—that's what vacationing is all about, damnit.) Not so much to ask, really, even if she's a genetic girl.
In an act of irony only this current incarnation of the universe could provide, The Ex didn't make it.
She'd intended to, and the evening Maddy and I had spent with her earlier in the week was ostensibly
so they could meet prior to the show. To make a long story short, though, her and her boyfriend had
to stay home for the evening. It wasn't a snub; I know she would have been there if she could have,
and I'm not suggesting that it wasn't a very good and signficant evening because of her absence. Indeed,
I didn't even know she wasn't there until after the show, since I wasn't able to exactly keep track of
these things beforehand, and while on stage I could see nothing but the lights. Oh well. Standing
off to the side as the other models did their thing after me, I spotted Maddy in the crowd, and that
was all I really needed.
Look, I sometimes have to write quickly, okay? I'd meant to say that Brian observed that I have to report to the criminal courthouse, which he assures me sucks ass. But apparently I got distracted. Hey, it happens. We saw Beat at the San Francisco International Lesbian & Gay Film Festival. Courtney Love plays Joan Burroughs, the accidentally murdered wife of William S. Burroughs. (Judy Davis played essentially the same character in David Cronenberg's Naked Lunch. This seems appropriate.) The film focuses on Joan, as she suffers loyally through William's infidelities as he almost compulsively explores his sexuality, which does not include her. It's easily my favorite Courtney performance to date, perhaps because the pain in her eyes looked so familiar...
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Sunday, 18 June 2000 (aftermath) 11:34am There. It happened, it's done, and much to my surprise, I enjoyed it thoroughly. I was nervous as fuck, certainly, but so was everybody else. I think that's just a given, really. The key was that nobody was taking it too seriously—in fact, that was something Magenta was stressing early in the evening. No matter what happens, she insisted, the bottom line was to have fun. Period. I think the idea was to get away from the pretentiousness associated with this sort of thing (goth is bad enough, and fashion shows have an almost worse reputation, which probably accounts for the minor exodus from the dance floor when the show began—their loss), and it seemed to work. There were several organization hiccups along the way, but when humans are involved, that's going to happen. Even right up until the beginning of the show, when the music was played in the wrong order. Each set of designers and models would be on stage to a song ostensibly chosen by the designer, and apparently they didn't get played correctly. Of course, nobody in the audience could tell, and I'd never heard the song Paige had wanted to use anyway, so as far as I was concerned it didn't matter. (When imagining what it would be like, I'd always heard einstürzende neubauten's "Sabrina" in my head. I don't know what music was actually playing, but that wasn't it.) While waiting in the hallway outside the dancefloor, I felt a vibtration on my neck. After a minute or two I figured out what it was: I was wearing a choker with a cameo, and I was so nervous I could feel my pulse in the cameo. It was a peculiar sensation, to say the least. And before very long it was over. I walked on stage, pouted a little to the audience whom I couldn't see because of the lights in my eyes, and walked off. There was definitely some reaction, and according to Maddy it wasn't just from her and our friends. I'm taking her word on it.
Summer was there, and if fact read from her book at the beginning of the show, although I didn't hear any
of it because the sound didn't reach the hallway. I saw her immediately afterwards, and with her
was a coworker—the tech who had fixed my computer recently, in fact. When I finally get around
to officially coming out at work, nobody's going to raise an eyebrow.
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Saturday, 17 June 2000 (endomorph) 8:32am Jonco called a little while ago, to both wish me a happy birthday and apologize for not having done so yesterday. I assured him it was all right, which it is. He asked me if anything special or different's going on, and I assured him there isn't. No point in raising questions I don't feel like answering. I hate that sinking feeling towards the end of time off when you realize the extra time is gone. I suppose it was worse when I was in school and would invariably have unfinished (or unstarted) homework, but it still kinda sucks now. You know how it is. By Friday evening, even if you've just had the week off, it's now just another weekend. The opportunity presented by the extra time in the week is now gone. And then, by Sunday afternoon, it's just another night. You might as well have been at school or work all day long, and that report which you'd fully intended to write during that time at home never got written, but still needs to be, and... Oh, it's not nearly as bad as that anymore. It'll be nice to see Brian and Leigh and Pike again, even though I'm sure my mood will darken a little when I hear Him strut past my cubicle and start crashing around (babies make a lot of noise because they require constant attention), but that's okay too because in a week or so it won't matter since I'll be moved away.
Everything's going to be okay, even the things that aren't. So there's
no need to panic. Not anymore.
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Friday, 16 June 2000 (facileness) 8:33am 27. Another birthday, another midlife crisis. Same old same old. 8:17pm Plymouth Neons manufactured after 1996 do not have serviceable gas filters, ergo they do not need to be replaced during tune-ups. Something the mechanic didn't know, but the guy at the Chrysler shop did. And now I know. Saved me a few bucks, at least. Ravioli. Contact. Shrooms. Ice cream. Bliss. Tomorrow night's the show. I'm not thinking about that right now.
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Thursday, 15 June 2000 (scapegrace) 1:47pm A fog has rolled in from the ocean. It's actually quite nice outside. But that's here. Elsewhere, especially in the Easy Bay, it's still lethally hot. And guess we're I'm headed? Deep into it all. It's a good thing, though. Among other things, Madeline and I are going to be hooking up with The Ex. This will be the first time her and Maddy have met, though they've been emailing each other for a few weeks now.
For a long time, I didn't think this was ever going to happen.
But it is.
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Wednesday, 14 June 2000 (rara avis) 6:56am Oooh! It's June 14, Flag Day! How's that for a waste of calendar ink? Although I suppose it's only fitting that Flag Day should come during a record-breaking heatwave, when burning is such an issue. Almost like saving a step. I joke, of course, because not even the relative convenience of spontaneous flag-burning can possibly justify this heat. (And it's nowhere near as satisfying as doing it yourself.) The worst part may well be the tourists, who think this is such beyootiful weather. No, no no! It's June in San Francisco! You're supposed to be freezing your ill-prepared ass off! A significant portion of the city's mid-year economy comes from sweaters sold to tourists in t-shirts and clamdiggers. Without that revenue, Muni might never be salvaged. But, gee, at least it'll be sunny in the pictures taken at the official Kodak-sanctioned photo spots.
That these things actually exist just goes to show how rampant corporate culture has become. At various
places around Pier 39,
there are signs with the Kodak logo and words to the effect of "Photo Opportunity." It truly slays me to
think that there are people who see those and say, "Hey, Midge, take a picture of me standing here!"
But I suppose that if the average American wasn't so willing to be led, there wouldn't be a tourist
industry. Hell, there wouldn't be a consumer economy at all. Hmmm...now that I think about it...
I may never forgive Jonco for introducing me to the concept of emulation.
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Tuesday, 13 June 2000 (immure) 8:02am Back out into the world once again. Eventually. 12:14pm My movie plans having been temporarily derailed, I did something I probably shouldn't have. I cut my bangs. They've been needing it badly, and I was hoping that Anodyne would be able to do the honors, but desperate times and all. You know that feeling when you need a cosmetic change, and you need it now? When something around you or of you must change, somehow? It's a variation on the anger-fueled destructive urge, perhaps. Certainly, it seemed the better option than the possibilities offered by a cabinet full of painkillers and a house full of sharp objects...
Meanwhile, it's hot outside. Really hot. Triple-digit hot in some parts
of the Bay. It's like I'm vacationing in Fresno.
I don't wanna, though, because it means I'll have to stand out in the
sun. The sun is very bright today and surely will be tomorrow. Yuck.
No fair. It's mid-June, for fuck's sake. It should be dark and gloomy
in the skies, not just below them. Is the climate going to wait another
week for the solstice just to be a stickler for details? I suppose, if
I really have to, I could, like, not wear my jacket tomorrow. Wow, what
a horrifying thought.
Damnit, I should have known better. It's Roderick's, after all, and I know how Roderick's is. Mind you, this isn't going to turn into a rant about how supposedly pretentious it is. Fooey on that. The "pretentiousness" is exactly why I like it. Which is why I should have known better than to go with the tank top rather than the corset/waist cincher. Whoops. I could not have possibly felt more big and dumb and out of place. My ego surely would have taken a beating anyway from the remarkably well-dressed crowd (even by Roderick's standards), but tonight it felt like I wasn't even trying, and frankly, I haven't yet earned the right to slum. Far from it. And probably because of the heat recently, there were many more bare midriffs than usual. That particularly hurt. In a lot of ways, I was reminded of what it was like when I first started going last year. Part of that's because I didn't see anyone I knew. (Well, okay, Vlad was there, but that doesn't count. Not to mention the creepy guy with the plaid shirt and the curly hair. He's harmless and there's no question that his regular attendance and apparently hefty bar bill helps the clubs continue to exist at all, but damn, he gives me a serious case of the willies. I suppose it's almost ironic: what could be spookier in a goth club than a plaid shirt? But I digress.) Hence, I didn't talk to anyone, which really made it feel like the old days. I'm not sure that's a feeling I want to relive. I wonder if I have any choice in that, though. As I left Roderick's, a peculiar temptation struck: to go to Trannyshack. I always prefer to get there early in the evening, well before the stage show begins, but by now it would have been on for quite some time, and in fact might have already begun to wind down. Which would have been perfect, because that's when the cruising really begins. I used to say that getting hit on at Trannyshack is roughly as difficult as falling off a bike. I'm not so sure anymore. Or, at least, I'm not so sure I have what it takes. I really can't begin to explain why, but I have this feeling that I've...lost something, somehow. It doesn't make sense, and I certainly don't intend to test the theory by getting pawed by a sweaty middle-aged guy, but... Oh yeah. This is relaxation in the classic sense. I'm doing a great job of it. Maybe I'm slipping. Maybe I'm losing my irony, or maybe my passion, or maybe I'm too detached, or maybe I'm not detached enough, or maybe I'm just going about life in the wrong way entirely, or maybe I'm so terribly afraid of fixing what I've damaged that I keep denying it and pretending it will get better when I know deep down it never will....
you need to prepare yourself for the big hurt, kiddo. duck and cover, then try not to flinch when the firestorm burns the flesh from your bones. you remember that, don't you? Maybe I just need to go to bed. Okay, that one's for sure.
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Monday, 12 June 2000 (a month of sundays) 9:08am Okay. Now what? This is the first substantial amount of time I've had off in a few years, without having plans or other concerns of some kind. Last year I was either ill or visiting/being visited by Maddy. Well, she's at work right now, and I'm feeling much better than yesterday. Still a tad congested, but my unverifiable fever has gone down. So no excuses. The DSL is still down, and the tech support line is so backed up the message says to try back later. I'm guessing more than a few of them are the same complaint. Nothing to do now but wait for it to get fixed. Could be a few hours, could be a few days...I shudder to think of what it would be like without Madeline's dialup. I still haven't dared to get my modem (rabbit ears?) back in operation for fear of it futzing things up even more.
Cleaning. This place requires no small amount of cleaning. Not to mention more of the xmas lights
need to be replaced, parts of the bedroom walls are still (gasp!) white, a lot more CDs to rip to
mp3 so I can sell off the originals, a bunch of stuff in the closet to just plain throw away, and
so on. Plenty to keep me productive. And, of course, there are movies to go see...
Probably I won't be home all day tomorrow, though. There are a number of movies playing
which I want to see, ironically enough including a documentary playing at the Castro called
Grass. Also on the short list are a couple movies at an indie theater, as close to
chick flicks as I'll usually get: a documentary about a porn star entitled The Girl Next Door, and Pedro Almodóvar's latest estrogen-fest,
All About My Mother. Good ol' Pedro. I've always
enjoyed his movies, and in addition
to being an unrepentant flamer who gave the world Antonio Banderas, his measure
of a woman has nothing to do with what she was born with between her legs. Besides, from what I've
read, it's the kind of tearjerker I could use right now...
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Sunday, 11 June 2000 (marquee moon) 12:12pm I'd never expected it to happen, but it turns out there's a way to get Maddy out of bed early on a Sunday morning. Tell her that Alanis Morissette is playing at the Fillmore, and tickets go on sale in a few hours. Within half an our we were on our way to the Fillmore. Not that I can use it again anytime too soon, but it sure worked this time.
And we managed to get tickets. I'm not feeling any better than I
was yesterday, and otherwise I almost certainly wouldn't have left
the house today. But these are special circumstances.
The show, which I hadn't been aware
of before seeing the ad in the paper this morning, is a week from this
upcoming Thursday, a few days before the eels show at The Great American
Music Hall. Musically, the rest of the year is really going to suck.
I figured it was probably something on their end, but I called anyway a little while ago to find out. I even had my type of modem and OS and email id and keyword ready to go, just in case. The tech confirmed that, yes, the San Francisco area has been experiencing some major outages. I should keep trying, and if I'm still not back on by tomorrow, call again for an update. In theory I could have gotten really upset, saying that I'd damn well better get credited for these last few days, and what's more I'm both ill and on vacation so not having my net access is simply inexcusable. A lot of people would have—The Den Mother, for one, is known to throw hissies when told that something can't be done as quickly as she wants—but I just didn't see the point. Bad enough the poor guy has to deal with this on a Sunday evening, and I know it's out of his control. What, he can suddenly make the network all happy again because I'm jonesing to show Maddy the Manson-directed (if lyrically butchered) video for "Starfuckers Inc." online? Nope, it doesn't quite work that way.
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