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Saturday, 28 June 2003 (destruction site) 12:50pm Pink Saturday, again. Anniversary and all. 1:23pm The latest Holy Titclamps is out, meaning I can change the line in my bio from "will be appearing in" to "has appeared in." Stacks of it are available at various places around town, particularly the LGBT Center. And if you see Larry-Bob around, he'll probably have a few.
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Friday, 27 June 2003 (time stands still) 2:44pm My evening with Violet at the St. James Infirmary benefit did not get off to the best of starts. If Maddy hadn't reminded me, I probably would have left the apartment without the ticket. But by the time I picked up Violet and parked at the Costco garage down the street from the DNA, it had pulled a Keyser Soze. It was nowhere to be found in the car, and I called Maddy but she couldn't find it at home. Violet told me that used to happen all the time with and him and Danielle when they called their dealer; they'd have the money on them when they left, but by the time they got there it had vanished. I haven't decided if that's comforting or not, but it was nice to know that he didn't consider me to be nearly as big a schmuck as I felt like. Adding injury to injury was the fact that Maddy had bought me the ticket for our anniversary—and, as anniversary presents go, the only thing that would have made it better would have been if Maddy had been able to join us. On the plus side, I was able to negotiate the sliding scale down to $5. And, ultimately, the money was going to a good cause. The Infirmary, that is, not the DNA. I'd be happy to never give money to the DNA again, but I suppose it's bound to happen eventually. It was all worth the effort, though. In spite of the best efforts of the venue—it was sweltering inside, but water was only available in small bottles for three bucks—the event was a lot of fun. Violet did a lot of flyering—and no doubt got a lot of "She's still alive?" responses about Danielle, as I often do—and it was something of a milestone for him, being the first time he's been in a nightclub sober in a very long time. We spent the first part of the evening downstairs while I danced to the opening bands, because for as much trouble as it took to get me in there was no way I wasn't going to dance, before hanging out with Chupa as she tended the upstairs bar. Since she actually has an ounce of compassion, she gave us free water, as well as keeping our cups filled with her patented non-alkie Juice Drinks. (Of which I need to ask if she can make without carbonation, since they're yummy but tear apart my stomach, which hasn't had soda in many moons.) A photographer from Skin Two was nearby, complete with lights and backdrop. She'd already declined when he asked to shoot Chupa by herself, but agreed when I suggested the two of us do it together. We struck our best hood rat poses, hers naturally a bit better than mine. There's no guarantee that we'll be in the magazine, since while we were both dressed to maim there were many others who were far more fetishy. I got the impression we'd eventually at least get jpegs, if nothing else. Down on the stage, the later-evening fare included some old-school exotic dancing from Sharon Mitchell, who proved that she's still very much in shape in spite of the fact that her current day job is, as it were, less physically strenuous than the old one. And speaking of physically strenuous, what Fakir Musafar proved was that in spite of being in his seventies, he's still a harder-core motherfucker than wimps like me who were born after Kennedy was assassinated. The picture on his homepage gives a pretty good idea of what the performance entailed. Hell, I don't even have my ears pierced. It felt very '99, to not get to bed until two in the morning but have to be out of the house by half past seven, like a nostalgia trip. I remember this! I've kinda missed it, in a way. Although during the interview on Tuesday the possibility of me being part-time had been discussed, including me leaving early or not even coming in at all on Fridays, here I am, and nobody's suggested anything else. Indeed, the Boss's wife told me on the phone that he thinks I'm doing a great job. Yay. That's a good thing. It'll probably still be a while before I get raised above minimum, but that means there's a chance of it, and it's still more than anyone else is offering. I won a minor victory earlier. Though I hadn't noticed them before, there are fluourescents overhead, hanging from the high, sloped ceiling. When the Boss turned them on, seemingly out of habit, I took a chance and asked if I could keep them off since there's lots of natural light and the artificial stuff does bad things to my eyes. He was cool with it. Whew.
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Thursday, 26 June 2003 (from here to infinity) 3:14pm Those people I mentioned yesterday, the ones who jumped? Courtesy of The Memory Hole (via Bob Harris on Tom Tomorrow's blog), here's a video of what Bush did immediately after being told his country was under attack. Note how closely it resembles "not a damn thing." Those Iraqi terrorists, they hate our freedom. I've brought in a fan, so I'm much comfier today. I still cringe every time I have to answer the phone, but that'll pass. Probably. The Boss has asked me about working on the company's site. Of course, I said yes. Being useful is a good thing.
The bus fare to get out here from San Francisco is going up almost a dollar next month, thus
cementing my decision to simply buy a FasTrak (tm) tag and drive. I'll probably also be taking Kelly
most days, which will help absorb some of the guilt from being yet another damn motorist in the commute.
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Wednesday, 25 June 2003 (somebody loves you) 3:48pm The things I'll do for friends. We picked up Chupa last night and went to Berkeley for Monique's open mic. I'm happy to support Monique (and it's cool to have a new venue, therefore allowing me to recycle old material guilt-free), but, god, I've learned to loathe Telegraph Avenue. There really isn't much store-wise that I can't find anywhere else, and it's a functional impossibility to walk two blocks, as Chupa and I did from the Mediterraneum Cafe to Smart Alec's, without getting some degree of shit from someone, usually (but not limited to) the gutterpunken. I suppose it doesn't help matters much that Chupa and I are a rather exquisite-looking pair, and what I'm lacking Chupa more than makes up for. So stealthiness is not an option, even when we wish it was. When we were walking back to the car with Maddy later on, a homeless guy exclaimed, "It's Charlie's Angels: The Next Generation!" Um, yeah. Very cutting edge, what with ads for the new movie plastered all over the place. 8:29pm So the first day on the Job went okay. I'm told it was the hottest day of the year in the office, not aided by the fact that I don't have a fan, and not only do I not feel the air conditioner, the chain-smoke from the boss's office kinda lingers since the doors are necessarily closed. I'll bringing a fan tomorrow, though, so everything will be okay. I didn't greatly screw anything up, and even eventually started answering the phone, although the fact that my hearing sucks results in lot of "I'm sorry, what was your name?" on my end. I do seem to be getting along with everyone, which is very important. We got sushi to go from the place in Pacifica this evening. What keeps it from being perfect is the fact that they have two (2) teevees which are always on. (I hate teevees and radios on in public places. They're bad in enough in homes.) Anyway, thanks to unwilling exposure to Entertainment Tonight I now know that one of Eminem's latest out-rageous photo opportunities is a parody of the Michael Jackson baby-dangling incident. Boy, and I thought the guy on Telegraph last night was cutting edge. I've said it before and I'll say it again: making fun of Michael Jackson is not daring. It's shooting fish in a barrel. Hell, it's more banal than that. It's picking a dead fish up and putting the gun to its head. There's simply no challenge, no danger, no real threat of offending someone, and otherwise, what's the point of satire? Eminem is supposed to be all dangerous and stuff, and this is the best he can do? Parodying one of pop culture's biggest laughingstocks? Good lord, does that even count? There's only one way I can imagine him regaining his cred at this point, to prove to the world that he really is hardcore and doesn't give a shit what anybody thinks about him. I know that in his videos does wacky spoofs of celebrities (you know, the ones who've sold out, unlike himself). He needs to do one in which he's one of the people who jumped out of the Twin Towers after the planes hit. Yes, it would be incredibly offensive, and wasn't that originally the point? Until then, as far as I'm concerned, he's just a pussy. He probably even wears makeup like a bitch.
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Tuesday, 24 June 2003 (fashion awards) 2:19pm We went out for sushi last night with Tristan for his birthday, Rachel, Ted and Anodyne's all just passed, Dax and I share the day (though she came along a few years later), and Matthue's is the last day of the month. Damn. All the cool people are born in June, the best month ever. It makes sense that it's on the opposite end of the calendar from December, which is an utter waste of a month. Well, that's not entirely true; the last week of December, from Boxing Day onwards, is okay. But the rest of it is utterly horrible. (Okay, okay, there's at least one birthday early in the month that's pretty cool, but otherwise...) Tristan says I look like I could be his boyfriend M's fraternal twin sister. It's eerie, but he has a point. The interview seemed to go well. Kelly was there with me, which was nice, and her boss mostly spoke to her anyway. It wasn't as in-depth as some I've had before—I think I had three interviews before getting the CNET job, lo those many moons ago—but it's not like the position requires someone highly qualified, either. The wages would start at minimum, and then possibly go above that in a month or two if I don't completely suck. It's more than anyone else is offering me, and my unemployment insurance just sputtered and died, so turning it down isn't really an option. Besides, it would be relatively low-stress, not much customer contact (though it's mostly a receptionist position, by the nature of the business there's very little walk-in business), no direct sunlight, no office radio blaring a commercial station, and a computer with a screen facing away from the foot traffic. Kelly has also suggested sometimes carpooling with her picking up the bridge toll, which would help take some of the sting out of the commute cost. She's also assured me that if after a while I begin to realize that I hate it (or get a better job—in addition to being local, Good Vibrations would pay better), she won't at all be offended if I move on. I was kinda worried about that, since as far as I'm concerned she's kinda sticking her neck out on the line for me in the first place, and I don't want to hurt her credibility with the company. Apparently the position has a somewhat high turnover rate, and it's almost expected. There's no dress code to speak of (Kelly was in brown fatigue cutoffs), but I went with my equivalent of business casual, a black sleeveless blouse, a long slim velvet skirt and relatively little makeup. (It's also my business formal. I don't do business all that well.) It didn't really add to my comfort level, but I didn't want to chance wearing a short skirt with fishnets or stripeys or anything like that. A little soon for that; I need to get hired first. I've noticed that when I'm feeling nervous or unsure about my appearance, I feel tall. When I'm more comfortable or confident about my appearance, I don't feel quite so tall. I was very tall today. Kelly says she doesn't think anyone clocked me. That won't last. It never does.
In any event, I should know by tomorrow, and in theory I could start on Thursday. Either way, I'll be going to
Naughty Nursies: The St. James Infirmary
4th Anniversary Ho-Down at the DNA that night. I'm primarily going so Violet and I can advertise my reading
with Danielle next month—that's how I justified buying the ticket, especially since I don't expect the
DNA to honor the Infirmary's "nobody turned away for lack of funds" policy—but it might end up being a little celebratory, too.
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Monday, 23 June 2003 (numbered days) 10:26am So I'm at the gym this morning, and as usual the woman on the machine next to me is reading People. Or maybe Us. One of those horrendous celebrity rags. I don't want to look at it, but it's in my peripheral vision. (For the record, I had just finished Sarah Vowell's The Partly Cloudy Patriot and was starting Spalding Gray's Morning, Noon and Night. Yes, I am pretentious, and this is arguably coming from an intellectual elitist point of view. On the other hand, I'd like to think the fact that I own a copy of Spalding Gray's 70s pr0n movie redeems me a little.) She's reading an ad, a full page which easily contains more text than any of the non-advertising pages of the magazine, since the real estate in those is mostly taken up by paparazzi photos. Anyway, the headline of the ad—which, I must mention again, she has not flipped past but is reading—disturbs me in ways I can barely even begin to articulate: "Better than Botox." Better. Than. BOTOX. Jesus. There are people in this world who are surely excited by that concept, who think Botox is a swell idea to begin with but would love something which is, in fact, better. Is it just me? Has the world, or at least this country, always been like this and I just didn't realize it until I started diverting my attention outside of mainstream pop culture? Because, I swear, every time I look back into it, it gets more and more alien to me. Possibility: I am a huge fucking hypocrite, because I was at the gym to atone for my sins of the weekend, out of fear that I may have put on a few pounds, in spite of the fact that the common consensus is that I'm probably getting a bit too far on the thin side. Am I any less shallow than those for whom Botox is a miracle? We went to the Stern Grove Festival yesterday with Ted and Kelly. It was a lot of fun, and I only got a little burned, although I used what I thought was copious sunscreen. It's never copious enough, I guess. The heat of the early afternoon in the grove contrasted with the bitter windy cold of the evening as Maddy and I stood outside the Castro Theatre to see Rise Above: The Tribe 8 Documentary. We were first in line—you know me, all about erring on the side of caution—and Pam, Liz, and (e) eventually joined us. It was worth the cold. We'd first heard of it when we saw the movie poster in Lynnee's house, and this was the first time it had played in San Francisco since then. In any event, it was the perfect way to see it, with a hometown crowd. Sometimes I couldn't quite tell if the cheering and applause was on screen or in the theater. I love my City. From the Good Vibrations letter:
Thank you for your interest in the position. We received applications from many qualified individuals such as yourself.
So it isn't "Don't call us, we'll call you." The opposite, really. And, hell, it's nice to be told I'm qualified for something. It's been a while.
Of course, I'm not sure exactly how I should contact them. Reapplying when the position is posted on the site? A phone call?
A letter?
Not that I know how much it'll pay beyond the bills, and Kelly didn't have so much as a ballpark figure to offer, but it's gotta be better than unemployment, and my unemployment just sputtered and died anyway. If the boss likes me and I don't completely suck, it could become permanent. A downside is that it's in Sausalito, which will cost at least a half a sawbuck per day in either bus fare of the Golden Gate Bridge toll, but, you know, beggars and choosers. Besides, I worked in Autodesk for the majority of '98, and that was even deeper into Marin County. Anyway, I'm going in for an interview tomorrow morning with what Kelly describes as her crusty-in-a-good-way boss. I'm nervous just on general principle, but I think it'll go okay.
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