I go back and forth on the idea. It feels like something I should do at least once in my life, an immersive experience of the sort which I seem to be seeking out these days. It could suck, or it could be wonderful. I hear a lot about how it isn't as cool as it once was, but, um, what is, really? To hear some people tell it, San Francisco peaked shortly before I arrived (August 20, 1994), and yet I couldn't be happier here.

Last year was Cameron's first time at Burning Man, and he had a blast; it was was Kelly's fourth or fifth, and she didn't enjoy it at all. Like everything else in life, it's a crapshoot.

In any event, it wouldn't happen this year. Well, okay, there's one event: if I got a free ticket, and then I might try to work out the personal and professional logistics. That's how Cameron ended up going last year, in fact. It also helps that I have a standing offer to be in his camp. Being with friendly people who can hold my hand when need be would be a good thing.

Someday I'll be dead, and won't be able to do much of anything at all.

11:36pm

So I was standing outside the Goodwill a couple doors down from The Dark Room when a couple of very agitated teenagers wearing standard-issue "punk" accoutrements walked by. I'd noticed them standing outside The Dark Room, gesturing at the sign and the front door, so I wasn't surprised to hear one of them say, "We ought put a sign out front that says 'Mission Records Forever! Fuck The Dark Room Collective!'" It was hard not to laugh, and I suspect that even if I'd tried to explain to them what a collective is, or the concept of DIY (the fundamental punk ethic of which The Dark Room is a perfect example), it wouldn't have made a difference. They were the types for whom punk meant little more than sewing band patches on their coats and urinating in the corners of places that will let them get away with it. Like the old Mission Records, to name but one such pisshole. I wonder how much those kids actually supported the store financially.

Larry-Bob's interview with Maddy and I about queer marriage, recorded on that fateful Saturday back in April, was (finally?) broadcast on KPFA in a heavily edited form this past Saturday morning. Most of the slanderous things I said were removed, but thankfully, the stupid ones are still there. It just wouldn't be an honest document otherwise. There are certain things I wouldn't say now, many of which probably confirm the worst suspicions of the opposition, but I was kinda making it up as I went along, y'know? (And I don't remember having a cold day that, but I sure do sound sniffly.) "Two-Sixteen-Ought-Four" is a much more accurate representation of my feelings on the matter, and more people will read that than hear this.

Anyway, if you're so inclined, it's available as a streaming mp3 from KPFA; the broadcast date is 6-26-04. We come on at about fourteen minutes. Doesn't Maddy have the best radio voice?

1:39pm

Rumor has it I'll be seeing (and, presumably, trying on) my costume for Zippy tonight. Meep.

3:20pm

We just lost one of our major clients. On one level it's a good thing because they're morally reprehensible, but it also puts what My Supervisor calls "economic pressure" on our department. I think that means I may become redundant soon.

sometime after midnight

The trying on of the costume was not quite a success. In fact, I'd have to term it a downright failure; in spite of Erin's best efforts, cutting wherever she could to create the illusion of it fitting me, it simply did not. It was a white pantsuity thing with sort of Westerny spangly bits (I just don't know enough about that sort of fashion to describe it properly), but as I caught glances of myself in the mirror as she was working on it, I kept reminding myself of the pictures of Elvis in his final days, with that belly announcing itself to the world whether he wanted it to or not. Ugh. Me playing Karen Carpenter is seeming more and more like a sick-in-a-not-so-good way joke.

I liked how the wig looked, though. Maybe it's just because I've had this same cut for six years, and seeing my face framed a new way is always a shock. Oddly enough, I was reminded of B'Elanna Torres from Star Trek: Voyager (minus the forehead ridges), especially when she would get hot and bothered. Trust me.

I still haven't decided if it was good timing or not that I'd gotten stoned a few minutes before Erin got to work on Carpenterizing me. Nothing like heightening the experience, I suppose.

I could probably just say David Lynch is my favorite director, and that would explain everything.

But—I loved the languid, hallucinatory pacing, the way the film takes its time and doesn't feel the need to explain everything. That it doesn't feel like an American movie. (Much like Soderbergh's Solaris, which I also really dug.) That Luis Guzman's character's name is Lance. LANCE! That Emily Watson's face is either washed out or in shadow until her third appearance. The long camera takes, especially as he gives his information during the phone-sex call. The fact that Industrial Light and Magic has a visual effects credit. (For what?) (Exactly.) Adam Sandler's gutsy performance, crying and panicking and being vulnerable in a way seldom seen in American movies, particularly movies with his rather macho demographic. The sense of depth and space (reminiscent but not derivative of The Graduate), and anxiety about what's around that next corner (Lynch again, specifically Lost Highway and Mulholland Drive). The soundtrack, especially the backwards sounds. Speaking of sounds: the silence during the car crash until the impact. Philip Seymour Hoffman as a badass. How their violent descriptions of what they want to do to each others' faces, which should be disturbing—especially coming a character prone to sudden violent outbursts—are in fact romantic and erotic. (Okay, maybe that one's just me.) The use of colors, in the sets and costumes and mysterious lens flares (ILM?) and interstitials—a Dancer in the Dark-style overture would have been perfect. Anamorphic Panavision.

Feh. Enough about boring movies nobody likes. I have an important question: while I'm sure that a lot of $200M budget went towards the creepy-ass robots, couldn't they have afforded to buy their star clothes that fit? Seriously, it looks like he's wearing his father's coat or something. One man saw it coming: sleeves that need to be hemmed!

10:33pm

I hosted Lit at the Canvas tonight. It's my new steady gig, and a pretty sweet deal: Melinda does the organizational and promotional heavy lifting, and then I get to have fun and act goofy and introduce the readers and stuff. Can't beat that with a stick. A lot less pressure than Wicked Messenger (which continues onwards, mind you), since ultimately all I have to do for this one is show up. It's the last Monday of the month, which could be a tad problematic next month, since it'll be a day or two at most after Lynnee and I get back into town, and I might be a smidgen burnt out. On the other hand, Scarlet Harlot will be one the readers. How can I not be involved in that?

Anyway, it was a really great evening. I found myself inspired more than once, especially by Tina Butcher and Larry-Bob. One of Larry-Bob's pieces was about the state of cabaret today, about how much of it is safe and bourgeois. (Thus begging the question, does cabaret exist enough for some of it to be too safe?) (Evidently, it's as alive and well as Communism.) (Have I mentioned that I want to play Sally Bowles in Cabaret? I have? Okay. Just checking.) It got me to thinking not only about Wicked Messenger, my own little cabaret, but the overall state of my art, all the things I create or assist in creating, be it writing or performing or events. Am I playing it too safe? Am I exploring enough? Do I know where the boundaries are? How far is too far? Am I just regurgitating what's already been done, and even male strippers on pogo sticks are somehow blase?

I need to get back in touch with Zenyasha, the violin-playing Tenderloin whore. She said she'd be happy to perform (the violin) at any event I put on. Hopefully, her number hasn't changed in the year or so since I've spoken to her, and if it has, Tallulah should know how to get in touch with her. I'd like to think Zenyasha's given up the rock, but there's no point in getting my hopes up too high. If you'll excuse the pun.

I'm very fond of Tina Butcher's writing, which tends towards the smutty. A lot of erotica leaves me cold, but her work really does something to me. Among other things, she read about being a bondage model. Her descriptions were vivid and emotional as always, and as if that weren't enough, she was paid to write about being a bondage model. I think my jaw hung open for a few moments after hearing that. Wow. What a seriously wonderful concept. That is so something I need on my resume.

• Star Wars: Episode II - Attack of the Clones is a really bad movie.
• Not only is Communism alive and well in America, it's alive and well enough for there to be rival factions. "No, this is a Trotskyist paper. It's a different point of view than Worker's World."
• In the long run, it's just her and I.
• it's never personal.
• There are few things more pathetically hilarious (hilariously pathetic?) than a pimply white teenager in a Metallica t-shirt tagging a Muni bus.
• When there are festivities and events all around to which you haven't been invited, a cute girl you don't recognize running up and asking when you're reading next feels really, really nice.
• Roxy Monoxide and I are the same coat size. Unless she was selling it because it was getting too big, which seems plausible.
• Punch-Drunk Love is a really good movie.

It probably helps if you grew up in Fresno. Still blows my mind every time I'm at the corner of Haight and Fillmore.

Maddy and I worked off quite a few calories last night in the water—mostly in the sauna, really—but more than made up for them afterwards at Kiki's Sushi in the Inner Sunset. I opined that we were having a decadent evening, what with the Hot Non-Anonymous Sauna Action and then eating entirely too much sushi. She pointed out that the restaurant was loud with yellow walls; it would really only be decadent if were were down the street at Ebisu. Not to mention the crab maki has mayo. Still, though, I should have been at home working—I have to go through the rest of the pictures of Lynnee and I, write promotional material, et cetera—so that made it kinda decadent and irresponsible and indulgent and stuff. I'd like to think so, anyway.

The Friday night in San Diego is still up in the air, but thanks to Lynnee we now have a gig on Thursday night (also in San Diego), so we're back to having three for sure. Cool.

10:25am

A new definition of frustration: having a cold, but being unable to sneeze because it makes your back hurt. I'm trying to follow through, but the sneeze stops involuntarily, like it ran into a barrier of pain. Frankly, I don't care how much it'll hurt; I just want to sneeze. A good sneeze is not unlike an orgasm, and some pain mixed in can heighten the experience. That part of my body doesn't quite get it, unfortunately.

5:32pm

Finally, a sneeze escaped. It feels goooooood, like I'm back in the sauna with Maddy.

7:57pm

So it was originally just a directory into which I dumped the more or less final promo pictures of Lynnee and I. Then I figured that thumbnails would be helpful, and as long as I'm there I might as well toss in the bios, and...I don't know. Not a bad result for a couple hours' worth of hand-coding, though I probably put more effort into it than was necessary.

From an article on SF Bay Area Indymedia about queer marriage-themed books coming out in the nearish future:

One of these anthologies, titled I Do/I Don't, will include criticism as well as celebration. SF queer writer Sherilyn Connelly recently read her chapter at Modern Times bookstore.

Then, from Charlie's article about the tranny dating scene in the current Guardian:

A number of local performance events boast a transgender presence and great cruising potential, including "Wicked Messenger" and "In Bed with Fairy Butch."

A transgender presence, sure, okay—even when none of the performers are trannies, as has been the case with the last two shows, there's still me—but to be mentioned in the same breath as In Bed with Fairy Butch as having cruising potential? Thank you, Charlie, for creating such a beautiful lie. Don't get me wrong, I absolutely love the thought, and wish it were true. It would be the coolest thing ever if trannies came to Wicked Messenger to cruise. Bummer that the next one isn't until August.

On a completely different note, aren't movie stars supposed to be either handsome (Denzel Washington) or peculiar (Steve Buscemi), with a few plain ones thrown into the mix (Philip Seymour Hoffman)? So where does this kid fit into the equation? Seriously, what is up with that face? Is Hollywood so desperate for actors that they had no choice but to give this mirrorbreaker a starring role?

Sorry. Y'know, if I could go out in public without being assaulted by advertisements, I wouldn't feel the need to grouse about them.

Maddy and I had our third hot tub excursion in ten days. I know, how weird is that? It was her idea, though, as she pointed out once or twice, at her chiropractor's suggestion. Instead of Elisa's, we went to a place at Van Ness and Broadway with the imaginative name "The Hot Tubs." It's considerably sleazier than Elisa's, and just by looking you can tell that it's used for sex work. It isn't dirty or skanky, really, and we didn't feel unsafe at all. It just has that sort of vibe to it. What's more, it looks like it hasn't been redecorated or remodeled since 1983. All it's missing is a Nagel print and one of those squiggly neon lights. I can only imagine a pr0n movie or two was shot there back in the day, and even now it would be easy enough to sneak in a digital video camera. Not that we would be inclined to do so, any more than anything we did with each other involved a monetary transaction, but if there'd been a police raid, we would have been arrested all the same.

I saw Maddy's chiropractor yesterday, and he charged me thirty bucks to tell me what I'd already begun to suspect: my workstation is no good. This whole place is an ergonomic nightmare, really, and as should come as no surprise at place where the Boss chain-smokes, there isn't anyone in charge of such things. I've switched out my regular chair with one from the conference room, since...well, it's a different chair. Maybe that'll help.

Playwright and co-godhead Denzil was out of town on Saturday, so last night was the first rehearsal with both directors present. I'd already won over Jim, and thankfully Denzil likes my approach to the character as well. He even used the word "choices" (as in, "I like the choices you're making"), which I haven't heard in an acting context since college. I'm taking that to be a good sign. In regards to a bit of very subtle stage business I came up with involving my hands, Denzil said that maybe one person in the audience might pick up on it, but if they do, they'll think it's fucking hilarious. Sounds like a perfect description of my sense of humor, and not inappropriate for Zippy.

My hands (which some say are beautiful) are something of an issue. I wouldn't go so far as to say I act with them, but they do tend to be in motion when I'm reading. (Probably something I osmosised from (e).) I was able to more or less incorporate it into Night and Hitch-hiker's Guide, but it won't work so well for Karen Carpenter as angel. See? I'm challenging myself.

Being an angel I'll of course be wearing white, a thought which I hate but can't really get around. At least Erin's ideas for the costume are rather intriguing, sort of Karen Carpenter-via-Stevie Nicks. It should help make up for the fact that I had to wear a three-piece suit last time.

12:00pm

Lynnee and I are getting together this afternoon to shoot some promo pictures for our shows in Southern California next month. All three of 'em. Or maybe just "both;" one gig is up in the air right now, the Friday night in San Diego. There's no problem with the venue, which I think looks pretty neat, nor the structure of the show itself, which is Breedpal and I doing whatever the hell we want. The problem is competition in the form of The Science of Blowing Up, an event happening in the same city the same night, featuring Bucky Sinister, Michelle Tea and Anna Joy Springer...in other words, appealing to the same audience.

I'd known about it beforehand, and tried to get us involved—the organizer graciously looked into adding a Saturday night show—but it didn't work out. Lynnee doesn't think we should try to compete with it, and while I agree that it will probably siphon off a lot of our potential audience in a town which doesn't has a meager queer/trans/dyke/lit scene to begin with, and I've played to my share of nigh-empty rooms lately and it really sucks, I don't wanna cancel our gig. It feels like admitting defeat, and I'm simply not prepared to do that. I want to at least try. I suppose it helps that I'm still the excited, bushy-tailed idealist n00b (ooooh! performing in another place! this is so neat!) and Lynnee's toured around this particular block more than once.

We still don't have anything scheduled for that Thursday night, mainly because nobody's been returning my calls or emails. Not just venues and events, but friends and relatives I'd like to see, a photographer or two I want to hook up with—they're all maintaining radio silence. Probably doesn't mean anything.

11:12pm

Lynnee and I from today, toy guns a-blazin'. It's of questionable worth from a promotional point of view, but I like how it looks nonetheless.

Clue closed this weekend. It was hard not to feel a little pang every time we saw it, even though I know I wouldn't have been a tenth as good as the actress they cast for Mrs. White. This is not me selling myself short. I know I can act my way out of a paper bag, but she was much, much more well-suited to the part than me. Still, goddamn if they didn't look like they were having a hell of a good time up there—working with three-fifths (on some nights, four-fifths) of Uphill Both Ways? Jesus. Don't get me started on how cool that must have been. (At least I got to do a scene with one-fifth in Hitch-hiker's Guide.)

Then there's the genderfuck question, something I was concerned about from the beginning. In Night of the Living Dead, me being a tranny was never an issue, in the casting or in the play itself. I played the character straight (so to speak) and naturalistic, and the tone was serious enough that the audience didn't get mixed signals. Clue, on the other hand, is a broad comedy, and even before Dave from Uphill Both Ways was cast as Mrs. Peacock, I was concerned that the audience might interpret my presence as just another bit of wackiness. So there you go.

Meanwhile, Zippy keeps getting realer. We're now plugged on the official Zippy site. Pretty cool, that. Tickets are on sale now, too.

Bill Griffith's support of the project has been phenomenal. It's nice to finally be involved in a play with the full permission of the copyright holder; a writer friend of mine was convinced that The Twilight Zone would get shut down unless we swore it was a parody (which most straight people would readily believe based on the casting of my play alone—three male roles, and only one of them was played by a genetic boy? To the rest of the world, that's a drag show), and Clue did such kickass business it's a wonder that John Landis didn't swing by at some point.

Griffith's not asking for any money or creative control; his only stipulation is that all promotional material include copyright and permission statements, which is more than fine. It's not that he doesn't trust us, exactly, but he's trying to avoid what happened to R. Crumb with the Keep on Truckin' comic. Long story short on that one, Crumb got fucked pretty badly on the copyright and royalties for merchandise because of the mistaken impression that the image was in the public domain. So, understandably, Griffith doesn't want to take any chances.

We officially start rehearsing Tuesday. I've already memorized the majority of my lines, which is a good thing, although I'm finding myself wishing the part was just a little bigger. I think I got spoiled by my first acting gig being a lead role.

Still, without getting into the philosophical debate about the existence of small roles, at least I know that mine is controversial. Griffith says he was pleasantly surprised by the script, except...for...one...thing: Karen Carpenter as Zippy's guardian angel. He thinks Zippy deserves a better one, like Leona Helmsley, Julia Child or even Joan Rivers. (All his suggestions.) Boy, any of those would require some major recasting of the part, lemme tell ya, because I ain't goin' near 'em. Not to mention they're all still alive.

Anyway, Jim told him that he's committed to the Karen Carpenter idea, that the part's already been cast, the person they have playing her is really good (this is Jim speaking, not me), et cetera. Thankfully, it isn't really a big deal to Griffith one way or the other, so there's no problem. He may never even see the play in person, though of course we all hope he makes it out here. If he does, I'll finally get a chance to thank him for for introducing us to the Tennessee Grill.