As I worked, I listened to the commentary on The Celluloid Closet. During a clip of a murder from Cruising, they observed that William Friedkin inserted some subliminal clips of hardcore gay pr0n. I went frame by frame, and yep, there it is. Anal insertion, in all its pube-laden seventies glory. I'm going to go out on a limb and say that even if I could ask Friedkin about it (and that film is not a favorite subject of discussion with him), he wouldn't remember what pr0n movie those few frames are from. I'll bet we have it, though, and I can guarantee you it's 2257 exempt.

Life does not reward those who supersize their asparagus. I've read that it makes their piddle smell funny, but I've never encountered this particular phenomenon myself.

Reading, meanwhile, is not magic. It's fundamental, it's basic, it's necessary, but it is not magic.

11:47am

According to Pam, the footage I shot on Saturday night turned out fine, including/especially the sound. Yay.

Those of who us eschew (gesundheit!) mainstream media are far from Luddites, of couse, as evidenced by me working on the gay pr0n show. Indeed, we tend to get downright excited about certain kinds of media; the more old or low-budget, the better. For example, there's the TV Ark, a repository of clips and images from broadcast and cable stations spanning the globe as well as the decades. The page of clips from KMPH 26 in Fresno certainly takes me back to my younger years almost as much as that homegrown arcade I linked to yesterday. I so remember those promos from the eighties. I'd link to think that if I hadn't spent so much time watching teevee as a kid, I still wouldn't have gotten much more done. It's less embarrassing than to think I was genuinely wasting time, y'know?

Even these days, it's hard to face how poorly I use what time I have. Like, I finally saw a copy of Jennifer Blowdryer's Good Advice for Young Trendy People of All Ages anthology today on the shelf at Borders. For as proud as I am to have a piece in that book—and to have been namechecked by Michelle Tea in a Guardian article about the book— the fact is, there should be a book written entirely by me somewhere on those shelves. Well, okay, maybe not in the Self Help & Self Improvement section. But somewhere. As with so many other things, it's nobody's fault but my own.

Even more exciting to the arcane media geek in me ('cuz I'm the Queen of Arcane Media) (tm Lilah) is the Found Footage Festival, now in its second incarnation. An uncharacteristically well-written review of the first festival appeared in Film Threat, and if the Quicktime trailer doesn't crack you up, we can't be friends. It's a traveling event, and while they have shows in Sacramento and Oakland, they don't yet have anything lined up in San Francisco, damnit. I'm looking into getting them booked at The Dark Room. It's something I really, really want to be part of. I guess it's good to know what moves you, right? It makes me want to bust out my copy of Heavy Metal Parking Lot.

2:59pm

Listening to Bush's speech last night on NPR, a line leapt out at me:

And to those watching tonight who are considering a military career, there is no higher calling than service in our Armed Forces.

Jim, who was out of town at the time, says he's had a few people who were at Bad Movie Night make a point of telling him how funny I was. Becuase, you know, I brought it and all. Seriously (but seriously, folks!), that's really great to hear, both because my performer's ego needs all the help it can get lately and because I was really worried I was going to tank that night. Further proof that there's a fine line between comedy and hostility.

The shoot last night was fun. I ended up doing the majority of the camerawork myself, and I don't think I screwed it up too badly, it being my first time using Pam's camera. My anxieties being what they are, though, I apologized to her twice in advance if I did anything wrong. The first time was last night when I returned the camera to her, and the second time was also last night—in a dream. My brain hates me.

If I was into boys, I'd probably have a crush on Buckleroos star Marcus Iron. It's those eyes.

Afterwards, Collette (my plus-one for the show) and I wandered around the Pink Saturday throngs. She wasn't entirely well to begin with, so she ended up heading back home before I did. I walked around for another half hour or so. Nothing happened.

6:33pm

My look last night was high femme (complete with flower behind ear), so today I went for shiny-pants glam. As it turns out, I wasn't needed for the shoot after all. It was okay, though. At least it got me down to the Pride celebration proper, and I ended up spending the majority of the day with Rimma. Can't ask for more than that.

Anyway, the show itself went well. (Ever notice how that's my favorite description of gigs? Unless I utterly blew it, the show always "went well." Just because I fancy myself to be a writer doesn't mean I'm creative.) The turnout was much better than I expected given the evening, and I read a rough draft of the diary entry which I'll be posting a little later in a no less rough form. Though actual stories sometimes evolve from them, I almost never read diary entries in public 'cuz they mostly suck, and certainly not before posting them. I decided to make an exception for this one. Not sure why.

Afterwards, Collette and I met up with Sister Edith Myflesh (aka Aleister) at the Rawhide for the Fencesitter's Ball. It seemed an appropriately Pride-y thing to do. We left around one, went back to the Cozycave, and got to sleep around four.

The only definite plan for today is to be at the Castro Theater this evening. If all goes well, I'll be working the camera for a live Tim and Roma! Show broadcast from the premiere of Mr. Pam's documentary eXposed, about the making of a gay pr0n movie. We'll also be shooting at the Pride celebration on Sunday, from the booths of Falcon and Colt. It's technically work, but I'm looking forward to it all the same. It's nice to have actual destinations, places to be where I'm actually wanted. It beats just wandering around. Lord knows I've done enough of that lately.

12:27pm

Statistically, a woman walking around The Power Exchange by herself is probably a tranny. This was my observation from walking around it on Thursday night, anyway. Unless my radar was seriously malfunctioning, the only genetic women there were part of a couple or a group.

I went to The Power Exchange after Poetry Mission, for much the same reason: because I could. (Whether or not that's a good enough reason is a far deeper philosophical issue than I could begin to address.) I was also hoping something might actually happen, though I didn't know what. A major victory would be to simply find a cute girl to make out with, but I was unable to accomplish that feat at the Women's Party at the Citadel, so I knew my chances at The Power Exchangewere even closer to nil. With a man, sure. I could do lots of things with a man if I wanted.

It had only been open for a while when I arrived, and the place slowly filled. Damn, but there are a lot of straight men wandering around the dungeon, many roving eyes. I never felt unsafe, though on a few occasions I decided that somebody had been following me long enough, and I had to shake them off my trail.

The only real quote-action-unquote to be seen was the fenced-off S&M area in the middle of the basement dungeon. It was three men and two women, the men mostly topping the women. Primarily spanking, some whipping. I stood and watched quite a lot of it, aware of the placement of the other spectators. There was enough room that one could see it from just about any angle, and I noticed that more people were watching it from (ahem) behind, where they could see the flesh being struck. I preferred to observe the faces of those being hit. Their expressions of sheer pleasure was the real drama. One red, paddled ass looks pretty much the same as another. I would watch for a while, wander around the rest of the building, then watch some more. Wash, rinse, repeat.

The Power Exchange's somewhat controversial admittance policy includes free admission for women, transgendered or otherwise. The necessarily loose definition of "transgendered" includes men in drag. (As well it should, since not all tranny girls are runway models, though in a perfect world they would be. When I was just starting out in the late nineties, most people would have pegged me as a cross-dresser, and not a very good one at that.) On Thursday and Sunday it only saves them fifteen bucks, but on Friday and Saturday admission for men in regular clothes is seventy-five dollars, or thirty-dollars if they wear a towel. No towel option for Thursday and Sunday. As a result, there are always a lot of cross-dressers making the rounds. I found myself wondering how many of them were not only saving a few bucks, but living out multiple fantasies at once, moving freely through a sexually-charged environment while wearing women's clothing. Even if nothing happened sexually—and I strongly suspected that would be the case for many of them—the evening was far from a loss, and the memory of it would sustain them through their drab daily lives until the next foray.

In the main pr0n room, a guy in his fifties played with himself while watching me. He was already touching himself in an impure manner when I entered, of course, but when he saw me he couldn't tear his eyes away. I was very much aware of this, and stood there for that reason, watching the pr0n on the big teevee. He said hello to me after a while, and commented that I was looking really good. All sort of dumb things to say went through my mind, like don't you think it's a gyp that both the big and little teevee are showing the same movie? couldn't they mix it up more? and i'm surprised this movie still has the introductory plot. then again, it appears to be on dvd, and they probably don't have the tech savvy to edit it. i know i sure don't. What I wanted to say, but didn't, was do you like watching me? it's okay if you do. i don't mind at all. And it was true. Even though I found him as aesthetically displeasing as they get, I found myself reacting to his gaze, to the fact that he was masturbating while looking at me, that simply my appearance was getting him off. I felt my face grow flushed, and I got very slightly aroused, maybe just a few more drops of blood than usual, barely enough to notice it at all. If he'd made any overtures towards touching me it, it would have been over, but at a safe distance of even just a few feet, it was still powerful. Eventually he stood up and walked away. I have no idea if he came or not.

Though condoms were abundant, I realized that there was very little lube. That answered several questions for me, especially in terms of how far I might go. What lube did exist wasn't in the prepackaged tubes like you'd find at your average Castro bar, but instead were in little plastic containers about an inch in diameter, the kind Nippon Sushi uses for soy sauce in carry-out orders. I became obsessed with the lube-to-rubber ratio, and walked around checking every pile or basket of condoms. Every time I went into one of the many and mostly empty nooks and cubbyholes to do inventory, a man was waiting there when I turned back around. I suspect I was probably violating some sort of unwritten agreement, that a woman doesn't go into one of those areas unless she wants to play. (And by "play" I mean "give a blow job or get fucked.") Not that any of them touched me or attempted to block my exit—the written rules outweigh unwritten expectations—but I probably dashed a few hopes.

As I said, I watched the scene in the fenced-in area a lot. I was leaning against a wall maybe five feet from the fence, but one of the men evidently noticed me, and asked if I was looking to play. I don't believe I ever saw them interacting with any of the other spectators, and certainly not inviting them in. I walked up to the fence and lied to his face: no, no tonight. He replied, Okay. You Were Just Standing There Looking Very Pretty. thank you, I said, involuntarily looking down as I almost always do when complimented. When the compliment feels genuine, anyway, and some of the few mumbled comments I received from passing men over the course of the evening counted. maybe another time? All Right, he said. He introduced himself, and we shook hands as best we could through the fence.

Walking away, the internal conflict began. Why did I say no? Various reasons flooded through my brain, such as i don't know these people, i'm not properly dressed for it, i haven't been exercising and my body looks horrible, collette and i have started exploring these things and i really shouldn't do it without her here and many others, most of which contradicted each other and all of which boiled down to me being chickenshit. Their own scene ended shortly thereafter, and I was able to use that as a justification for my cowardice. Still, I felt like I answered all wrong, like I blew an opportunity, like I missed the point of having gone there in the first place. I mean, yeah, it was men topping women, not exactly my favorite scenario. But as boys go I got a really nice vibe from them, and one of the women was a tranny, so that wouldn't be an issue. And yet, my automatic, kneejerk reaction was to say no. Is that the kind of person I want to be anymore? Afraid to take chances, to go out on a limb? Do I want danger or don't I?

So much deprogramming, so little time.

I left shortly thereafter. I stopped in the restroom on the way out. Looking in the mirror, I thought to myself, damn, i really am pretty hot. if only i could learn to act like the beautiful girl that i am and not the dorky boy which i'm not anymore.

Besides, I was wanting to perform, and I often say I should go to Poetry Mission more often. Problem is, Maddy has always been hostile towards Poetry Mission. She went through periods of disliking open mics in general, and nothing could cause strife like the offhand comment of i really ought to start going to open mics more often. Even when she WASN'T feeling adversarial towards them, she had a special loathing for Poetry Mission. There was no way in hell I was going to drag her to it, and she resented it taking me away from her. She admitted that there was no logical reason for her distaste; the one (1) time she went to Poetry Mission with me, she enjoyed herself, and wound up reading in the open mic even though she hadn't planned on to. What's more, we met Jennifer Blowdryer that night, leading directly to us meeting Danielle the following weekend. Not even that changed her inexplicable hostility towards the event. (Of course, it's not like there aren't things that I dislike for no appreciable reason. We all do it.)

So, perhaps the most important reason I went to Poetry Mission because I could. Nobody was going to get angry at me for wanting to, let alone actually doing so. This freedom is hard-won, and lord knows I'm still paying for it.

sometime after midnight

After all, Pride is the first deadly sin.

I adore this headline. As opposed to what? "Jesus?" "Virtue?"

3:49pm

The reading last night went well. I arrived halfway through the first reader (Loren Rhoads from Morbid Curiosity), pretty good time for driving from the fucking ballpark in SoMA. to Live Worms Gallery in North Beach. (It's right across the street from the old location of Showbiz, the greatest movie poster and memorabilia shop ever. The Crash poster on the wall over my office desk is from there.) I'm still not really into erotica, but all the readers were great. It was one of those San Francisco "everyone sits on the floor" shows, and I spent much of it lying on the ground with my eyes closed. Sometimes that really is the best way to listen to spoken word. I should have asked for everyone to have done the same when I read.

Lying there listening to Jen Collins read, I got a sense of content victory. All was well in my world. I was on the floor of an oddly named North Beach art gallery, listening to some brilliant writing, and before long I'd be going on to read my own stuff. There are times when I step back from my life, when I look at the circumstance of the moment as representative of the whole, and I'm really happy. It was one of those times. In addition to just being happy to be living this life—that of a fairly pretty blonde girl with a burgeoning writing career in San Francisco—I was far away from the shitstorm raging elsewhere.

I've been keeping my distance from the controversies surrounding me regarding the breakup with Maddy. It's fairly simple considering that I've long since abandoned LiveJournal, where it fomented and continues to ferment. Or so I'm told. I've seen almost none of it.

I feel disconnected from the whole thing. It's long since stopped having anything remotely to do with me as a person; I'm a metaphor at best, an abstract symbol. Whatever legitimate grievances people may have had with me (and, yes, I've made mistakes), things which they only learned secondhand to begin with, have become outlets for other, deeper issues which have nothing to do with the drama between Maddy and I. But damn if taking me down a peg or two doesn't feel good, huh? Especially when done under the auspices of being protective of Maddy. Because she needs to be protected from me. (Reminds me of when Maddy first started talking about wanting to move to California in '99; her brother-in-law sent her a hateful, expletive-filled email rant about how mean she was being to her family, that she was being selfish and uncaring to even consider doing such a thing. It was explained away to Maddy as him simply feeling "protective" of her sister.)

Anyway, I suppose I should be bothered that so many people have such low opinions of me now, but I'm just not. Sure, there will continue to be das kindergartenbaben who bring it into the real world by playing the I'm Not Talking To You! game, but that's their damage, not mine. Yes, it hurt when someone I've known for seven years literally turned their back on me because of events in my personal life which had nothing to do with them, and it'll sting when it inevitably happens again (the damage to my reputation is going to take a long to time to repair, if such a thing is even possible), but I need to keep in mind that it says much more about them than about me.

All that said (and I'm sure there'll be some juicy, highly filtered LiveJournal posts as a result), I'm glad the audience on the whole wasn't lying down with their eyes closed, because it was nice to be able to see reactions out of my periphery. Both stories I read were well received, and I was quite pleased to see people reacting favorably to some of the more...intense descriptions. Even when writing about sexual things, my writing bears little resemblance to most erotica, so it's reassuring that the people don't find the style inaccessible or alienating.

Loren Rhoads has asked to publish one of the stories in Morbid Curiosity. Though I'm quite honored, I'm not at all surprised. It involves pointy things and blood, so it's right up her alley.

11:59pm

Why's it so difficult to say yes?

Much to my surprise, in all that time nobody's ever said a word to me about the Sheryl Crow lyric at the top of the page. Back when I was actually on the radar of the goth scene, I'd expected someone to give me grief about it, since Sheryl Crow's all non-goth and stuff. Though I'm sure most people scroll past it without giving it a second thought, you can't really miss it, either.

"The Book" is Sheryl's indictment of a writer who wrote about the time they spent together. I'd originally included it as an acknowledgment of the anger I guessed The Ex would feel when she finally stumbled upon the page. My guess was not wrong; after some unpleasantness, she decided not to read it any longer. That was when I started referring to her as The Ex, as she felt the original nickname I used for her, which she used in other contexts, made her too identifiable.

Anyway, it's meant as a pre-emptive criticism of myself, me stating my awareness of the fact that there are those who wil be angry that I write about other people as well as myself. Right there, at the top of the page: Oh, you're a voyeur, the worst kind of thief... Yep. That's me, violator of privacy, abuser of trust, ready to spill all your deepest secrets to my readers. Ever notice that, how my writing is nothing but an exploitation of the vulnerabilities of others? (Whaddayamean, you haven't?)

Don't kid yourself into thinking there's anything negative you can say about me that I haven't already thought of myself. However much you may think you have me pegged, however deserving you may consider me to be of your scorn, I know my own failings far better than you ever could.

sometime after midnight

i'm tired of dying for your fucking sins