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Wednesday, 9 June 1999 (indicators) 11:06am No Roderick's last night. The Ex asked if she could keep the car for evening, and my immediate impulse was to let her, so I said yes. Got asked on the train yesterday, by a rather greasy-looking gentleman who had the temerity to interrupt me while I was reading and wearing my headphones (in other words, the Do Not Disturb sign was up), if my name was Kate. That's a new one. I told him it wasn't, and he left me alone after that. A bit more progress has been made in the terraforming of my cubicle. I put up the other quasi-curtain, so I have them on both sides now. I rather like it. I've also put up a couple posters, just inside the doorway. My theatrical one-sheet of Twin Peaks Fire Walk With Me (which would probably be valuable if it wasn't so banged up), and Antichrist Superstar. I can see them both in my mirror, but only Fire Walk With Me is visible from outside; to see Antichrist Superstar you actually have to walk in and turn around, so I don't foresee too many complaints. Nobody's given me any static about the "i'm so fucking beautiful" bumper sticker, so I'm probably clear.
Indeed, the only
person who is likely to be bothered is Summer, she being of the "Marilyn
Manson isn't goth and I wish he'd just go away so we didn't have to
deal with him" school of thought. Couldn't agree more on the first
part, as Manson isn't goth, and has never once claimed to be. Besides,
for her to see it she'd actually have to come talk to me. She's been
back from her trip for two days and hasn't so much as stopped to say
hi. Funny, considering how much we talked before she left about how
nervous she was about giving a reading at the Stoker Awards, how she was clearly fishing for
encouragement and I was taking the bait, and now it doesn't even occur to her
to that I might want to know how it turned out. So, like, you know, whatever.
Around noon I decided to something very unusual for me: actually leave the office for lunch. I'd been devoid of actual work, and it didn't look like anything was coming way anytime soon. I wandered up to North Beach and ended up in a cool little poster/memorabilia shop called Showbiz. Always neat stuff, and of course they had all the Star Wars stuff you could possibly want. Luckily, my poster browsing was fruitless, because if I'd seen something I really liked I would have probably bought it, and I can't afford that sort of thing right now. There's still a space on my wall requiring filling, and none of the other posters I'd brought from home quite worked. I guess it'll remain vacant for now. A journey a bit further up Broadway past Columbus to examine the Chinese restaurants revealed that I wasn't feeling particularly adventurous, so I grabbed a burrito to go from the little taqueria across from the Velvet Lounge and walked back to the office. I'd just started eating when Summer approached and asked if I wanted to go to lunch with her. The fact that I was already eating didn't seem to be an issue. So, naturally, I said yes. We talked mostly about the latest problems she's been having with the big boss, who appears to have gone off the deep end once again. Citing a need for a little space between her and Ash, she said that she'd actually be at Shrine this Friday for the first time in months. She also invited me to go a reading tonight at a bookstore in town (Richard Laymon will be there), plus a shopping trip this weekend. A part of my pride is telling me I should have declined the offers, but of course I didn't. To her credit, she did ask me how I was doing, and even inquired about Sara. Not that I had much to tell her—Sara and I don't talk much anymore, and no, we're not now nor were we ever romantically involved. Just one of those things. It lived, then it kinda died. And no, I'm not involved with anyone right now. She never commented on my appearance. Nobody has, but I expected her to, at least. (Where's Lee when I need him?) Nope. We even stopped at the old building—oh, how I miss it—to use the restroom, and I hopped into the shower room for a quick but noticeable touchup. Still nothing. I'm not saying she's required to, and I realize that this all goes to show my incredible fortune to be where I am right now and to be able to do what I'm doing, which is to look completely femmey at work and get away with it. There are many who would kill for this freedom, and it is of extreme value to me. The fates which lead me to this time and place have my eternal gratitude.
But, jeez, Summer not saying anything is like...I don't know, a parent forgetting a birthday or something. Not a very
good example, considering the connotations it carries for those of us who grew up in the eighties, but it's all I can think of.
Yeah, I know, I'm being very silly. I'll get over it. I'm already over it. In fact, forget I said
anything at all.
Summer and I left the office at six. In her car, as she changed from Doc Martens to her recently acquired combat boots, I applied a fresh coat of everything. Fresh in the sense that it added another layer to what was already there, anyway, but it still felt like the right thing to do. I told Summer that I might consider forgiving her for not having commented on my appearance—no promises, though. After I explained what I was talking about, she apologized profusely, and promised to be more attentive to these things in the future. The last time I went to a reading with Summer, it turned into one of my most harrowing days ever, an emotional crucifixion which manifested itself physically (I still have the stigmata scars) and that night became a journey into a private hell. The book reading in and of itself had nothing to do with any of that, but it's hard not to make that association. This time it turned out much, much better. Summer was networking like mad, and introducing me to everyone, saying "She helps me with Errata." Including at least one person, Richard Laymon, her association with whom will almost certainly boost her career. (Though an American, in Britain he outsells Stephen King.) I couldn't help but be touched that she was so fearless in making sure everyone knew who I was. Some might argue that being linked with a 6', overly GAF tranny isn't the best career move, but she seems to feel otherwise. She's commented on a couple occasions that if/when she does leave the company (and it's looking very much like a "when," and soon) that we'll continue to work together, or as she put it, "be chained together at the hip editorially." Whatever may happen, it's a lovely thought.
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Tuesday, 8 June 1999 (clearance) 2:08pm Just met an interviewee for the summer internship. Clean-cut blonde guy with glasses, early twenties. Actual computer major, so naturally much more qualified than I am. All I have is a film degree and a strong survival instinct.
We shook hands, and I swear, he pulled his away so fast it damn near broke the sound barrier. Finally!
A reaction!
I tend not to associate with the transgender community. (There's a temptation to refer to it as the "so-called transgender community," but that strikes me as unnecessarily derogatory.) It simply doesn't seem to offer me much. I've accepted who I am, and I don't feel the need to spill my guts at a support group or meet other people just like me. I know others exist. I know what I'm doing can be done and that it's okay and nothing to be ashamed or embarrassed about. And I know what a struggle it was for me to reach this point, and that there are many for whom it's even more difficult and painful. (As these things go, I've been having an absurdly simple time of it.) For them I'm very glad the support system exists, and who knows, I may still become involved someday. One of the things that kept me away was the politics. Can't fookin' stand it. The battles over terms and definitions and which direction the hair should split...it all gets old real quick. Now, I've bitched in this space before about lesbians (TS and otherwise, but primarily TS) and what I consider to be their somewhat narrow view of the world. I don't deny them their views or the right to live however the hell they want to, I just resent the notion that I'm a traitor to the cause because of how I live. At least, I'm a traitor to their cause, which ain't necessarily mine. Anyway, I came across this column today. The title of the column is Not About Makeup!, but the subject is about the term "girl" and the damage it does (with a degree of leeway given to "riotgrrl"—and I thought *I* was being overly trendy!—and I admit I'm surprised she doesn't use "womyn"), though there are a few references to the evil of makeup.
To put it mildly, it's a polarizing issue. Hence the term "lipstick lesbian" to refer to those who indulge. I don't
consider myself lesbian (or, as the column's author Liby S. Pease prefers, transdyke), so in that respect it doesn't matter
a whole hell of a lot to me. She clearly considers makeup to be a great evil, or at least a tool of oppression,
whether one is lesbian or I primarily find this interesting because of my own fairly recent forays into the stuff. What can I say? It's an important detail to me right now. It, for better or worse, helps me look more like I feel I should look. (And my hair certainly requires more attention than just a brushing in the morning, and as far as I'm concerned, the effort pays off.) Perhaps the best way to describe the way my appearance evolves is instinctual. I do what seems right at the time, and I experiment. If something works, I do it again. If it doesn't work, I don't do it again. But the only standard I can really follow is my own. Whether I wear makeup or not, it isn't going to be a political statement. Which isn't to say I'm not influenced; quite the contrary. There are any of a number of (genetic) women whose look I admire and try to emulate in my own way. (Crucial point: in my own way. My face is unique and has its own set of rules.) Pandora and Louise are high up on the list, and more recently Summer. Yes, goth grrls all. They also happen to be among the strongest people I know, in spite of painting their faces. Makeup as a feminist issue, which is what it boils down, becomes even dodgier in the goth scene, where every gender uses it if they want. (And many don't. Sara and Tiff seldom do.) Who's oppressing who, exactly? By the standards of the TG community I shouldn't be involved in the scene what with all the bois wearing makeup and skirts. God forbid I be seen in public with Lee or Whitman, lest someone think I'm one of THEM. Yeah, whatever. Start the fookin' revolution without me.
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Monday, 7 June 1999 (nothing'severgonnastandinmyway(again)) 8:42am And now it's time for your favorite game and mine, Will They Or Won't They Comment? I'm fully made up, despite the erosion from the wind this morning. Actually, I've come to realize that the wind helps, taking away the excess and doing a much better and subtler blending job of the powder than I could. The lipstick is probably the most noticeable change from my usual appearance. I did blot it quite a bit; believe it or not, I genuinely do believe in subtlety, or at least appropriateness to the situation. Of course, standards of appropriateness vary greatly, and mine are probably different from everyone else's. Well, if they have a problem (or compliment, though I'm not holding my breath), they can feel free to let me know.
Besides, I like the way I look. Bottom line.
...this is wrong of me, but here I go. Normally I don't believe in making fun of someone else's aesthetics because I know mine are so fucking weird, but I find The Fidget Queen's desk genuinely creepy. He has lots of standard-issue, state-sanctioned "cute" stuff. I'm not talking Badtz-Maru, either, but rather teletubbies, furbies, Disney characters, Winnie the Pooh wallpaper on his screen, etc. Not a hint of irony, either. (Is irony required? No, of course it isn't. I'm honestly not trying to force my neo-hipster sensibilities on him or anyone else. That said, I find it wonderfully ironic that he worked on the graphics for our recently launched Auction site's anti-furby campaign.) As if that weren't nightmare fuel enough—ever actually seen a furby? those things are pure fookin' evil—he also has a thing for...no, that's not a fair way to put it. On his wall is one of the most disturbing calendars I've ever seen in my life: very very small infants, looking all but premature. I swear, they remind of me of newborn kittens more than anything else, and maybe that's the point. It's hard to believe these things can survive outside and incubator. And just to make it a little more unsettling, each shot is set up to emphasize their size: this month one is sleeping next to a ruler (sleeping curled up, which to my mind is cheating, but pick pick), last month's picture had one being held in a pair of hands (sleeping, again, they're always sleeping), and so forth. Eeew. Ick ick ick gross.
Full disclosure regarding cute stuff: I have a tribble on my monitor, a picture of my deceased cat Mary which I'll
probably be putting up eventually, and I wear barettes on occasion. So there.
After enough zapping there does come a point at which, while there's still regrowth, it's not thick enough to create a shadow. I'm not saying I'm at that point yet, just that it happens eventually. So I survived my first day at work more or less en femme. Really, the only difference was the extent to which I was made up (and I've been wearing eyeliner daily since late January), but I'm really beginning to get a sense of how much of a difference the little details can make. Didn't dress any differently than I normally do there, everyone continued to call me by my boi name, etc. (The only person who would know to call me Sherilyn is Summer, who wasn't there today.) But I'd have to call it a successful experiment, and one that bears repeating. There are, of course, potential problems. When the shadow comes back in force, I am not going to be a happy camper at all. Also, in spite of how much I talk about it without anything happening, I really do intend to start going to the gym again in the mornings, meaning that I won't be able to get made up until I get to work afterwards. Right now is a particularly good time to start back up because I've gone from the 10 to 15mg Meridia. It's weird to think of me eating less than I do right now, but I'd say this qualifies as the iron being hot. Until I do start going to the gym proper (and at the moment I'm using the subzero temperatures and arctic winds as an excuse), I've been stretching and doing crunches in the morning before I shower. My abs are really what need the most work right now. The rest of my body has pretty well thinned out, but I still have this fucking beergut. And I can't even remember the last time I touched a beer. No justice, I'm tellin' ya.
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Sunday, 6 June 1999 (consolidation) 11:53am Slept for darn near seven hours this time. Crashed just after four in the morning (that final entry from last night was me attempting to write about the events of the evening, and failing miserably because I was so incredibly tired) woke up at nine, puttered around for a little while, then laid back down again and managed to sleep for a couple more hours. That appears to have been that. I think I'm moving away from the pigtails for the time being. I like them and I always will, but lately I've been preferring how I look with my hair down. In truth I've always preferred it, but the omnipresent wind made it seem impractical. Well, the wind is no more or less omnipresent than it ever was, but I guess I'm just going to learn to deal with it.
After showering, I'm going into the Haight to get the pictures from
this weekend developed. The curiousity is killing me, as it always
does.
I briefly considered wearing the leggings/dress for a third day in a row, but decided to go a little more stealthy, just jeans and a t-shirt. Sort of stealthy, anyway: as I was getting made up, before I knew it I was in full femme mode. Well, what can I say? The powder demanded lipstick, and lipstick changes everything. Except for on my lids, I've been very sparing with the shadow lately. Maybe a smidgen underneath the eyes, but nothing between them and the brows. Just looks better that way with the whiter complexion. Emphasizes the eyes, I think. Nature, wind, is the great equalizer. It keeps you humbled. The moment I walk outside, my hair is blown in the direction of the wind, period. Having a couple hours to kill after dropping off the film, I spent most of it walking around the Castro. Whatever kind of clone I may be—and I don't seem to have an original bone in my body—I'm definitely not a Castro Clone. There were a few goth grrls (including the clerk at the photo shop), and one demurely dressed tranny standing outside a bar smoking. Not a working grrl, either. We smiled and nodded at each other as I walked by. Eventually I broke down and bought some chinese food to go, just a half pint of pork spareribs for $2. "To go" was a doorway next to the restaurant, the only place I could find to sit. If this city's lacking anything, it's places to rest. Probably I should have gotten something a little less messy, though at least it forced me to learn to fix my makeup under less than optimum conditions. I'd never actually used the mirror in my compact before, but when in Rome...kinda made me feel like the street kids I tend to overly romanticize. I was briefly tempted to start asking the people walking by for change, but that passed very very quickly. There's hypocrisy and then there's Hypocrisy, and I'm clearly guilty of the latter considering I usually ignore them. I'm so fucking bourgeois.
Most of Saturday evening was spent at Edinburgh Castle (feeling much more
wanted and a part of something than I had on Friday), from which I walked
back with Tania and Whitman to their apartment around midnight. Between points A and
B is the main playing field of The Motherlode Girls, and I'd never seen
them out in such force before. (Then again, I'm seldom out there at midnight.)
If I'd removed my leggings and picked a corner, I could have made some
decent money.
Definitely uncommon were the attendees of the Black and White Ball, which was just getting out when I hit Market. While those are in fact the dominant colors of my palette, I seriously doubt anyone suspected I'd been there. There were many very affluent-looking people in tuxedos and evening gowns around the Civic Center. Most hailed cabs, and some brave souls actually got on the bus. Seldom have I felt as strong a us-vs-them vibe than when the aisles of the bus filled with middle-aged white people in evening wear. Until that point I was probably the most elaborately dressed, and I was just wearing velvet under a leather jacket. I suddenly felt very...well, not safe, exactly. Less of a target, for want of a better phrase. Like part of the background. Guy dressed like a girl on the Owl line? Nothing new there. Guy in a tux? Don't quite fit. This is not to be construed as any kind of love for public transportation. I'll always prefer to drive. Alas, that's getting to be less and less of an option.
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Saturday, 5 June 1999 (violet) 10:42am I slept for six hours, and even that required willpower on my part, as when I woke up at three hours my immediate impulse was to get up. I made myself go back to sleep, even though I was in no rush to get back to the dreams I was having. Don't remember precisely what they were about, of course, except that when I do dream these days they're always very realistic. My subconscious seems to have to given up on the metaphoric route and now wants to make sure I understand what a loser I am in the plainest and most direct imagery possible. The other night I dreamt about unsuccessfully attempting to sleep with The Ex. I mean, come on! Where's the goddamn justice in that, huh? The one person I've ever had sex with, the one person whose body I know as well as my own (perhaps better), so I know where everything is and what needs to be done. No mystery whatsoever, and I was desiring her more than I had in years, and it was a DREAM. Allegedly, anything can happen in a dream, you can do whatever you want, and it can't be held against you. Yet, nothing. Nothing. Always nothing. I just don't understand. Wow. First time I've cried since that night a few weeks back.
Tangentially, a little while ago a guy called for her, somewhat
agitated that she hasn't been returning any of his calls over the
last month and wanting to know if she'd moved out of the country,
or what. I hemmed and hawed quite expertly, I think...remarkable,
though. We only broke up five months ago, and she's already left a
trail of broken hearts behind her. At best, I have a few people
who are surely glad they didn't really get involved with me.
There's something in the walls. The bathroom wall, more specifically. Mice seem most likely, since roaches don't make that kind of noise and we've had mice before. And I know why. On the other side of the bathroom wall is the heater for the upstairs apartment, the real apartment as opposed to the converted garage in which I reside. The heater is the dominant feature of the entryway to my place. I also use some of that space for storage, though mostly it's just collapsed boxes (which will no doubt come in handy in the next few months when The Ex actually moves out). The landlords called a few days ago to inform me that the heater is on the fritz and will have to be replaced, so could I please move my stuff out of the way? I have nowhere to move it to, but that's hardly relevant. Anyway, they've already relocated some of it to the actual garage (which is normally off-limits to me in terms of storage), and in general there's been a fair amount of rearranging happening right outside my front door. They've been having different companies come out and give estimates, so they need to clear a path to the heater itself. Seems it'll cost somewhere in the neighborhood of $3000 to replace. The heater is meaningless to me, as it's only for the upstairs. I have a small heater/fan combo in the bedroom, but otherwise, if I'm cold I wear my jacket. When the unit started acting up, my neighbor came downstairs to ask if we were getting any heat from it, since he wasn't. I think he was genuinely surprised when I told him that we don't at all, that it's only for his apartment. The leftist in me couldn't help but savor the look on his face. Congratulations, asshole, now you know how the other half live. Anyway, the local ecosystem is already being disrupted, and it's just going to get worse. Indeed, the landlord said they might be putting the new heater in another place altogether, and to achieve this may be knocking down the wall which currently divides my entryway from the garage proper. Even beyond what that'll do to my sense of privacy, the aforementioned ecosystem of pests (mice, roaches and spiders—and despite her pathological phobia of the first two, The Ex was very fond of the spiders and didn't like it when I killed them) would be shot to hell. And where do you suppose the refugees will go?
Oh well. At least I'll have perfect justification to get a cat.
Heading home from Tania and Whitman's place, I walked down Powell towards Market at 1:45am in the velvet leggings/dress combo which I strongly suspect is going to be a staple in my wardrobe until the weather warms up a bit. And freshly dolled up, no less, as Whitman had kindly indulged my request to waste the remainder of the film in my camera, so naturally I touched up my makeup first. Though I know I'm nowhere near being finished, it felt in a way like a fulfillment of destiny. Years ago, when I was still sorting out my feelings, one of the more vivid images in my mind was of walking down a street in San Francisco dressed like a girl. Unafraid. (San Francisco was an important detail.) Back then it was all but unattainable, an impossible goal. Now, it hardly seems a like a big deal. I exercise a degree of caution, of course, particularly late at night, but otherwise it's just me going on about my business.
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Friday, 4 June 1999 (what's simple is true) 9:45am Sluggish this morning. Getting out of bed was more of a chore than usual, and I'm still not quite up to speed. Hard to say why. The amount of grass I smoked last night (last episode of a Star Trek series, whaddaya expect?) combined with the Nyquil I took before going to bed might have had something to do with it. Then again, maybe not. I'm an American, so I'm not obligated to acknowledge cause and effect. 5:15pm I think this place is destroying what meager creativity I have to begin with.
This is bad.
Sara said she'd probably be there tonight. Guess we'll see.
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Thursday, 3 June 1999 (sullen girl) 7:50am Finally. Not one of my favorites, but it'll do. 10:44am Sara wrote. 1:51pm Decisions. I can stay here and work, go to the company picnic in Golden Gate Park, or follow my current impulse and take BART into Berkeley. Needless to say, that last is the most appealing. The Hot Topic on Telegraph should have the powder (though it wouldn't hurt to call first and check, duh), and I've been wanting to go to Belladonna Arcana for some time now to see if they still have the velvet leggings. Again, a quick call might save me a trip across the Bay.
...well, Hot Topic has the powder, at least. That's a start.
Berkeley was a success. Suffice it to say my legs will be very warm tomorrow, and my face somewhat pale. Sleep now. Head hurt. Waah.
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Wednesday, 2 June 1999 (parallels) 9:10am Shaved this morning for the first time since Friday night; my skin seemed sufficiently healed to survive the ordeal, and it did. However, Phil did not completely clear me on Sunday; there's still a patch of hair underneath my chin. It's in the least noticeable part, and I didn't even realize it until the swelling started to go down. Probably he realized that we'd be there for another hour if he got that last part, and I was obviously using the last of my Vulcan discipline to extend my pain threshold. Besides, he was probably terribly bored and wanted to leave even more than I did. (For the electrologist, the actual procedure is about as interesting as data entry.) No biggie; since my upper lip was already starting to get hairy by Monday morning, I knew I'd be coming back anyway. He still got a hell of a lot done, and he insists that as these things go my skin is a pleasure to work on. The apparent thickness and darkness of the hair, which makes it so uncomfortably noticeable to me, makes his job much simpler because they're easy to grab. So I shaved before I came to work, and when I got here I powdered myself up. (I didn't bother doing so at home because I knew the gale-force winds would efficiently eroded it by the time I arrived. The facial stuff, anyway. I put on my eye makeup before leaving the house as a rule.) Turns out I didn't lose all of it on friday night; a few chunks remained, and I've diluted it with talc to expand its lifespan and theoretically make it a little safer on my skin. I honestly don't know if the other stuff they put in is hypo-allergenic or not. Regardless, I'm feeling pale today, and it works well with the braids. Getting made up at work is a considerably dodgier task than it used to be, since the new building lacks the private and lockable shower rooms of the old location. Nor do I feel comfortable going into the women's restroom just yet (unless invited by Summer, natch), so that leaves the men's room. Being as poorly designed as the rest of this hole, there's a fairly long hallway (complete with sickly yellow motion-controlled lights) between the door and the actual toilet area, and the sink and mirror are around a corner, so if nothing else I can tell when someone's coming in. It's not so much me being embarrassed as it is knowing that men are uncomfortable when they walk into the men's room (it ain't an arbitrary name, y'know) and find ostensibly one of their own quite literally powdering his nose. Not that it's any secret that I wear makeup, but still, it seems to me there are some things which are best left to the imagination. I'm sure nobody particularly cares to witness the process. And while I'm out to my department anyway, we share the floor (and restrooms) with another group, the snooty-ass News.com. Near as we can tell, they don't like us very much. And why should they? They're news-dot-fookin'-com, which even Bill Gates himself has said he reads on a daily basis. Who the hell are we? Frankly, we're not even sure. Something tells me that after a while I'm going to stop caring quite so much, though. Envelopes are made to be pushed, and this damn place is screaming for it. In that respect, the terraforming of my space has begun, if slowly. There's the quasi-curtain I put up yesterday, and tomorrow morning I'm going to start disconnecting some of the overheard flourescents, for which I've received quasi-permission. Close enough for jazz.
No real decorations to speak of, except for the blacklight (did you know that monitor plastic
will start to melt if the blacklight bulb is too close? don't ask me how I know this), tribble and
a couple stickers on my monitor from Unamerican Activities. "Estrogen power" remains above my screen, and below it is
one which seems all too perfect for the budding, fucked-up goth grrl such as myself: "i'm so fucking beautiful." Not the
most appropriate sentiment for the workplace, but quite appropriate for me. No complaints about it just yet.
We'll see in a few days. If it was anyone else there might be a problem, but I might have a chance of getting
away with it...
In fact, I wrote one of the book's editors, Jeremiah Newton, to essentially thank him for it. Yeah, corny, but I don't care. I also wanted make him aware of this page's existence, as I consider it something of an homage to the memory of his old friend. He was close to her, and is even portrayed in I Shot Andy Warhol, in which Stephen Dorff was Candy. Jeremiah wrote back and said he was happy that I identified with Candy's writing, which I do, and that he's pleased I'm using the title. Easily one of the highest compliments I've ever recieved.
Candy died in 1974, when I was less than
a year old, of complications brought on by hormones. An extremely chilling thought, though I also know that the
technology and overall understanding of how these things work has improved greatly since then; that I'm able to exist in
the mainstream to the extent that I do shows just how much progress has been made. Who knows, maybe me being able
to transition successfully will mean her death wasn't entirely in vain... Tomorrow's going to be strange anyway. It's the company summer picnic. Should come as no surprise that I really don't want to go.
9:05pm
I'm still not sure what happened. It was her suggestion that we get together for lunch in the near future, and yet she never returned my calls. No, that's not true. She did that one time, when I got the passes to Lost Highway from Pandora. I originally asked Louise (actively courting her or just being friendly? that's for history to decide), but she had to work that night. So I left a message on Josie's machine, inviting her along. I still remember standing at the payphone on the second floor of the Cinema department at SFSU, listening to the message on my machine from Josie, saying that while she appreciated the offer, she simply didn't have time to be friends with me. So sorry. That may well have been my first genuine taste of betrayal by a friend. Of being cut off for no apparent reason. I wonder where she is now. Last I'd heard, she was at the Market Street Cinema. I've never gone in to confirm because A) on the whole I don't like strip clubs, and B) there's the possibility of running into The Last Person I Want To See In The Whole Damn World. (Well, now that I think about it, I may be ready to see them again. If nothing else, I must be cuter than them by now.) We met, before I knew of her career in the exotic dance industry, in an acting class at SFSU. To make a long story short, we did a scene from Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? In the movie, it's the part in parking lot of the Roadhouse, right after George has been psychologically torturing the young wife. One of the relatively few pieces of dialogue that's only George and Martha. I added one stage direction which the script doesn't even hint at, and I'll bet it's never been done before or since. George and Martha kiss. The way we played it, it made perfect dramatic sense. Honest. Josie wouldn't have agreed to do it otherwise, nor would the teacher have thought it quite so brilliant. Brought a whole new subtext to the scene, and a new depth to the characters, actually. And, of course it meant I got to kiss Josie a few times each week as we rehearsed. Making her the third girl I'd kissed in my life. (The number has since skyrocketed to four.) Real kisses, though, as it was the only way to really sell the scene. Fortunately, simulated passion was what she did for a living, and I couldn't tell simulated from the real thing. My first kiss was The Ex. We'd been hanging out for a couple months, almost constantly, but weren't official. (Hmmm...now that I think about, this would have been almost exactly nine years ago.) We were at my brother's house in the tower district. He lived with his cat and an odd little fellow who was the biggest Dylan fan I'd ever encountered beyond my brother Tom, and the biggest cynic I'd ever met in my life. Period. (Also a huge Neil Gaiman fan. He would be so incredibly jealous of me right now.) Anyway, they'd had a former tenant living in what was essentially a walk-in closet, one which was long enough for somebody to actually lie down. (You're going to like this, My Writhing One.) He painted the walls back, then painted on that with flourescent paint, then installed blacklights. (He also put up the standard-issue blacklight posters.) When he moved out they kept it that way. An instant blacklight room, in which they also grew their weed. The Ex and I went in so she could see it; I don't think she'd ever really seen anything like it before. We closed the door behind us, for the full effect. We were both silent for a short time, then she put her hand on the back of my head and kissed me. And not particularly gingerly, but the real deal. Astonishingly, it didn't take me too long to figure out what was going on, and I don't think I screwed it up too badly. It was an exhilirating experience. Later, she admitted that she was somewhat overwhelmed by the room. We didn't become official until a while later after that, at which point we had no chance of making it, and we didn't. Then we made it for eight and a half years.
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Tuesday, 1 June 1999 (waiting to derail) 7:56am Lucas deserves to lose The Presidio on the basis of Jar-Jar Binks alone. I ended up at UA Coronet last night to fulfill my cultural duty and see Star Wars: Episode 1—The Phantom Menace. The timing just seemed right, and my instincts proved correct. Almost no children, and an appreciative but not overly obnoxious audience. So what the hell was "The Phantom Menace," anyway? Near as I can tell it's a reference to Darth Maul, since his character was supposed to be some kind of big mystery. Okay, whatever. (So the Darths are also known as "The Siths?" The bad jedis? Was that it? If there's one master and one apprentice, doesn't that imply that Vader should have been Maul's apprentice or something?) I have to agree with everyone else, though: he was not in the film nearly enough, and I don't think anyone was happy to see him die. A few people booed. And why not? That was probably the most charismatic character in the entire series. Other than that, the most noticeable audience reaction was to hearing the name "R2D2" spoken aloud, with the Tuscan Raiders taking a close second. I certainly applauded in both cases—see, I got into it, sorta—and Ewan McGregor with a lightsaber may cause me to change my overall opinion of the phallic symbol. Now, I cannot call myself a Star Wars fan. I've always enjoyed the movies, and The Empire Strikes Back is probably in my top 20 based on how incredibly dark it is, but I've never been close to it emotionally. What can I say? I'm much more excited about (and saddened by) the final episode of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine tomorrow night. Now that I think about, wanna know what it reminded me of? Dune. The plot, the mysticism, the production design, and particularly the villain whose role seems vague at best until confronting and getting killed by the hero at the end. Think of Sting in Dune—he doesn't have a whole hell of a lot to do until the end of the film, at which point he shouts "I will kill him!" several times before getting his ass kicked by Kyle Maclachlan. I predict, though, that you WILL hear this sentence at least once on January 1, 2000: "Wow, that whole millenium thing was as big a letdown as The Phantom Menace."
In other news, Marilyn Manson has written an article in Rolling Stone about the Columbine shooting. Very articulate and
straightforward. (And not a word about getting banned from my retarded, dumbass hometown of Fresno.) He also makes points similar to that
of Roger Ebert in a similar essay. It's safe to assume the two aren't necessarily fans of each
other, but they're both smart enough to know better than to look for easy answers.
Now I have to decide if I want to do the same to the other side. While it would get the windows
out of my peripheral vision (they haven't been a problem yet, but it's been uniformly overcast lately),
it would mean cutting off Elizabeth, whom I enjoy talking to. Still, we don't talk all that often, and
I think she'd appreciate the increased privacy (or at least sense of privacy) almost as much as
I would. Hell, I think she's almost unhappier with this place than I am. I mean, I know she was just joking about
committing suicide, but wow. They call
us morbid, but I'm telling you, it's the blondes wearing earth tones you gotta watch out for.
Sara will most likely be there tonight, and with friends from out of town. Haven't heard from her since last week and don't necessarily expect to any time soon; if I'm doing the math right she's officially left her job by now, meaning she no longer has email access. I'm going to have to call her in the near future to get my Star Trek tapes back, if nothing else.
If I'm making it sound like a falling out, it isn't. At least, I don't think it is. More like a sudden and intense
drifting apart. These things will happen. Her priorities have changed, and they no longer include me. Miguel happily braided my hair. He had some time to kill as the dye set in The Ex's hair, so I think I he was glad to have something to do. It should last a couple days. Until Shrine on Friday would be perfect, but I'm not holding my breath. He mentioned that he probably wouldn't start actually calling me Sherilyn until after I've fully transitioned. That came as something of a surprise, particularly from him, but each in their own time. On June 16, I turn 26. Loathe as I am to admit it, I suspect that might have something to do wtih my rather low mood lately.
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