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Wednesday, 30 June 1999 (i & i) 8:03am Finally, it happened. I wonder if it's like with roaches: for every one that you're aware of, there's dozens more which you aren't. So I was walking down Drumm street beween Jackson and Washington towards 4 Embarcadero last night around 7:30pm. Same route I walk twice every day to and from the Muni station. Two kids passed from behind on rollerblades. One of them looked back at me and yelled, "You faggot!" The other one turned and added, "Fucking queer!" Then they picked up the pace and started skating away even faster. So there it was. Proof I didn't really need that homophobia still exists, that there are still young men who need to prove their masculinity to the world by making fun of queers. It was classic stuff, really, the sort of thing every bleeding-heart secretly hopes to encounter so they can try to take a stand against it. (The Other accused me of only being involved with them to make people think I was open-minded. But that's another story entirely.) I showed no reaction whatsoever and kept on walking. I was wearing my headphone and carrying my discman so they mave thought I didn't hear them, but it was paused so I heard everything. They were being cowardly, of course. It takes far, far more courage to walk down a street wearing stripeys and probably too much makeup (I reapplied before I left, if only because my shadow was seriously poking through) than it does to be on rollerblades and yell insults while moving quickly away. If they weren't total pussies, they would have done it to my face. But like most bigoted assholes, they attack those who are different from a distance because they lack the courage often found in their targets. Which is not to say that I wanted them to confront me directly, for it would have been two on one and I certainly would have gotten my ass kicked, no question about it. This is actually drives home something that's been on my mind a lot lately: I need to learn to defend myself. I've never been a fighter; hurting other people has always been abhorrent to me. Even when my brother used to beat the shit out of me on a regular basis (misplaced anger from our parents' divorce, though I wasn't made aware of that until years later), for years I could not bring myself to hit back. In spite of how much he was hurting me, I couldn't inflict pain on him. I just couldn't. I guess my sense of empathy has always been much stronger than my sense of retaliation—or, it would seem, self-defense. (I defy you to find one average xtian who could turn the other cheek half as well as I did.) Finally I realized I'd have to start hitting back if I ever wanted him to stop. So I eventually did, and he stopped. Essentially, I need to take some self-defense classes, martial arts, something like that. I am clearly at a certain amount of risk, and must be prepared for anything. Particularly since I've found I've gotten quite ornery lately. If I think someone is looking at me funny, I'll often make and hold eye contact for longer than I should. That's the sort of thing which, in some places, can get you shot.
My size has surely protected me in many cases; however I may be dressed, I'm still 6'. I'm
nowhere near as bulky as I once was, but I still have a large frame and there isn't a damn
thing that can be done about it. So I've been lucky. And luck always runs out.
Wore the velvets today. Sometimes you go more for comfort than style. Besides, I think
I've proved whatever I need to prove for the time being...
So Summer and I are about to go lunch. At noon, being the wild, nutty goff rebels we are. Lunch! Noon! Reinventing the goddamn wheel, we are! We're just about to leave when I run into someone from the old building who informs me that I'm scheduled to be in a meeting at noon for today. That I was kept from going to lunch with Summer is bad enough, but that's not what pisses me off so much. It's that the meeting was mentioned to me in passing a few days ago—"such-and-such will be here at noon on Wednesday"—and that was IT. Yeah, I know, I should have marched straight to my desk and put it on my calendar or something. But, hello, don't we have email for a goddamn reason? Would it have kiled whoever organized the damn thing to send out a note? Here's the truly fucked-up part: earlier this year we were forced to install Microsoft Outlook, go through the training, all that horseshit. Oh, and the hype was flying: we'll all be connected! We can set up meetings with the greatest of ease! Everyone can keep track of everyone else's schedules!] No conflicts, no surprises! Finally, 100% pure undiluted efficiency, thank you Bill Gates! Spit, swallow or snowball? Nobody has used ANY of that, least of all the meeting organizer thing, since about the second week that it's been installed. And being a big huge Microsoft application, it takes up vast quantities of system resources that I could be using to, oh, gee, gosh, I don't know, DO MY FUCKIN' JOB? No! Of course not! It's much more important for people to be able to send messages with graphic backgrounds and colored fonts! Sometimes I really hate this industry. I love my job, but I hate the way the way the people who run it believe every fucking lie they're told by the uber-software companies. *whew* That's a little better. Now I suppose I should actually go get something to eat.
By the way, the meeting was a complete fucking waste of time. They could have just as easily mailed me,
and I could have contributed just as much if not more.
Yes, I do. Get the hell out of here.
One of my current all-time favorite pictures ever (always subject to chance) is in The Long Hard Road Out of Hell, and I've been meaning to photocopy it and put it on my otherwise mostly bare cubicle wall. It's of Manson, Courtney and Michael Stipe, all in the frame together, with incredibly dopey grins on their faces and genuinely appearing to enjoy themselves. (Though Michael does look a tad drunk, which he probably was.) It's so rare to see one's (cultural influences? pop heroes? favorite zeitgeist artists?) together in one place like that. Perhaps not coincidentally they're the only people I've gone out of my way to see in concert this year—Manson and Hole in March, and R.E.M. coming up in August. I still have an extra unclaimed ticket for that show, and just over a month to find someone to use it. No small feat when you hang out amongst the gauthy.
Upon further reflection, I think "cultural influences" might be the best phrase.
I feel like I'm drawing from elements of all three of them these days. I
probably identify mostly with Marilyn, truth be known. A lot of his book
struck a profound nerve with me.
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Tuesday, 29 June 1999 (rub it 'til it bleeds) 6:01am Well, that lasted about as long as I could have possibly expected it to.
Bluff called, hand folded, reshuffle, ante up.
How close are they to the Pleasanton BART? 15 minutes. I can handle that. 15 minutes walking? No, actually. 15 minutes driving.
Ah, shit. But I know know I have to do.
A company-wide spam (er, memo) was just sent out regarding some events that are happening on the premises over the next few days. Conferences and that sort of thing. The last paragraph practically had me rolling: We appreciate your keeping the company's public areas and your workspaces tidy and helping us welcome these guests to CNET.
Oh, that's beautiful. Priceless, even. Makes me all the more upset that we're isolated in this
fucking building and away from all the action. At least the suits won't have to see that I've already
developed a run in my stripeys.
Just Brian, one of the producers, and a new intern who bore a striking resemblence to Jewel. It was her first day, in fact. Hell of a way to start.
Speaking of such things, I've had almost no contact whatsoever with my own fresh-faced young
intern. I guess they're keeping him busy with other things, which is fine by me.
The Ex says she'll go to the Hot Topic in Pleasanton to pick up the powder and give it
to me the next time she sees me, whenever that may be. Very
sweet, though the fact that it means she won't have to come into the city tonight might have
something to do with it. Still, it's much appreciated.
So, naturally, she just put in her notice. Who runs this fookin' planet, anyway?
I don't believe in precognition or any kind of psychic phenomenon, but who knows, perhaps the reason I had the feeling of dread is because I woke up knowing on some level that this would be the day I died? That my subconcious knew my time was up?
For much of my life up to this point, one of the things that scared me
about dying unexpectedly was the things that would be discovered afterwards
when my possessions were gone through. A lot of things I was striving to
keep secret would have been found out. 99% of those things are of course
now completely out in the open, though I suppose I do still have some personal
things around that I'd just soon take with me to my grave. This was a discussion
Maddy and I were having not too long ago: how much have I told? Do I have something
of a public persona, and then a more secret self that nobody else knows? I honestly
can't say for sure.
It's probably just as well, kiddo. We would have become friends, and that has a tendency to ruin things.
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Monday, 28 June 1999 (reckoning) 9:31am I wore my velvets over the stripeys on the way to work this morning, not anticipating that it would be unseasonably warm for a San Francisco summer day. True, it was warm yesterday, but yesterday was Sunday. When it's warm on Sunday, it almost never is on Monday. This has been my observation, anyway. New phones have been installed. In theory, these are supposed to work properly. Hey, stranger things have happened. Wow. In retrospect, it was an extremely busy weekend, and one of the kinds that makes me think that everything is just a little different now. Even if I haven't quite worked out the details yet. Something else slightly odd happened on Saturday night. I was walking down Market towards Castro (remarkably, there was enough room on the sidewalk to where I didn't have to weave too much), and as will happen I stopped in front of the furniture store with the large mirrors in the window to check myself. If you've walked between Castro and Noe, you know the one I mean. Anyway, a drunk/stoned/generally wasted guy was standing there, and he asked me if I had any speed. (Yes, I'm sufficiently vain that I'll put up with a derelict to make sure my bangs are straight.) He called me "dude," then looked a little closer at me, and said, "Are you a dude?"
In the Castro at the height of Gay Pride festivities, with no particular shortage of drag queens and crossdressers and
overall genderfuckers (more power to you all), in essence the city's biggest costume party this side of Halloween,
and yet I'd sufficiently confused this guy enough to where he felt
the need to ask for clarification. I'm at a genuine loss as to what that implies, if anything.
I'm very glad I'm wearing the stripeys, though. (Comments so far? None. People who've actually
seen me? Okay, about three. Today's attendance supports the statistic that Monday is the most
often-missed day of work.) They're probably the most comfortable thing I could be wearing in this oppressive climate.
The velvets would be a bit much, and I don't even want to think about jeans.
Summer couldn't have seemed more shocked that I wore stripeys to work. I must confess, I rather enjoyed finally getting a strong reaction out of her. Have I mentioned I'm evil? Just checking. On the one hand, she raised a valid point in that it doesn't fit in with a corporate atmosphere. On the other hand, whatever corporate atmosphere there may be is purely based on the building we're in; indeed, I've been wearing makeup for a while now, have xmas lights under my desk and bumper sticker on my monitor which clearly reads "i'm so fucking beautiful." In other words, I'm not convinced this will be the proverbial final straw. I asked Elizabeth if she thought there was anything inappropriate about the way I'm dressed, and she acted as if it was the silliest question she's ever heard. Granted, the office fairly empty today, and in fact most of the higher-ups are gone, including The Big Boss and my more immediate boss, Brian. When there are a few more people floating around, then we'll see what happens. I'm not expecting much.
If nothing else—and this only just now occured to me—if anyone really does give me any static,
I can probably talk to HR, seeing as how they've already pledged their support. So I genuinely don't
believe there'll be a problem.
Off on another powder hunt. Fighting the good fight, that's what I do.
I stopped by at the MAC counter at Macy's, and they had something a little closer, but it wasn't quite right, either. Particularly not for $19.
Most likely what I'm going to do is order online from
www.goodgoth.com tomorrow, which has the Manic Panic powder
listed, after calling to make sure they actually have it in stock. I prefer
to not buy things
online when I can possibly avoid it. However, it sure is
looking like I can't avoid it. And so.
i never wanted any of this
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Sunday, 27 June 1999 (untitled blues) 8:57am I dislodged myself from chatting with Madeline last night just in time to go see a movie. For reasons I won't go into I didn't make it, but I did wind up in the Castro. It sucked being by myself amongst the thousands of people, but I'm glad I went. The last time I'd attended this particular event (the PInk Saturday party, after the Dyke March) was in '97 with The Ex, Pandora and Louise. Where any of them were last night, I don't know. Summer's theory is that when I think people are looking at me oddly, I'm misinterpreting it and they actually think I'm hot. I must have been on fire last night, then. And who knows, maybe I was. It had been a somewhat unexpected trip, as I'd left the apartment expecting to go to a movie (John Sayles' Limbo) so I'd changed from the stripeys and skirt to just my velvets, which I guess passes for stealth with me these days. As trannies went I was definitely one of the cuter ones (the number of flaming drag queen tilted the scales in my favor, granted), though I saw one TS who put me to shame. A couple years back she would have all but destroyed my will to even try, and while it still hurt a little, if I could have ignored the laws of physics and seen the two of us standing together (mind you, I kept my distance) I might not have felt quite as bad. Perhaps not.
Didn't see Maggie; indeed, the only person I recognized was, strangely
enough, Shulgin's former owner. I'd been under the impression
that he'd already left for Germany, and he confirmed that he was in fact leaving
on Monday. While as straight as they come, he was enjoying the event,
although "my ass keeps getting grabbed." Yeah, uh-huh, right. The most
common hetero scare story about queers: They'll stare at/grab your ass!
Not once while I was there did my ass get grabbed, and I'm going to go out
on a limb and say that my ass is emninently more grabbable than his. At
least my appearance suggested someone who wanted their ass grabbed. It was
wonderful to see him, though, and I'll miss him when he leaves for good.
There is still the rolldown to contend with, always the case with tights (although
my velvets are thick enough for it not to be an issue), and wearing shirts or
whatever long enough to cover my area. Not to mention my thighs + horizontal line
rule = bad things.
Seemed the logical thing to do; the landlord is in the garage (which is to say, practically the next room over) making the latest in fascinating series of loud clanging noises. The Ex just left with the car, meaning that I'd simply have to walk to their house otherwise to pay. Given the geography of this place, I was able to give it to him without him getting a good look at me. Which sucks, since I'm pretty well femmed out and it'd be nice to get that all over with. When I was driving The Ex back to the East Bay the other night, I asked her honest opinion on my look, and she gave it to me: "Ehhh." As in, she sorta saw what I was going for, but for her, it wasn't working. The velvets, particuarly, simply weren't flattering to my legs. Because, you see, she says I have my father's legs. Can you ever be told you have your father's legs and have it be a compliment? I can't imagine how, and it certainly isn't in this case. If you've been to my father's place you've seen his legs, since he's wearing shorts 99% of the time. The Ex was always quite creeped out by this. And I suppose genetically she may have a point, since I know my feet bear a striking resemblence to his. (Have I ever mentioned that the big toes on both of my feet have a tendency to ingrow, and as a result I have to keep the nails fairly long, thus usually ruining stockings in fairly short order? If I don't keep them at a certain length, they'll start to grow into the toe itself. I've had to have each big toenail removed at least once. They use as much local anesthetic as possible, but you're still very much aware that your toenail is being pulled out. The toenail does grow back, as obviously both of mine have, and you have to watch them carefully lest the cycle repeat itself.) Bottom line was, she didn't like the way the velvel leggings looked on me. If she had similar reservations about the blue-and-black stripeys I was wearing when I picked up her and her boyfriend from his place this afternoon, she didn't say anything. All she said when I walked in was "Wow," and left it at that. If anyone else had anything to say, and there were quite a few people there. Along with the stripeys I was wearing one of my Manson shirts ("American by Birth, Antichrist by Choice"—say whatever you want about him, I love that sentiment), which also happened to be one of the previously mentioned "long enough to be a dress" variety. Which was good, because I wasn't wearing a skirt or anything else. I'd tried it with a skirt before I left the apartment, but the simple fact was I liked how it looked this way better.
So, I figure if I can survive the scrutiny of a bunch of stoners, then
I can survive wearing it to work tomorrow.
The first I already knew: save your work FREQUENTLY. Because I didn't, I lost the journal entry I was working on about Friday night at Shrine. To make a long story short, or at least to summarize a part of the long story, everything Laurel wrote in her journal about meeting me is a damn lie which in fact can be applied to her. She's an incredibly sweet, painfully cute grrl with a radiant smile which would proably burn your corneas if it weren't tempered by her shiny gunmetal gray makeup. (Sort of like viewing an eclipse through a pinhole in cardboard.) (Which doesn't sound very complimentary, but you know what I mean.) She modeled the format of her aforementioned journal after mine, as did Madeline. I finally understand that whole "sincerest form of flattery" thing. Laurel also suggested we go shopping together at her favorite cosmetics store, as she's obsessed with all things shallow as I am. Paw successfully dethorned, thank you very much. The other lesson? Don't assume that when you buy something at one place you'll be able to find it somewhere else, even another location in the same ubiquitous national chain. And I'm not just referring to my favorite powder completely disappearing off the face of the planet. (The "pearl" stuff simply ain't doing the trick, I'm sorry to say.)
I bought a pair of socks at a Walgreen's on Market Street last week,
black "trouser socks" (I think) in a honeycomb pattern. They worked
very well with the velvets, but goddamnit, none of the other Walgreen's
seem to carry them, i.e. the one closest to where I live. So I'm trying
another kind I got today at the nearby location, black jersey knit socks. They
aren't actually
rolling down as much as the last pair, which is good, and they're
perfect with the stripeys. (And, I mean, come on—jersey knit
socks! How cool is that?) So sometimes you get lucky.
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Saturday, 26 June 1999 (reflecting pool) 5:44am Some nights you go out, and nothing really happens. Some nights time just flies, you're having so much fun. Some nights you don't get home until 5:30am with the knowledge that somewhere en route to Monterey there's an 18 year-old grrl with your email adrress written on her stomach.
It doesn't happen often, but it can happen.
As always, being Saturday I have lots I need to do and should take advantage of the car while I have it. The Ex implied strongly that she may need it back today. The Dyke March is tonight in the Castro, and something tells me that's where I'll end up. I'd originally made tentative plans with Dana and/or Summer; sadly, both had to cancel. It's not something I fancy attending alone—by myself in the Castro as it's jampacked with happy couples? sign me up for that!—yet I feel like I should go. Yeah, okay, fine, ulterior motive: haven't seen Maggie since mid-January, specifically two days after The Ex and I broke up. This has a lot to do with me actively ignoring her, true, but pick pick pick. The point is, she hasn't seen me since I really femmed/gothed out. I like to joke that one of the reasons we don't seem to get along very well anymore is that she's jealous of how much cuter I am than her, while in truth she hasn't had a chance to witness it. Who knows, maybe she could tell just by seeing me in boi mode the last few times. She's definitely not goth and doesn't cares much for makeup at all, hence my boi mode is only a step or two from where she's at 24/7. *shrug* Different philosophies, that's all. My somewhat caustic tone aside, I'm not criticizing how she lives or how she presents herself. It's completely and totally up to her. Unlike myself she's fulltime and has been since we first met almost five years ago, and I do respect that. Anyway, the likelihood of actually encountering her in that mass of humanity is slim, and indeed I'm only assuming she'll be there at all, but it seems awfully damn likely. Sure, I could actually call her and find out for certain, but like, you know.
Before any of that, I have to go to the mall to pick up the remainder
of my prescriptions. And, to put it mildly, I've got a lot more writing to
do.
At the mall, I first stopped by the Hot Topic. Two seperate employees came up to tell me that they are in fact no longer carrying the pressed powder, and the "pearl" stuff in the sprinkler is replacing it. (I hate it when I'm right.) I was touched that they remembered and had clearly looked into it for me. For experimental purposes (hey, what isn't?) I bought a bottle of their uber-white liquid foundation. If I don't like it as makeup, at least it'll come in handy if I make a typo. Since I was driving and feeling adventurous, I next went into the Mission to The Foxy Lady Boutique, probably the city's best-known cross-dresser clothing store. They seemed a likely bet for larger stripey tights. And normally they are, it turns out, but I'd completely forgotten this was Pride weekend. Hence, they were picked more than a little clean. Next I went into the Haight, finally. Got three pairs of tights (stocking material, essentially) at New York Apparel for a comparatively measly $4 each. Stopped in at DalJeet's and asked about the powder, just in case. I was told they were out of it, and there was no telling when they'd order more. Not even when more would be arriving, but when they'd be bothering to order it at all. I should tell Anodyne, whom they would surely know, and have her bug them into ordering more. At long last I went into Piedmont. I've heard so much about it but had never even noticed it before; Tania says it's one of her favorite stores besides Belladonna Arcana. It struck me as a hipper if more compact version of the Foxy Lady, truly a drag queen's paradise. There's a particular employee, a genetic girl, who singlehandedly proves why I disagree when people say I look like Betty Page. Oh, it hurts. Next to her, I don't even come close. Anyway, I bought what I was told was a tall pair of red-and-black stripey tights. All I'm going to say is, I hope they take exchanges.
Now I have to figure out exactly what I'm doing with myself. I'm almost
certainly going into the Castro, so it's more the eternal question, what
am I going to wear? I quite liked what I was wearing last night,
but there's the subzero temperatures to consider. If I'm going to
run into Maggie (no guarantee that I will), I want to be as femme
as possible. And wearing something she never would, i.e. stripey
stockings, sounds even better. Overall velvet would probably be
wisest/warmest, though, and certainly not bad.
My CD of Up is starting to skip. This is extremely bad. I wonder if she'll write back.
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Friday, 25 June 1999 (stage fright) 1:58pm Oh, my head. 2:04pm So The Ex picked me up from work last night, and to our mutual surprise she was able to get into the building and up to the office with almost no difficulty whatsoever. A crack security staff, indeed. She was impressed by what I've done so far with my desk, particularly the lighting. I knew she would be, for we share many of the same aesthetics. Eight and half years, that's going to happen. We went to the Serramonte Mall so I could pick up my prescriptions and do some other bits of shopping. As I mentioned already, I got a pair of stripey tights which didn't quite fit (as usual, I'm too damn tall) but will be converted into either stockings or leggings, I haven't decided yet. Probably stockings for tonight, meaning I'll be wearing garters for the first time since March. I'm also planning a trip to New York Apparel in the Haight tonight, where they cost half as much, to do some experimenting. While I'm in the neighborhood I'm going to swing by DalJeets, where Anodyne suggested I could find the powder by Manic Panic.
Speaking of which, the Hot Topic in Serramonte is still out, and The Ex said she went to the
one in Berkeley and they were out as well. Pattern! Hello! Time for me to move on.
Which I have, sorta: I got the next closest thing they have, "Pearl Powder" also of
their in-house brand. Rather than being in a compact with mirror, which is clearly far too
convenient, it's now in a "sprinkler." Thanks, guys. Thanks a lot. I'd never noticed it
before, so it's distinctly possible one is meant to replace the other. Probably has something
to do with unit cost, since...uh, no. No, I refuse to start ruminating on
the economics of cosmetics production.
Unless I decide to go to New York Apparel for more tights...which I'll need to do eventually...
Aaargh. Whatever. Just need to get the hell out of here.
Decisions. Really need to go grocery shopping, and I'm still sorely tempted to go into the Haight to get more stockings. Still haven't experimented with the pair of tights I already have, though. Probably oughta do that first. I'm also going to, at some point soon, have to shower and shave before getting ready for Shrine. Which I can't help thinking I should head towards as soon as possible--as in, preferably no later than 10pm, because Black Tape for a Blue Girl is playing tonight, meaning that it'll either be really packed or comparatively empty, since tonight's cover is $10. And my head still hurts. Seems like half the people I know are chronic headache sufferers so I shouldn't bitch too much about it, but I'm going to anyway.
Okay...surgery on the tights first. I have scissors and and clear nail polish
at the ready to "cure" them, as Brigid suggested. When I'm done, I'll know
bettter if going into the Haight on a fucking Friday night is at all worth the
effort.
I'll definitely be giving the Haight a miss tonight. Grocery shopping still needs
to be done, but more likely tomorrow morning. Or not. What I should do is shower and
shave, go to the store, then come back, get dressed and head out. Sounds like a
plan. Fookin' reincarnation of Machiavelli, that's what I am.
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Thursday, 24 June 1999 (storm warning) 5:19am One of the final things I'd said to Madeline before we de-AIM'ed ourselves last night is that I'm beyond hoping for sweet dreams, and would settle for just not dreaming at all. Which is a pretty awful thought, I know. But my brain seems determined to unsettle me as much as possible.
Seeing the orginal Summer again is a damn good way to do it. Having them
meet? Ha! There's your neural overload...
Yeah, it sounds incredibly silly and more than a little pathetic, but look, I'm still very much in the experimental stage, okay? The only way to figure out what works and what doesn't is to try different ideas and combinations until something clicks. The heart of science, really. It's an evolutionary process. I can't just automatically know everything I need to know. That's creationism, folks, one of the biggest fucking lies that otherwise intelligent people still seem to believe. The issue was what to wear as a top with the velvet leggings. (I don't like the word "leggings," to be honest, but I can't think of a better word. They lack feet so they can't properly be called tights, and yet the cut is very much like tights so they can't be called pants.) Yesterday I wore one of the more form-fitting black blouses from Mervyn's that's been a staple for me over the last few months. I'm very fond of them—something tells me I'll always be loyal to Hillard & Hanson—but they're not very long. The net result in combination with the leggings is not dissimilar to a leotard, meaning that my breasts are fairly well defined and you can practically tell if I'm circumcised. Not quite the effect I'm looking for. So today I'm wearing an X-Files t-shirt (just a small logo on the front and a ghostly image of Gillian Anderson on the back) which, while not particularly flattering to my figure, is more than long enough to cover what needs to be covered. It's at least as long as the black dress I've been wearing out lately, and as such when I have my jacket on the bottom sticks out rather like the hem of a skirt. And THAT, folks, is one of the oldest tricks in the book, the "shirt which is almost long enough to qualify as a dress." Any tranny that claims they've never used it, quite frankly, is lying. Works particularly well with the leggings, and should even better with the stripey tights if I can ever find any in my size. Regarding makeup, my powder supply is running dangerously low. I've gotten any of a number of suggestions from helpful listies, which I'll be pursuing in the very near future. (Manic Panic's "Virgin" white and Hard Candy seem likely contenders.) I'd forgotten, though, that I'd bought some Japanese rice powder a while back. Tried a bit this morning, and I'm obviously not applying it quite right, or something. Need to work on it more, but early in the morning when I'm already sorta running late is probably not the best time. Vain, shallow, empty, whatever. Y'know what? I can get away with it right now, so you'd better believe I'm gonna.
(Although I suppose it depends on how you define "getting away with it." We'll see what happens at the mall
later tonight when I need to use the restroom.)
The saving grace, I suppose, is that the next time it happens I can just say, "I'm sorry, it's the hormones. You
know how mood swings are." I've never used them as an excuse for essentially positive emotions, so that'd
be a nice change of pace.
On the other hand, Tom's about ready to put out a CD of new material. That, I'm extremely excited about. The chances
of it having the emotional resonance of his older music are slim, perhaps, but that hardly matters. Even while in the
grip of Fundamentalist Christianity, Dylan wrote "Precious Angel" and "Every Grain of Sand." So there's hope. And
nearly twenty years later he wrote "Love Sick," "Cold Irons Bound" and "Can't Wait," quite possibly three of the angriest
love-gone-bad songs in even his remarkably bitter catalog, so you never can tell...
As an experiment, I bought a pair of Hot Topic's stripey tights, red and black. (Stripey tights are of course different than striped tights, but I don't have time to go into that right now.) It was worth a shot and I don't regret spending the $8.25 it took to find out that their concept of "One Size Fits All" is as much of a lie as everyone else's. It still bugs me, though. No fair! I'm already running out of options...
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Wednesday, 23 June 1999 (songs of recurrence) 8:34am So I went to Roderick's last night, a piece of information which would have made last night's entries make a whole lot more sense. I'm not sure how long it's been since I've gone, but it feels like it's been a while. (Sure, I could just go back through my old Wednesday entries and find out. It's hard to feign ignorance when you write everything down.) Only stayed for about an hour, but I enjoyed myself, which of course is the bottom line. Slept fairly well, considering it was the first time I've had The Ex in the bed since...look, you can do the research if you want, I'm not going to. A couple months, I'd guess.
My dreams are still horrid, as usual, featuring people I don't necessarily care to deal with in
real life. Would an actual *fantasy* be too much to ask for? Just once?
My predecessor, Shulgin's previous owner, was a terrific guy and I loved him to death (and he just moved to
Germany), but he could never give a straight answer to anything. He wasn't attempting to be evasive,
it was just the way his neurons fired. Nine times out of ten I'd leave more confused than I arrived, and
I'd just as soon not do that to the poor kid. Who I'm hoping knows more about Perl than i do, or else
we're quite screwed. Something tells me he does, though; he's barely 21, so he's almost certainly
more skilled than I am.
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Tuesday, 22 June 1999 (the ugly truth) 8:08am Christ! It isn't already mid-to-late June, is it? How did that happen? Where did this year go? Did I miss anything? *cough* Oh, right. Now I remember. Forget I asked. So much to get done. I have to finish up the rewrites on my story for Amethyst, and somehow spew out the next Slimming Effect when I'm feeling creatively bankrupt (all I know is that it'll have to do with eyeliner and be called "A Poke in the Eye with a Sharp Stick," but beyond that, I'm stuck), both before the end of the month. Aargh.
I admire the hell out of comic strip artists. How they're able to produce stuff on a daily basis astonishes me. A very very
long time ago I'd wanted to be one, until I realized that A) I can't draw for shit, and B) I'd never be able to meet those
kinds of deadlines.
I did call in refills on my assorted prescriptions, at least, so I can pick those up on Thursday before The Ex heads out of town. I also called the Hot Topic in Berkeley; they're still out of the powder and don't know when or if they'll be getting anymore. Just means I'll have to expand my search, that's all.
The shadow is back. Fuck it.
Got home at about 7:30, put rice in the steamer (my standard meal when
I'm out of salad stuff), decosmetized, showered, shaved, and now I'm eating just
in time to watch NewsRadio (one of the few episodes I haven't seen).
Yay!
That box in which Madeline sent my birthday presents...the can stay right where it is, though. As good a place as any, I should think. Or the issue of Vamperotica that she signed to me, that's perfectly fine in its current place, doesn't need to move a bit. Space is at a premium, after all. One might argue that it's in bad taste to be so obvious, and one might be right. Then again, she felt the need to tell me that she's going to dinner tonight with her guy's family. A truly extraneous bit of infortmation, one which was apropos of nothing yet she insisted on sharing anyway. So, if she senses Madeline's presence on any level around here, it's obviously, like, no big deal, right? Right. Ah, maturity. I love it so.
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Monday, 21 June 1999 (use once & destroy) 10:43am Came in this morning to find the xmas lights had collapsed once more. No surprise, and I have not yet begun to fight. Burnout tells me he saw The Ex and her boyfriend at the Dylan show. What a pal to mention that.
Speaking of The Ex (and, gosh, I just don't do that enough, do I?), she
wrote to tell me she's going to Fresno this weekend and thus will need
the car on Friday night. Didn't ask me if I wanted to go with her,
even though she said she'd be seeing my mother. Who knows, maybe
she's bringing him down to meet the folks. Can't really say. Can't
pretend I'm not curious, but I can't say.
On that note, I'm getting a little worried. My face doesn't seem quite right.
The skin seems...I don't know, older, somehow. Drier. And yes, this is taking the
makeup into account. I've read that one of the possible side effects of aldactone
is, well, dryness. Which confirms what I already knew: I need
to start working on moisturizing and hydration much more than I have been lately.
Water, water, water.
In the mirror of my bathroom, my face doesn't look quick so icky as it did in the one at work. Still, though, it's high time for a little facial rescue. Going to take everything off (and no, I'm not going to take drugs and put it all back on later, thank you very much), and scrub with astringent, and I'm pretty sure I have some witch hazel around here. For around my eyes, the "Cucumber Stress Gel" Madeline sent me for my birthday (along with the aforementioned Hole t-shirt and other goodies—it was quite a lovely care package, really); an alpha-hyrdoxy peel-off mask thing for the majority of my face, followed by a generous amount of regular moisturizer. And plenty of carmex for my lips. All I'll be missing is the towel around my hair and the cucumber slices on my eyes...well, then again, it is *cucumber* stress gel, isn't it?
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Sunday, 20 June 1999 (find the river) 12:10pm The best part? No hangover. Still have to get out of here, of course. Left a message with Howard, whom I haven't seen for quite some time, but he's probably otherwise occupied today. While there are precious few movies playing that I actually want to see, that still seems my best bet. Vertigo is playing at that new Sony megatheater at 4th and Mission. Sounds like fun.
In a lot of ways, I wish I hadn't had to leave Summer yesterday. I wish
I could help, I really do. But I'm at a total loss as to how.
And so.
Being a Sunday during tourist season, the place was jam-packed. I received about as many curious looks as I was expected to; the velvet leggings might have had something to do with it, I don't know. You rarely see someone my size wearing that sort of thing in public. My legs are thin enough to make them look good, as far as I'm concerned. (My weight's down to 175, by the way.) Guess I'll find out for certain at work tomorrow. I did hear one comment, not directed towards me, that made me practically double over with laughter. As I implied, the place was Disneyland-crowded. I heard a woman pushing a baby carriage—and the carriage didn't contain groceries, either—say, in a very annoyed tone of voice, "Where did all these people come from?" Ah, the typical American's grasp of cause and effect never ceases to amuse me... I walked around downtown quite a bit, finally ending up at the UA Galaxy, where I saw Election. Dark, cynical, bitter, brilliant film. (Reese Witherspoon rules. Two words: Freeway.) It worked for me in all the ways that the seemingly more-hyped Rushmore didn't. Stopping at the Virgin Megastore to use what I knew was one of the very few unisex public restrooms in the city (this is becoming a serious issue for me), I also made a purchase I shouldn't have but couldn't resist: Bridget Jones's Diary is finally in paperback. The reason I'm interested in the book should be rather obvious, I'd think.
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