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Monday, 20 March 2000 (dead souls) 6:35am I wonder if, from within a dream, it is possible to know whether or not you've had the dream before, or at least visited that particular landscape before. It seemed as such in the dream (more accurately described as a nightmare) I had last night; it may have been the first time I'd been in that place, or the most recent of dozens. I do know that as its true intentions became clear, I became tired of fighting it...I remember the snarling, and the feel of razor-sharp teeth... 8:47am Today is Madeline's first day at the new job. She's in my old building, in fact, where Summer works now. It was a long and unnecessarily hard road for her to get to this point—her initial interview was before xmas, for fuck's sake—but she's in now, and that's the important thing. She has to be at work by 8:30am, which has the nice side effect of getting me into work earlier than my recent 9:30-10:00am average. I miss being able to get to work by 6am. Hell, I miss being able to wake up before 6am...
When Maddy got the job, I wrote my family with the news; they all responded
within a few hours of getting the message. Maddy wrote her family, and they
never responded at all. I'm sure there must be a good reason for that.
Brian tells me they're from Accounting, which seems odd since some months
back that same space was vacated by Accounting. Apparently we attract
accountants.
I'd mentioned it to Maddy last night while we were watching The Crow, and it came up again while watching the Hole's "Gold Dust Woman" video at the end of The Crow: City of Angels. (Neither of us had seen the sequel, so it seemed like a good idea.) I think watching Courtney put some ideas in to Madeline's head, as will often happen, and she suggested that I start playing again. Her favorite archetype (or sexual fantasy, depending on your perspecive) is the "angry rock chick," which she thinks I could do well. I don't know that the Bay Area and/or the world needs another band fronted by a tranny, but then again, it just might. And sometimes it's very difficult for me to differentiate between what is and isn't possible...
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Sunday, 19 March 2000 (quod erat demonstrandum) 4:09am if i want surgery, i'll get surgery. if i don't, i don't. it's my decision, not yours. 5:42pm Is there anything more depressing than driving westwards towards home on a Sunday afternoon? The only thing worse than having to be in in the sun at all is having to drive towards it. May as well have stayed in Fresno.
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Saturday, 18 March 2000 (the lord is my shepherd) 7:30am Two so far...and fuck only knows how many more by this afternoon, since I tend to lose count very quickly. Amazing to think I used to nurse the stuff. 6:04pm Ten, all told. This based on the two sets of four vertical lines with diagonal slashes I scrawled on my bookmark as a means of keeping track. (Is that a method of keeping count which is actually taught, or just something that gets picked up from prison scenes in movies?) On average, that's one every half hour of the five-hour session. Mind you, I in fact took two at a time as circumstances permitted. Many circumstances today sucked. The last few trips to Alameda taught us that when you're driving in the East Bay on a Saturday afternoon, you might as well get comfortable 'cuz you ain't getting to SF anytime soon. Hence, I took public transportation, which is paradoxically but reliably faster for crossing the bay. Madeline stayed at home in a well-deserved attempt to relax a little before starting her new job on Monday. When the train got to West Portal, they informed us that the subway wouldn't be in use today or tomorrow and that we'd have to take a surface bus if we wanted to get downtown. That's a tidbit of information which would have come in extremely handy before I got on the frigging train to begin with, but pick pick. Said surface bus got me to the Transbay Terminal ten minutes after the bus I'd planned to take to Alameda had left. The next one wasn't due for an hour, so there wasn't a whole hell of a lot I could do but wait. I called Maddy to let her know what was going on, then called Phil to let him know I'd be late. The next order of business is always frightening when downtown: going to the restroom. There's a spiffy pay toilet outside the Terminal, but quite frankly, I don't trust it during the day. When I worked at Autodesk and took the bus to San Rafael I used it every morning, a wise precaution before an hour-long bus ride, but it was typically around 5:15am and there wasn't another soul in sight. Usually. One morning I was attending to my business when there was a knock on the door, accompanied by an exaggeratedly effeminate male voice asking me to please hurry, honey, because they really really really needed to go. What, like I didn't need to go? Despite the continued knocking and pleas on behalf the poor queen's bladder, I went at my normal pace. I was a little nervous—after all, there was no telling what was on the other side of the door—but I wasn't going to be rushed, either. I'd paid a quarter for 15 minutes, and if I needed to use at least four of them, I was going to. When I was done, I opened the door and found a rather ugly drag queen sans wig and small, unpleasant-looking man. They hurried past me inside and closed the door. I could only hope the automatic cleaning cycle it goes into after each use didn't ruin the blowjob too much. Today, though, I was nervous about using it, so instead I did something which made no sense whatsoever: I used the public restroom inside the Terminal. If you've never seen one, rest assured that everything you've heard about restrooms in bus depots is true. Indeed, above the door is a sign warning against soliciation and/or "lewd acts." The stalls are very much open, both lacking doors and with very low walls—I was watched by at least one person in another stall. Although I didn't feel I was any immediate danger, I got the distinct impression that if I was in prison, I would be bitchified and subsequently traded for cigarettes in about ten seconds flat. By the time I actually laid down on Phil's table, I'd taken six vicodin; I would take four more before we were done. Y'know what? It was nowhere near as grueling as last time. As is to be expected, though, The Vicodin Crash was much harder this time around. It hit on the way home, and having to face towards the sun while on the bus didn't help any. The sun is very, very cruel. Anyway, at half past eight, I'm still feeling it. May need to sleep this one off.
Even doped up, disheveled and with a face made orange by iodine, I still must look
friendly, because as I was walking from the BART station to the 71 line, I was stopped
and asked for directions. To The Sharper Image, of all places. Even at my best,
I'd like to think I don't look like someone who would shop there, let alone...
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Friday, 17 March 2000 (malediction) 7:44am Not even 8am, and we're both already bleeding. Can't ask for a better start to the day than that. 10:18am Mina ran across Maddy's face this morning, and as usual when in berserker mode, Mina's claws were out. It was just a nick, really, but hurt like hell, and it was pure luck that Mina didn't hit Maddy's nosering—or, worse, her eye. So shortly after that I open the refrigerator, and in spite of five years of experience I somehow misjudge the relationship between my left foor and the door. Much more than a nick on the top of my big toe, plenty of blood, though I suppose it probably would have a been a lot worse, and certainly more painful, if it had hit my toenail. All things considered, it doesn't hurt much at all. But it's a bleeder. Not too long after that, we hear a crash. Things have been knocked off the back of the couch (the piling of stuff upon the top of which is an old and bad habit of mine, and no small source of annoyance for Maddy), and as will often happen as a result, Oscar and Mina's water dish has been knocked over and water is spread across the kitchen. But the dish still looks suspiciously full... Because it isn't water: it's Diet Sprite. Since my weight is slowly creeping back up (~195), the only apparent legacy of the recent diet is my renewed soda habit. A 12-pack got knocked over, and one of the cans exploded. We've got ants. I don't see any right now, but there are frequently reconnaissance scouts looking for new conquests. This would be a big score for them. Maddy hates ants, and I'm not fond of them either. The place required immediate attention. In fact, the place required a lot of attention for a lot of reasons. Not much has been going on at work lately. And, worst of all, it was very very bright outside. Very scary. I hate the sun sometimes. Like right now.
So I'm now combining the twin scourges of Monday and Friday morning
absenteeism in the very same week. This, I'm not proud of, not at all.
But I am getting things done. No, I am. And I'm only feeling just
a little guilty. Just a little.
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Thursday, 16 March 2000 (let my people go) 10:48am So I bought the new Eels CD yesterday; they're one of the few acts for whom I'll actually pay full price for a new disc rather than waiting for it to show up in the used rack (or getting it on mp3, as the case may be). We were at Amoeba, though, so of course I browsed a bit and talked myself out of things. One of the things I was unable to talk myself out of was a used copy of Bauhaus's Swing The Heartache: The BBC Sessions. My familiarity with the group doesn't extend much beyond a greatest-hits album which Maddy taped for me, and I suppose it goes without saying that I have no business wearing black if I didn't have a passing familiarity with "Bela Lugosi's Dead." This seemed like as good a way as any to get to know them better. What particularly convinced me was seeing it contained their cover of Bowie's "Ziggy Stardust." Looking at CDNow I see that it's been on at least four of their officially released albums, including what would appear to be the tape that Maddy made for me, which makes me all the more embarrassed that it hadn't struck me before. The thing is, the first time I feel like I really heard it was at Lee's last August. It was was dark, and I'd long since decided to spend the night, to give myself the momentary escape from the things of man that I was so needing. Like most everyone else sitting around the campfire, I'd been smoking and shrooming for a while and munching on cow, abalone and venison. (Lee was abstaining from the grass, being raised by hippies having resulted in him losing his taste for it at an early age. I guess if I was smoking in grade school, I might be tired of it by the time I was in my twenties too.) It was a wonderful, relaxed space in time, a momentary haven from the world when I needed it most and a particular experience which I somehow knew may not be repeated again any time soon. Lines often converge, then go seperate ways for good. For the life of me I don't remember how it came up, but Lee asked if I'd heard the Bauhaus version of "Ziggy Stardust." I told him I hadn't. He dashed into his house presumably to dig through his record collection, and emerged with a 12" single. Don't see many of those anymore, and a quick hop onto eBay just now has confirmed that it came out in the early 80s and is fairly rare. Yeah, I looked on eBay for it. i hate to admit it, that's my reference point, but there it is Anyway, Lee was absolutely raving about it, saying that it was even better than Bowie's version. That intrigued the hell of me, since I knew him to be a hardcore Bowie fanatic; it was one of the things him and Summer had bonded over, and in fact Bowie's Ziggy Stardust album had been playing when I arrived earlier that day. Instead of going back into his house, we went into the hut-like structure in which one of his tenants lived. It was a remarkable example of efficient usage of space, including all the necessary amenities: a TV with a Playstation, a computer, and of course a stereo with a turntable. At the moment, the primary light source was a very sufficient blacklight. I couldn't help feeling attracted to this kind of life. So far away from it all... Lee played me the record, and I have to admit, it was really damn good. He said that other versions by them had been released, but this particular live recording was only available on the 12" single...which I didn't think would be as simple to find as just hopping onto fuckin' eBay. Sometimes, the technology of convenience can take all the mystery out of life.
In any event, he's gone from there, so it doesn't seem likely I'll be back again.
i wish i could remember 3:28pm You'd think that by now, even if I wasn't entirely accustomed to be referred to as "lady" (most often in restaurants with Maddy), I'd at least be getting used to and comfortable with it. But it's not happening yet. Probably because I'm always convinced that they'll soon get a much closer look and realize they've made a mistake—after all, by that time of the day the shadow has started to creep...and I'm nowhere near being comfortable with using a women's restroom except for at clubs...
One of these days, I'm going to have Maddy go up to a stranger in public
(obviously not at a place where I'll be recognized—Shrine wouldn't do),
point me out, and ask them if they think I'm male or female. Get the pulse
of the public, as it were.
Thank you, Dana.
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Wednesday, 15 March 2000 (birds of death) 10:12am ...ziggy played guitar... 10:17am In Entertainment News, I read this morning that a baseball player proposed to Law & Order's Angie Harmon on The Tonight Show. Okay, fine. While I feel that professional athletes are a scourge at best and am frequently disgusted by their cheap theatrics...sure, whatever. It may even result in more people watching the show, although I'm having unpleasant visions of fat, beer-swilling men in sports team-branded baseball caps and mullets spanking their malformed, calloused monkeys to her image...oh, please, make it stop... It's not that I think that athletes should be kept locked away while not indulging in their homoerotic jobs, it's just that...well, what good are they otherwise? Two words: John Rocker, a worthless reprobate who waxed racist, sexist and homophobic to Sports Illustrated, then turned around and blamed the media, as if he wasn't responsible for what he said. My personal favorite bit of bile, from the above-linked SI article, on why he would never play for a New York team:
"I would retire first. It's the most hectic, nerve-racking city. Imagine having to take the [Number] 7 train to the ballpark, looking like you're [riding through] Beirut next to some kid with purple hair next to some queer with AIDS right next to some dude who just got out of jail for the fourth time right next to some 20-year-old mom with four kids. It's depressing."What's most depressing, to my admittedly skewed perspective, is that he's considered a hero to many. Ultimately, the behavior of sports stars is the responsibility of the fans who treat them like the gods they claim to worship. I seriously doubt you will find a rabid football fan (be of it my city's beloved Niners or the Packers or whatever conglomeration of sub-troglodytes you care to mention) who does not also profess to be an xtian, yet they have a disturbing tendency to worship the teams with a fervor normally reserved for the guy with the holes in his hands. Which is how bigots like Rocker or Reggie White are able to get away with their hateful rhetoric, by claiming to be on the side of their God, and then blaming the media for reporting what they said in the first place. And, most importantly, what they often say completely outside the context of the sport. While they have every right to speak their mind (much as I am free to exercise mine, though unlike them the extent of my soapbox is this page), I think it's sad that so many our society give a shit what about what they have to say in the first place. Nay, not just give a shit—arguably I give a shit, or else I wouldn't be writing about it. So many hang on their every word, treat it like...well, like gospel. It's difficult for me to simply ignore it entirely, because these sports celebrities can do serious damage to the culture in which I am forced to exist. If I didn't have to, believe you me, I wouldn't. If I could just let these people have their fun and eventually get drunk and shoot each other...
Okay, I'm going to make an ad hominem attack: on top of being a scumfuck, John Rocker is
a very, very ugly man. Is this modern masculinity?
Is this a template for how boys should look these days? Eeeeew.
For example, last night Maddy and I were walking to Dana's, and a homeless guy tried unsuccessfully to get our attention. (My desensitization is quite complete; Maddy's still hasn't quite set in, but I'm sure it will.) We didn't even so much as look at him, yet he still called after us, "God bless you!" I hate that. I really, really, really hate that. It's a knee-jerk attempt at guilt, a pseudo-piousness which I should think would be insulting to true believers. Practically taking their Lord's name in vain; how is it any better than saying "goddamnit," really? Furthermore, who's the one on the street? Who requires god's blessing in this instance? I've seen many homeless people holding signs with "God Bless You" on them (usually underneath the mini-bio describing them as HIV+ veterans with three kids), but have yet to see one that says "Forsaken by God." That person, I'll give money to. I hardly think Jesus is the only person who ever looked heavenward and cried out, "Who said you could take a fucking coffee break?" (Hey, can you prove that isn't actually what he said?) So I did something uncalled for: back over my shoulder, I replied, "There is no god." Mean, mean, mean. We passed by him again a little later, on the opposite side of the street. This time, his appeal had changed a little (and he looked like he was on autopilot anyway): "They took my blankets." Without stopping, I corrected him: "God took your blankets." I am officially a Bad Person.
For the record, people I will give change to: anyone with a cat, playing a banjo, playing a Neil Young song
on a guitar (playing it on a banjo will result in a donation of at least a dollar), or feeding birds. And
I contribute to the Larkin Street Youth Center, the services of which I might have needed had things
gone a little differently when I was younger.
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Tuesday, 14 March 2000 (let's not chat about despair) 8:28am ...and then, the following day, Miguel dyed my hair completely black. My mom probably didn't think my appearance (what's wrong with short brown hair???) could get much worse after that. But I didn't have bangs just yet, either. 12:05pm After the movie on Sunday, Maddy and I found ourselves at the mall. We went into Hot Topic, since it's a fairly regular source of cheap clothing for me —it's all about the XL shirts in the clearance rack. And, of course, my ego gets stroked when I receive a seemingly heartfelt hello from the Gwen Stefani-esque grrl behind the counter, the one who treated my quest for powder (which, ironically, I seldom use anymore) last year like a personal crusade. What can I say? It's nice to be recognized, particularly when it doesn't come across like the Safeway-esque false courtesy. As far as I'm concerned, a grocery store is a utilitarian experience; I want to be in and out, bing bang boom, and expend no unnecessary energy. I asked an employee I didn't recognize if he knew whether or not they'd be getting any more Tragedy Ann dolls in stock, and he said he wasn't at all certain, adding that he'd only been there for a few days. He mentioned that they did have Lenore dolls, and he brightened a little when I told him I had one already. A kindred spirit! He started telling me about meeting Roman Dirge, Jhonen Vasquez and generally name-dropping like mad. But I could also tell that he was happy to have the opportunity to do so, to apply to his job the knowledge and experiences that surely meant so much to him in his personal life. Reminded me of why I stayed in video for so long: I knew this stuff. No, I hadn't seen every movie ever made, but I knew about more movies than I'd actually seen, and that was the important thing.
He was maybe 17 or 18, tops, in an iridescent purple shirt, long black hair shaved
at the sides and a pinkish-purple lipstick. Most importantly, he was practically
bouncy, which I must admit, was nice to see. I think he realized how incredibly
lucky he was to be working a job where he could look the way he wanted, particularly
at a relatively young age. As far as I'm concerned, there isn't a damn thing wrong
with getting paid to be a babybat. Most aren't so lucky.
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Monday, 13 March 2000 (double-barrel prayer) 7:55am Mary died two years ago today. 3:17pm Thinking that we might it might not be so crowded on a Sunday afternoon what with all the other big movies out right now, Maddy and I went to see Scream 3 yesterday afternoon. Little did we know that it would be the fookin' children's matinee. I swear, I have never seen so many kids at an R-rated film in my life. Some had parents with them, some didn't. Parents who take their young children to R-rated films should be arrested.
I dug the movie, although I suppose it goes without saying
that I was the only person who laughed when Jenny McCarthy's
character was complaining about having to do a shower scene
in a horror movie: "Shower
scenes have so been done—hello? Vertigo?" Madeline
and I got the joke; nobody else did. I don't think anyone
else even realized a joke was being made.
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2:39pm She's back. 8:57pm The concept that hangovers require alcohol is almost as much of a myth as that of creationism, or even a creator. I got home at nearly 5am after a post-Shrine meal at Grubstake with Tania and Whitman. I kept it simple, just a salad, while they went for more traditional late night snacks (omelettes, veggie burgers smothered in A-1 sauce, that sort of thing). Entertainment was provided by one of the local tranny working girls and her john/date, an overly caffeinated young man with a celphone in one hand and a wide range of jealousies in the other. He did not seem at all pleased that his favorite girl was seeing other people, never mind that it was her job. He was, after all, kind enough to order jalapeno poppers for her to take home; would a bit of fidelity be too much to ask in return? As usual when I get relatively closer to the working girls in that area, I was struck by the practically reconstucted looks of her face. Too much unnecessary plastic surgery had resulted in elements being out of proportion, particularly her cheekbones and forehead. The shapes seemed a tad too...I don't know. Extreme. Exaggerated. (And don't even get me started on the eyebrows.) It's what the clients like, I suppose, so it's what the clients get. What makes it all the more tragic is that many of the girls are of Asian extraction, meaning that they would have a fighting chance of passing naturally without any cosmetic surgical enhancement at all. But the paying customers don't want them to be completely passable; there has to be the outward appearance of gender blurring. Which is why I could probably never do that for a living even if I wanted to. My look is all wrong. Anyway, all during the evening, I was belching like mad. (If I may be blunt.) I'd had a diet coke before I left the apartment in an unsuccessful attempt at comfort food, then bought two XTCs on the way to Shrine. One I drank in the car, the other I didn't open until around 2am for that all-important boost. No alcohol, natch. But apparently just enough carbonation to upset my stomach. So I went to bed, and woke up two hours later feeling like some had sprayed Raid in my mouth. The nausea was immense and overpowering. I made it into the bathroom, fully expecting to hurl. Nothing. Visions of the puke scenes in movies like Lucio Fulci's The Gates of Hell or Poltergeist II were going through my head, and I stuck my finger far back enough into my throat as to simulate the effect of beets. Still nothing. My stomach was twisting and turning, and my mouth had a sour, coppery taste, and I couldn't do a damn thing about it. In any event, it wouldn't be as simple a matter of just vomiting. I burped a few more times—which, at least, made me feel a smidgen better—then went back to bed. Much to my surpise I was actually able to get back to sleep; usually when I get up in the morning, that is that is that. Maddy got back while I was sleeping, much to her surprise as well. Me? Asleep at quarter past nine on a Sunday morning? Don't happen often. I still don't feel entirely well, but I'm suspecting it's mostly nerves. This has been, to put it mildly, a very emotionally draining weekend...
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Saturday, 11 March 2000 (you must be certain of the devil) 8:14am By my math, I slept for roughly three hours. Again, how very much like the old days. I shudder to think what tomorrow may bring. 3:14pm Have you ever seen footage of a house exploding, then the film is reversed and the all the pieces fly back together? That's very much what I'm reminded of right now. 9:02pm I'm going to Shrine tonight, alone. Maddy may be there with Summer, or she may not. I don't know. I won't know until it happens.
All I know is that I'm very frightened, and that things are very wrong.
i hate today Even though I headed out fairly early, by the time I got out to Shrine the parking lot down the street was nearly full. Why? Ravers. For as far as the eye could see. Well, maybe not quite that many, but it was obvious some sort of rave thing was happening upstairs at the Maritime. It was quite disconcerting. Madeline was not there. I miss her.
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