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Saturday, 31 March 2001 (avoid missing ball for high score) 7:41pm Words to live by, y'know. Other ones would be, "Try to avoid going outside on sunny days when your skin is still healing." To those, unfortunately, I don't seem to pay as much attention.
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Friday, 30 March 2001 (esrever) 9:07am After work last night I ventured into the underbelly of the neon-tinted beast which is San Francisco's North Beach. I don't go out there too often, mainly because except for a particular taqueria, a movie poster shop and City Lights Bookstore, there isn't much that interests me. Well, okay, that arcade/pool hall across from the taqueria's kinda cool because of all the old games they have, and I kinda wish The Black Lodge still existed because I've developed more of a taste for that kind of music since the last time I went, and I'd still like to try The Stinking Rose sometime purely to satisfy my curiosity, and if we ever get around to going to a strip club that's probably where it'll be. But otherwise... Anyway, I'd been invited to a party at Brian's girlfriend's store. The store caters to a kitschy neo-hipster post-swinger club kid/quasi-raver crowd. As a result, 95% of the clothes are much gaudier than I care for, and in any event they're all too small for me anyway. Which made it somewhat painful experience to watch women fitting quite nicely into some of the better stuff. Hell, even the stuff I never would wear, it would be nice to just be able to if I wanted; no matter how much weight I lose, though, the simple fact is that my body is large, and that sort of stuff is not made for me. I was born the way I was born, and there are certain aspects of genetics which are completely out of my control. Even at my thinnest, two years ago, my options were limited at best. When DNA decides you're gonna be a linebacker, you're gonna be a linebacker. These were the kinds of thoughts I was having when Brian introduced me to his new primary webmonkey, a very pretty girl he described as my "counterpart." Oh, man. That's all I need. She mentioned that she was glad to "finally" meet me; he's probably only told her about me on a professional level, but then again, maybe he's mentioned more. It made me feel all the more self-conscious about my recently zapped face, and for reasons I've yet to identify, I felt a slight pang of jealousy. oh, you traded me in for a younger, prettier, and dare I say it, REAL model, huh? Sometimes I scare myself. On the other hand, one of the reasons I made a point of going out there (aside from the fact that I haven't seen Brian since the last time we changed the clocks) is that he was going to pay for me a bit of work I did for him on the side recently. Nothing that major, just wrangling some tables into submission by breaking them apart and rebuilding them, but nobody on his team had been able to figure it out. I guess that implies I'm good at my job, if nothing else. Yep, I'm a tic-tac-toe CHAMPION, goddamnit. Invitations haven't been sent out just yet, but a date has been set for Brian's wedding, October 12. (What is it with October weddings? Jonco's getting married a week before that.) He seemed genuinely excited as he described his vision for the wedding; it sounds a lot like Dana and Costanza's, with perhaps a slightly larger budget and a few more concessions for the Normals. They might find it a little unsettling if all the roses are black, that kinda thing. But he'll be dressed in black, period. Unlike the first time around, he's determined to get this one right.
And, if it still fits, I'll be wearing the dress which I wore at the fashion
show last year. For probably both Brian's and Jonco's weddings. There certainly
won't be any guest overlap between the two, and it just seems appropriate. Again,
that's if it fits.
For starters, there was the infamous Microsoft "station domination" of last year; no matter where you looked, you saw a Microsoft recruiting ad. It's never been quite so bad since then, though many other products have come close. My personal favorite was for a prescription drug whose name escapes me at the moment (ergo, the campaign failed in its most basic mission); some of their billboards were nothing but the fine print. I suppose it had to be there legally, but it was still quite surreal, these large signs filled with nothing but, well, fine print. Anyway, a few months back I noticed a widescreen TV had been placed above the motel phone kiosk. It's up fairly high, practically out of my peripheral vision entirely. Maddy, being slightly shorter than me, never saw it at all until I pointed it out. I guess it's that high up because it's an expensive piece of equipment. Anyway, every time I've gone by, it's been playing a preview for The Patriot, the Mel Gibson vehicle notable for having a poster with the most extreme star close-up since Child's Play 3.
Now, I could be wrong. I've never stopped to watch it, so maybe there are other trailers, too. But I suspect
it's just for The Patriot. Either way, some ad exec somewhere thought it would be a good idea, that they were missing out on a great opportunity. That upon
seeing the screen most people will say "Oooh, I wanna see that movie!" rather than "Why the fuck is there a movie
trailer playing in a fucking train station?" Sadly, the former is probably the most common reaction.
After all, advertising works.
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Wednesday, 29 March 2001 (door) 8:59am Tired. So very, very tired. 1:17pm *thwok!*
The "constraints," indeed. In other words, he'll do whatever the fuck he wants. At this point we dropped the thread entirely—it was getting hard to see, what with all the blood dripping into my eyes—and I called the landlords directly, since they'd long since been dropped off the cc list. Strictly speaking it had only been going the husband's address; the wife, who seems to be slightly more sympathetic to our cause (and with whom we scored points when we put up the the Crow poster) wasn't aware of it at all. I filled her in on everything that's been going on, including the neighbor changing backpedaling and blatantly ignoring the landlords' request to keep the gate shut in the first place. She said they're going to check the doorbell (perfectly fair), and then talk to him about keeping the gate closed like he's supposed to.
It wasn't quite as decisive as I would have liked,
but they don't tend to rule with an iron fist. Which I suppose is a good thing, because
if they did we wouldn't be able to have Oscar and Mina. Now we just have to hope that the
neighbor doesn't talk them into letting him keep the gate open whenever he wants, dangling
in front of them the fact that he pays over twice as much in rent as we do. It didn't work with
the last guy, and hopefully it won't work now. The fact that this guy's shot himself
in the foot in their eyes several times before (the trash, the recycling, the mouse-emporium
couch in the garage) should help. Frankly, I just want it to end.
Damn. Close, but not quite. I don't know if I'm going to let it be for now or not. The hell of trying to stay on the high road is having to give the benefit of the doubt to people who genuinely don't deserve it, including but not limited to the scumfuck living above us. Have I mentioned that when he leaves the garage he doesn't turn off the light, and when it burns out he doesn't replace it? In a nutshell, I'm tired of constantly cleaning up his messes, i.e. having to go through all of this to get his doorbell fixed because he's too lazy to do anything about it himself. "Working on having the bell fixed," my recently healed sacrum. The extent of work required would be contacting the landlords, and he didn't even bother to do that since leaving the gate open was doubly convenient for him. Bah. Whatever. Must think no more.
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Wednesday, 28 March 2001 (mirror) 9:00am A guy walked onto the train this morning carrying a gay porno movie. It wasn't in a bag and he wasn't making any attempt to hide it, nor was he flaunting it—it was just there. Nobody said a word. I do love this city. 1:02pm After a considerable amount of time talking myself into it (and checking with Pike beforehand to make sure I could leave early if the answer was yes), I called Phil and asked if perhaps I might be able to get zapped tonight. I'm not sure whether or not I should be suprised that the answer is in fact yes, but it is and I'm going in. At least I'm getting it over with, and it's a good thing the canker sore has gone away. Mostly. 3:54pm Hopefully this'll be the end of a different sore spot:
The landlord had fallen out of the loop for the last few messages, so I made sure he was back in it for this one. I was also tempted to include "It's all we ask," but decided against it. It's true, too; while there's a list of little things which we'd like him to do/stop doing, things which would be self-evident to most anyone else, this is the only battle which really seems worth pursuing. If after letting his junk mail pile up for weeks he then drops it on the ground rather than the bag we've put next to the mailslot for just that purpose, well, it goes back to my theory about his barn-related upbringing. As does the gate issue, but at least that's something we can justify complaining about. I still don't believe he's malicious like my previous neighbor, and I'd very much like to keep it that way. So it occurred to me, apropros of nothing, that the greatest literary bitch-slap ever—The Chesire Cat's response to Alice when she said that she didn't want to go amongst mad people—can be applied to me regarding my tendency to avoid other trannies lest I get caught up in someone else's drama: "Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat. "We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad," In other words: what, I think I'm different? Then again, it could be the vicodin kicking in.
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Tuesday, 27 March 2001 (grave) 7:34am For not the first time, I'm wondering if maybe I should go back on Meridia. 11:46am My car was wailing like a fiberglass banshee as the brakes protested my insolence on the way to the garage. There weren't quite as many SUVs running stop signs as you'll usually find that time of the morning, so I guess I got lucky.
They haven't yet called with an estimate, which is either
a good sign (it's such a simple
job they don't need to get in touch with me first) or
a very bad one (you do the math). Oh well. It'll cost
what it'll cost.
Seaking of procrastinating (which I was, sorta,
if you squint and use your imagination), I suppose if I'm going
to make an appointment to get zapped, I should pick up the
phone and do it.
Hrm. It's easier to keep the gate open when entertaining? That's funny,
I coulda sworn he said the doorbell was broken because of the corrosive
sea air. I think he just confessed. Of course, implicit in his reply that
he'll continue to keep the gate open during parties.
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10:52am The loose ends of the weekend are slowly being dealt with. I'm taking the car in tomorrow morning (no doubt the brakes will be perfectly silent on the way to the garage), and I've emailed the neighbors and the landlord, with the landlord's request from January to keep the gate closed attached. Just in case they forgot or never received it in the first place, don't'cha know. After no small amount of trepidation and rewriting, I wound up with this: Per [the landlord]'s request below, please keep the front gate closed at all times. If you're expecting company, please ask them to use the
Sometimes I'm an astonishing pussy. How much? The trash gets picked up Monday mornings, and usually I take it out on
Sunday evening. I waited until early this morning to take it out since every time I stepped outside last
night I could hear them upstairs, and I didn't want to risk seeing anyone. That's how much.
I had several people visting yesterday for our Academy Awards party. We are working on having the bell fixed, but the wires corrode In other words—stop tattling on me, you snitch! Sanctimonious pigfucker. Maddy is composing the reply, which is probably for the best. She's been displaying considerably more backbone than me lately.
She's also been proving that not all neighbors are bad, in the proactive sense of being a good one herself.
We noticed a wallet lying in the street this morning; although the address on the license
was out of town, with a bit of research she managed to track the person down, and within a couple
hours they had their wallet back, contents intact—and as it happens they live just down the
block from us. There was a temptation to leave it where it was, since strictly speaking it wasn't
our problem, or maybe just leave it on the windshield where the owner would be likely to see it.
Of course, anyone else could see it too, and as whoever stole Maddy's purse at the Manson show can attest,
you can't trust strangers—and least often the person right next to you. Even if they're not
openly malicious (like my previous neighbor), thoughtlessness can be almost as bad. So it's nice to
know that some people out there are trying to be good, and that I live with one of them.
The irony, of course, is that when they do close the gate they slam it like a petulant child banished
to their bedroom. Until now I've been fairly convinced that it's not directed towards us, that it's just how they are,
but I suppose that may change. And so it goes.
There's little worse than being reluctant to go home.
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Sunday, 25 March 2001 (door) 8:14am Looking back, I realize I didn't get across the point I was trying to make with yesterday's lone entry: the degree to which I admired the tranny. When I initially pointed her out to Maddy I commented that it was unusual to see a tranny obviously younger than me (early twenties, if that) who I didn't also consider to be cuter than me. Inexcusably rude and shallow, but unfortunately the way my mind works. At the same time, I respected the living shit out of her for being so, well, out at that age and in public. She wasn't flaming, per se, but she wasn't actively trying to melt into the background like me, either. I'm transitioning from a fairly comfortable position, with a decent job (in a shakey industry, but still), seemingly universal support around me and rarely any genuine threat to my safety. It took me a long time to get to where I'm at now, primarily because of my own fears and considerable lack of intestinal fortitude; she doesn't seem to be waiting quite so long.
I know I should be careful, to not overly romanticize someone I don't
know just based on what I perceive them to be—i.e., out tranny
= noble. That notion was disproved, once and forever, when I met
The Other.
Afterwards we went into the Haight to see Godzilla at The Red Vic, probably the first time we've been to a movie since Before Night Falls in its pre-hype days. It was the original Japanese version, sans Raymond Burr and with subtitles, thus denying the audience of the cheap yet predictable thrill of laughing at dubbed voices. Of course, people in black and white movies showing emotions still produces a guffaw now and again from modern audiences, though it still wasn't as bad as the cattiness found in your average Castro crowd. (It kills me that I just can't get excited about going to a movie there anymore, because the people never shut the fuck up.) And the guy sitting next to Maddy insisted on scoffing at the science in the film. It's a movie, for fuck's sake, and a nearly fifty year-old science fiction movie at that. Guess he didn't want to risk the possibility of his friends, the ones who also paid to get in, thinking that he actually enjoyed it.
We rode the bus for most of the day. Although waiting for it and dealing with crowds can suck, it still
beats driving around this city. At one point I was recognized by a guy sitting in front of
us wearing an einstürzende neubauten jacket; he said he works at Shrine and has seen me there.
The guy must have one hell of a memory, considering I haven't been there in months. Hell, I wouldn't
be surprised if Anodyne's forgotten me by the next time I'm there.
For assorted reasons we aren't going to Santa Cruz today as originally planned, but we aren't sticking around here, either. They're apparently going to be barbecuing in the backyard, the seldom-used backyard right next to our living room. Oscar has been in the window watching them, and making occasional sounds which suggest he doesn't like what's going on out there. Normally he loves people, but I guess he can sense evil. In any event, we're heading out soon before it gets worse. No doubt the gate will be open when we leave, and open again when we get back later tonight. We're going to our favorite second-run theater for a double feature of Shadow of the Vampire and The House of Mirth, which will be the second film based on an Edith Wharton novel I've willingly seen in the theater, the first being Scorsese's The Age of Innocence. I don't generally care for costume dramas, but it's got Gillian Anderson and it beats staying here while the kegger rages outside. To make matters worse, it's sunny outside. The weather yesterday was perfect: cool and overcast with a light rain in the evening, just enough to be scenic and not ruin the free poster I got at Keith Knight's table.
I'm reminded of why I generally hate Sundays.
Fuckers.
On the plus side, I now don't feel quite so guilty about flaking on The Ex; the brake
trauma probably would have occurred en route, and that would have been very very bad. Okay, maybe that's
not a plus in the classic sense, but hey, I'm grasping at short and heavily lubricated straws here.
In any event, I'm calling the garage first thing tomorrow morning and starting that particular dance
again.
None of it would be quite so annoying except that I'm going on day three (four?) of a canker sore on my inner upper lip. I've been dousing it regularly with campho-phenique, but it keeps holding on, making eating, smoking and drinking difficult at best (orange juice is a particular challenge) and looking like a negative-color photo of Jupiter's Red Spot. Two thoughts about the bookfair yesterday, before I forget them again (my entries would be the average length of Kane's Enquirer if I actually remembered half the stuff I consider writng about). One was Michelle Tea's reading; towards the end she impored girls to write, that their lives should be recorded, however mundane. (There's a potential for a pseudo-clever joke/play on words that I'm just not grasping, so I'll cut to the chase and mention Pike's weblog Ultramundane. Read back a sentence if this seems to be coming out of nowhere.) (And, yes, he's not a girl, but that isn't the the point.) (And I'm not going to fault him for it. Redeeming boys for the sin of not being girls is Maggie's job.) (I wonder if she made it to Santa Cruz today? As of Friday she still didn't have a ride down there, and once I made it clear that I was uncomfortable with the idea of taking her, The Ex discarded the notion entirely. For that, I am grateful.) To me, it was as eloquent a defense of online diaries as I've ever heard. Really, if I could be publishing my words in books rather than online, I would. Is what she's doing any different? In writing about her own experiences (as I try to, to a much lesser degree of success) is she not some loser complaining about her life because she gets it in print, ostensibly earning a living as a result? By the way, here she is with Maddy.
The other was the wonderful irony that in spite of his caricature (and most others) in The K Chronicles having large eyes, Keith Knight was quite stoned and
his eyes were half-shut. If it hadn't been able to tell just by looking at him, it would have been exceedingly obvious
when he picked up a (probably stolen) (if you read the strip you'll get the joke) paperclip for the poster, realized another one
was attached to it, and very carefully seperated the two. It was the kind of intense concentration given
to certain simple acts which you only find amongst the well-baked. I was certainly impressed.
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Saturday, 24 March 2001 (etaoin shrdlu) 9:28pm After a comparatively late night at work, Madeline and I went out to eat. The bill was just over sixteen; we left a twenty because we didn't want to wait for the change. I left feeling very bourgeois. Who says the dot-com dream is dead? The train home was a bit more crowded than I expected for ten in the evening. Of course, it was ten on Friday night, so that might account for it. Anyway, we got to witness some b-boys harrassing a young tranny as she got off the train. While they were on the train together they didn't say much of anything, but as she was walking away they started yelling things at her ranging from "Faggot!" to "You got a dick! You ain't a woman! It ain't workin'!" and everything in between. I'd imagine she's grown accustomed to that sort of thing, and has probably reached the same conclusion as I did: 95% of those guys are utter cowards who think that proving their manhood involves picking on people smaller than them at a distance. The tranny was certainly displaying more balls than they were. As always, it got me wondering how I fall under the radar of people like that. Is it because I'm passing, or because to look at me you wouldn't even think I was trying at all? To them, do I just look like a guy with a slightly funny haircut, no doubt a contemptible faggot but not worth the energy in this particular city? I'm suspecting in this case it's the latter.
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Friday, 23 March 2001 (copyright infringement is your best entertainment value) 6:21am Oh well. No tacos for America. 4:50pm Gojira!!! That is, in fact, the kind of day it's been.
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Thursday, 22 March 2001 (with a beauty beyond compare (slow torture)) 8:42am Somewhere, a Honda is missing its gascap.
Kinda makes you think, don't it?
Later on, the office manager knocked on my door, came in and started counting things. Bookcases, filing cabinets, that sort of thing. After the other events of this week, it doesn't exactly help my nerves.
Random thought: every time I pass a store advertising the new Jennifer Lopez
album, I look at the cover and think to myself, "Nice to see Taylor Dayne
is still around." I wonder if that happens to anyone else.
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Wednesday, 21 March 2001 (with venomous contempt (f.b.c.)) 6:22am I have an "interview" with a new honcho today. I'm told that they just want to get a sense of what it is I do in the department, which I guess makes sense, but I don't understand why they specifically need to talk to me—you'd think the people who actually run the department, delegate responsibilities, etc, could do as good or better a job of describing it. And the buildup is killing me, too, since it's been planned since last week. Pike assures me that I won't be auditioning for my own job, and that I'm in no danger of losing said job, but the words "efficency expert" are still buzzing around in my brain. Even moreso since the CEO's talk yesterday, in which he kept on using the word "simplify." (Without even crediting Thoreau, how rude is that?) After all, times are tight, and it would certainly be simpler economically to keep Leigh but cut me loose, since we both do essentially the same job anyway.
Again, I'm probably being paranoid. Believe me, I wish I wasn't. But I also know that
bad things can happen whether you expect them to or not.
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