Wednesday, 24 March 1999 (electro-shock
blues: efil's god)
9:33am
This is how I'll look when I'm buried.
That was the thought going through my head last night when I untied my hair from atop
my head and let it down, always the defining moment in the makeup process. That's really
when I know if it'll work or not. Up until that point it's all fairly theorectical,
based on faith that the otherwise seemingly unrelated elements will come together as a whole,
becuase during the application process it borders on abstract.
Particularly this time; I was going considerably less subtle than usual, making liberal use
of shadow all around the eyes (which are fairly sunken to begin with) and the
uber-gothy white powder. Lots of it.
And why the hell not? I was in a foul mood. The day, which had been ambivalent at best
to begin with, turned ugly after The Ex picked me up. Something big and heavy damaged the
curb outside our apartment. Chunks were broken off, and the strip of metal which lines
the curb in our neighborhood was sticking out, quite jagged and ready to puncture any
tire which dared to even look at it wrong.
I'd noticed it a few days ago (in retrospect, right after the moving truck had arrived
with deliveries for our upstairs neighbor—it may have been there before, but if
so, I didn't see it), but The Ex had only seen it today. Now, I'd dropped The Ex off at
the apartment on Monday night before going to pay the rent; according to her theory,
I may have caused the damage because when I left I "peeled out" (I seem to recall
having simply driven away, but from her perspective I peeled out) and if I was driving
recklessly when I left it stands to reason I was driving recklessly when I came back
too, and could very well have clipped the curb when I was parking. Never mind that
it would have taken something with the force of the Tungeska Meteor to rip apart the
curb and the metal strip like that, and if I'd done it, Newtonian physics implies that
the car would have been in equally bad shape. Not really, but there was a noticeable scratch
on one of the tires, which to her served as further evidence of my culpability. It made
perfect sense. She wasn't saying that was beyond a shadow of a doubt what happened,
but that it was possible.
Without invoking once more my mother's tirade about my hair (and, to be honest, even
I'm sick of hearing myself bitch about that), I can't remember the last time
I'd felt so insulted. She automatically assumed it was me and worked backwards to
figure out a way to place the blame, in spite of no real evidence and about a million
other possibilities.
We hardly spoke the rest of the way home; I had nothing to say, with the possible
exception of how much her accusation hurt, and lord knows that wouldn't have done
a damn bit of good. I was also too busy processing the fact that she'd clearly
lost all respect for me. And holding back any possible tears was important, lest
it confirm her theories about my emotionalism and the destruction it was causing.
So, I figured, why not goth out completely? What did I have to lose?
The Ex worked from seven to nine, and when she got back I'd be taking the car to Trannyshack.
I hadn't been for a while, and I was still on a quest to get those damn pictures.
Anyway, when I took my hair down I was actually rather impressed with what I saw.
I don't think I've ever quite nailed the one-foot-in-grave look quite so well.
When through most of your life you have serious weight issues, both real and imagined,
this becomes a major acheivement.
I went into the bedroom to use the full-length mirror. Even beyond the esoteric
hypergoth aesthetic,
everything clicked. My hair was still shiny black and rootless from having been
to Miguel's on Saturday (and down in Betty Page style, not in pigtails), and I was wearing
the same simple skirt/t-shirt/tights outfit which I'd been getting so much mileage out of.
This was me at my most beautiful.
Yeah, my mood improved. Considerably. Hollow though it may be, if I can't take
pleasure from these things, if I can't savor this sort of victory and this sort
of realization of what I thought was an utterly unreachable dream only a few years
ago, then there's possibly nothing left to be happy about at all. For this I feel
no shame and make no apologies.
Realizing that this might be my only opportunity to dance to music that spoke to
me on any kind of an emotional level (Trannyshack's music is usually generic
dance club stuff, hard enough for me to dance to let along connect with), I
turned off all the lights except the xmas lights in the living room and put
on "Moving Through Time" from the Twin Peaks Fire Walk With Me
soundtrack, which just happens to be one of the loveliest pieces of music
ever. I'm constantly astonished that it isn't in heavy rotation at goth clubs.
(Perki? Are you listening?)
The Ex arrived home while I was dancing, and I thought I saw a smile. In fact, I know I did.
The bad vibes from earlier were gone, as I suspected they would be. This was
a different situation. Were we different people? Or, more specifically, was I?
No, I don't believe so. I've never considered there to be any kind of a division in
my personality or a separate persona when dressed or anything like that. It's not
like assuming a role; if so, I probably wouldn't haven't failed quite so miserably
with Tiff. (One of the more confused Rusties at the Neil show on Friday asked,
"Alter ego?" I replied, quite honestly: "No, just me, only moreso.") I'm not pretending
to be something I'm not, or doing anything that goes against my essential nature.
Because it's what us exhibitionist/voyeurs do, we shot nearly an entire roll of our
newly acquired b&w film on me. For as many ways as this is all driving us
apart, it also brings The Ex and I together. She takes great joy in being my
photographer, and I do believe she finds me beautiful. This would all probably
be much simpler if she was repulsed by every step of the process and wanted nothing
to do with it, but that's simply never been the case. She's been scared, worried,
nervous, yes, and understandably so, but also ultimately very supportive.
So I put my hair up in pigtails (my standard look for going out, plus it keeps my hair
from getting in my face when I'm dancing) and I went to Trannyshack. Y'know, I
think I can officially say I'm getting bored with it.
I danced for a while, looking perhaps just a smidgen out of place, and as always
trying fairly unsuccessfully to adapt my body's limited range to their music's rhythm.
If nothing else, Blondie's "Atomic" allowed me to relive the days when I'd come to
80s Night at the same bar (the Stud at 9th and Harrison in San Francisco) and gave me
an incredibly strong If Only She Could See Me Now vibe. She lost faith in me, and
I'm not sure I've ever forgiven her for that.
Before too long I returned to the front room, in my usual position in front of the
mirror by the pool table. I kept an eye on the door for Meesha and Tina, as well
as the two queens who'd taken my picture and promised to email it but never did.
They never did show up, and by 11:30pm a plan was forming:
Roderick's Chamber. I'd still never
been to Roderick's. It was on Tuesdays, just down the street, and it was music I
could dance to. (*sigh* Okay, let's get it out of our system, shall we? Altogether
now: "I will wewease Wodewick!" There. Can I continue? Thanks.)
Right after I started seriously considering bailing and hitting Roderick's, as will almost
certainly happen you're at Trannyshack and dressed like a girl--and, if I may be so bold,
are one of the cuter non-genetic/non-working girls--I was approached.
A boi about my age, cute enough as bois go (think Eddie Vedder's younger brother). He was
drunk, but not belligerently; rather, I got the impression that it was for courage.
Drunk enough to approach me—what an odd concept. He started by observing that
I'd been standing there keeping to myself all night long (the unstated implication
being that he'd been watching me all night long); why? What was I doing there?
This was intriguing because as a pickup line, as it bordered on existential and in fact
was a question I'd been asking myself. We talked for
maybe an hour or so, and while I didn't get the impression he was hitting
on me per se, I made the occasional reference to The Ex as though we were still together
and was vague but discouraging about my plans for the rest of the evening. His eyes
lit up when I mentioned that I usually go to goth clubs, and while I'd decided I was
going to Roderick's next I didn't mention it. Cruel and elitist, perhaps, but in
these situations it's way too easy to pick up extra baggage. Particularly considering
he was from out of town (Seattle, eerily enough); I had no intention of being more
of a tour guide than absolutely necessary.
Eventually he confessed to something I'd suspected anyway: that he was a cross-dresser
and had once been on hormones for two months. The reason he stopped was the problems
caused with his girlfriend regarding the inevitable loss of his sex drive, an issue
with which I am intimately familiar. Sadly, that seemed to be the only reason he
stopped. Perhaps he's better off for it, I obviously don't know all the details,
but if he had the presence of mind to begin (albeit with stuff bought over the
internet, questionable at best) then it's a shame he had to stop for that reason.
If it's the right path for him, he needs to take that path and accept whatever
sacrifices come with it.
Who knows, maybe I inspired him a little. Being the self-important bitch I am,
I'd certainly like to think so. I let him feel my right breast to get a sense of what
six months of hormones will do—it seemed only fair, as he was clearly
curious, but a poor sense of location resulted in him poking my upper rib cage, so
I guided his hand. Perhaps it was a major event for him, I don't know, but it
didn't do a damn thing for me. Except maybe reveal that I'm a tease.
He did make a semi-bold move on his own; he asked if I'd had any electrolysis
done, so I naturally turned and looked at myself in the mirror, openly lamenting
that I hadn't shaved before going out and that I could see my shadow clear as day.
So he touched my cheek with the back of his hand and said he couldn't feel a thing.
It was disconcerting—I tend to have strong personal space issues, as certain
schmucks at Lilith will attest—but he clearly meant well, and there's a more
than distinct possibility that his theory of touch is not dissimilar to mine, that
a little is enough, be it a hug or a
rubbing her foot? remember that? remember how it lifted you out of the
darkness just for a moment even if she probably didn't even realize you were doing
it? at that point in time she was no longer aware you existed and that this one minor little
contact which really could have been with anyone you were in such desperation was all that was keeping you alive and
she couldn't have even begun to guess
kiss or just rubbing someone's cheek can be a wonderful thing. In any event, I
felt neither aroused nor violated.
Much to my surprise, he left before I did, at about 12:15. We said our goodbyes—I
was very gracious, naturally—and I left about five minutes after he did just to
be on the safe side.
I briefly considered just going home, but nah, I'd been getting plenty of sleep lately.
One late (work)night wouldn't kill me. Besides, my curiosity about Roderick's was
growing by the minute. And certainly nothing was keeping me at Trannyshack. For
that matter, whether or not I'd be coming back at all was becoming uncertain.
The semi-thorough search outside Roderick's took me by surprise, but I suppose it's
necessary at such an establishment. (3rd and Harrison, very close to where I used to work.)
That was just one of the many ways it proved to be unlike Lilith. I'm using this
word way too much lately, but the vibe couldn't have been more different. It was louder,
larger, darker, more intense in every way. I fell in love with it almost instantly. And,
like The Stud, it used to be a hangout of Louise's. Now it would be mine.
After walking around to get a sense of the layout—the word "Chamber" is particularly
apt, because there's a lot of 'em—I went onto the dance floor, which itself was probably
larger than the entire basement that Lilith occupies.
And it was packed. The only place I could see where there was any room was the stage. Unlike
Lilith, the stage of which is elevated maybe a foot, this one was at least five feet off the
ground, hence drawing even more attention to whoever was up there. And I'd had bad experiences
on Lilith's stage, including the drunken shirtless behemoth who saw me and thought to himself,
"Ramming speed!" I confess, though, I take a certain amount of pride in the fact that my
post about the incident started the thread on the sfgoth-junkies list which resulted in "Biff
and Chip" becoming our all-purpose phrase for frat-looking people. Always happy to aid to my
peoples' sense of superiority.
Biff and Chip didn't seem present—this was as GAF ("goth as fuck") a crowd as I'd ever seen—and there
was room, so I went onto the stage. On the one hand it seemed wrong that my first time there
I would put myself into the proverbial spotlight (proverbial because there were many many
spotlights going). On the other hand, there's a lot of be said for walking into a place and
acting like you own it. So that's what I did.
I felt underdressed, though. Everywhere else, be it Lilith or So What or even Trannyshack, what
I was wearing felt like plenty, and the fact that it was casual was an important detail. But
this situation required more. The fishnets would clearly be making a comeback.
Cognizant of the fact that I did have to go be up by 5:30am, I left around two. I explored the
bar area a bit first, though, to see if I recognized anyone. I didn't. (Chances are someone
recognized me from Lilith, though. This isn't ego, just a logical assumption. I seem
to be quite noticeable.) I did, however, discover the girl walking around with the tray of free
sushi.
Free, if store-bought, sushi at two in the morning.
I was clearly home.
3:26pm
Summer just told me that her photographer Victor, whom as near as I can tell
is the only person whom she trusts to take her picture, will probably
be at Lilith this Friday and would like to meet me for a possible photo
shoot.
Very odd, and more than a little intriguing. Particularly because this is
clearly something Summer orchestrated, as I've had no contact whatsoever
with the gentleman and I doubt he even knows what I look like.
Summer seems to think I'm worth his time.
Her friendship is clearly on her terms and her terms alone, but I guess
when you're on her good side she'll watch out for you in ways you can't
predict.
Curiouser and curiouser.
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