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Friday, 31 May 2002 (the lonely people (are getting lonelier)) 9:22am I'm going to do something I haven't done in a long time: drive to an electro appointment. The last time I drove I ended up detouring on the way home by Barefoot's place in Oakland to crash on his couch until I was really ready to drive again. There really isn't much hair to get zapped this time, so I'm not going to be taking much vicodin. If nothing else, we're going to a reading at Michelle's store tonight, and I don't want that vicodiny hangover. And, of course, no more Green Death.
It'll be over soon.
Anyway, the reading is tonight, we're probably having dinner with Dax and a few other people tomorrow night, and K'vetch is Sunday. No hiding.
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Thursday, 30 May 2002 (mulholland) 8:46am Need another reason to kill your teevee? Here it is: an Osbournes ripoff about Anna Nicole Smith. Those in the mainstream media hate, loathe and despise the public. You realize that, right?
I've never watched The Osbournes, and don't want to; however, I've read that one of his kids refuses to be on the show. That kid's my new hero. They're like the Barbara Lee of "reality" television.
Rocco and I talked quite a bit about transitioning, hormones, and so forth. Although being 22 (22! a mere pup!) probably has something to do with it, I got the impression he hasn't met too many M2Fs, which is reasonable enough given that like many F2Ms he's from the dyke community. And, unlike many F2Ms he still considers himself a dyke, which confuses some people. It makes sense to me, though, because I've long since figured out that there's about a zillion different ways to be, and his is just as valid as any other. I suspect it's also why he lacks the slight undercurrent of misogyny I've encountered in some F2Ms. (On a mailing list a couple years back, a genetic girl was venting about a Slashdot article regarding the disproportionate number of men online which confirmed her worst feelings about the internet. "I KNEW I WASN'T BEING AN ACTIVIST FEMINAZI!!!!" She admitted that her wrath was really directed towards a different, more male-oriented group of friends; in response, I thanked her for bringing it to this particular list. I then namechecked all the women on the list, a definite majority, and concluded that "Only the most ardent dittohead could possibly deny the rampant sexism on this list." Irony and all. An f2m on the list clipped the majority of the message, leaving only the last line about rampant sexism, then said "Uhh, lemme guess. . . I'm automatically a sexist asshole because I have a beard? *Yawn*" Because that bore no relation whatsoever to what I said, I replied "Yes, that's precisely what I said." No smileys or nuttin'. Well, that set him off: "I'm of the opinion that there are some men who aren't sexist and some women who are. I can introduce you to several rather misogynist dykes, and several feminist fags. You of all people should understand that it is possible for people to transcend gender roles and sex chromosome structure. I hope you're kidding, if not get your head out of your ass. Sick of that dumbassed wimmimmimmimmimmins guilt-trip. Been to Michigan Womyns Music Festival, (and the food sucked!)" To this day I'm not sure what he hoped to accomplish with that particular barb, surely meant to be a coup de grace, since trannies aren't allowed into the Festival. If I'm not welcome, why would I be insulted when he slams the food? Sheesh, if they're going to discriminate against me, they can get botulism and die for all I care. Since I was already on the wave, I rode it further: "Yes, I WAS kidding. If you go back and read the part of the message which you snipped, it becomes extremely obvious that it was a joke. Lack of a sense of humor can be almost as dangerous as the cranial-rectal inversion you suggested I might be suffering. Yeah, I know, you've been through a lot. Guess what? Me too. Lighten up. You'll live longer." Much to my surprise, he capitulated, sorta: "Must have missed something that indicated sarcasm. . . perhaps I just don't know you well enough to read between the lines. My apologies for not being more astute." I don't think it was so much not knowing me well enough as it was automatically assuming that as an m2f who prefers girls, I was prejudiced against men. It's that sort of thing which results in antagonism between the two groups, which are two sides of the same coin.) Which isn't to say M2Fs are above that sort of thing; many are hostile to men, notable those who wrap their lesbian identification around themselves like a flag. It makes me wonder what Maggie would make of Rocco, since the highest compliment she can bestow upon a boy is that they're an "honorary girl." Ugh. The more time passes, the more her blatant sexism bothers me. There's not a damn thing wrong with being male, genetic or otherwise. Granted, it's not for me, but all I know is what's right for me. Everyone else can make up their own minds. I do have this to say to any M2F who thinks women are inherently better than men: you have obviously never used a women's restroom. Men, you will discover, don't have a monopoly on messiness. If there's anything to the whole cleanliness-slash-godliness thing, and the supposedly holier gender can't even be considerate enough to keep things clean for the next sister to come along, well, the whole pedestal comes crashing down, doesn't it? Anyway, the questions from both of them came fast and furious, and of course I was more than happy to answer them. This was when they both said that when they first saw me, they thought I was genetic. That's seriously high praise, and I do believe it was sincere, though I must remember that my days of being called "sir" aren't over. They never will be. It was rather amusing to watch Michelle and Rocco wolf down their food (especially Michelle, who doesn't look like she eats at all—if I could choose a body type, hers would be a strong contender). Maddy and I seemed positively dainty in comparison. Going out for sushi was discussed; Michelle is interested in the place in Pacifica, both because it's where Maddy proposed to me and because it's another location of the beloved "No-Name Sushi" at Church and 18th. When it was brought up that they had a gig in Santa Cruz this weekend, Pink Godzilla sprang to mind. Not this wekened, of course, but at a later date. Rocco also has a favorite sushi place in Santa Cruz, which he of course insists is the best. Sounds to me like good reasons for two future trips. I was the only one at the table without any tattoos. That's happening more and more lately. As is probably obvious by now, I have no supernatural or mystical leanings. Still, when Michelle offered to give me a tarot card reading after having done the same for Maddy, I agreed. I've never had one before, and I do love a good parlor trick. (All I got out of American Gods was a desire to learn how to palm coins.) It was certainly an interesting experience, even if Michelle was constantly apologizing for her unfamiliarity with the deck, handmade by a friend of hers, and promising to get it right next time. I've always been fascinated (if sometimes frustrated) by the human tendency to look for patterns and therefore meaning in chaos, and this was a perfect example. All things considered, it's harmless, and building metaphor out of random chance can be fun. And, as Michelle put it, we're "poet people." I never would have used that would to describe us, but it's certainly flattering. Best of all, to me, was Michelle's enthusiasm when Maddy said she'd decided to read at K'vetch this Sunday. It's exactly the sort of encouragement she needs. I'm her biggest cheerleader, of course, but from Michelle it's like...if you'll pardon how mileage I get out of this word, validation. Not to mention a great first step.
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Tuesday, 28 May 2002 (broken harbors, part 2) 9:08am When I applied for my new license last year, I'd been worried that since my endoc marked "Transitional" rather than "Complete" (the latter meaning I've had surgery) on my DL-328, a DMV employee would take it upon themselves to decide that I shouldn't get an F on my license. There's some precedent; I won't be able to change my birth certificate until after SRS, for example. Not that I necessarily want to change it. It's an accurate enough record in and of itself, because whatever I am now, because I was born genetically male. Anyway, I got the F (I'm suddenly reminded of the fifth and sixth grades) and all was hunky dory. Except that in a scare story not unreminiscent of the race-based Social Security Number hoax, Trevor told Maddy that until it gets changed from "Transitional" to "Complete," I'll have to renew my license every six months. Becuase they don't trust pre-ops, I guess. In fact, the new license was set to expire on my next birthday. The conspiracy is real! So I got my renewal stuff a recently, filled it out and sent it in. My renewed license arrived last week— it expires again in 2007. Hrm. I wonder what will happen if I haven't had SRS by then.
They're not using the picture on the old license, but the newer one taken for my ID card. Good. I didn't like the old
license picture. I'm not too fond of this one, either, but at least my eyes don't appear to be on the verge of popping
of my head. I tend to look like that in pictures. Trust me, they're the ones you don't see.
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Monday, 27 May 2002 (broken harbors, part 1) 9:32am So.
11:37am Going to pick up Maddy now. 8:57pm Both of her flights homeward (Omaha to Phoenix, Phoenix to San Francisco) departed and arrived on time. Imagine that. And, for the record, I like the way Dax's mouth looks much better than a collagen-stuffed Angelina Jolie or Jolene Blalock. (If the second name doesn't sound familiar, I envy you.). My last day at the company this time around is tomorrow. I'd been given the option of leaving early on Friday and coming in on for a few hours on Wednesday to make up for it, but that didn't make a damn bit of sense so I declined. Anyway, Maddy has tomorrow off, but goes back to work on Wednesday when I'm free again. Typical of our timing. Maddy got me a beautiful black NY&CO sheath dress for $5 from a thrift store in Omaha. We really need to set a morning aside for thrifting next time we're in Fresno.
I'd probably have gotten a lot more done this weekend if I hadn't been catching up on the last few years of The Boondocks. I think we can officially stop mourning Berkeley Breathed's retirement—he's no longer needed.
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Sunday, 26 May 2002 (austin texas mental hospital, part 3) 2:44pm Judging from the red marks I gave myself on my legs while showering earlier, I haven't been drinking enough water lately. 5:09pm For various logistical reasons, my original plans with Phred fell through. Instead, she's coming out here, and we're going to...well, I have no idea. Maybe go get something to eat, or watch a movie, or more likely just hang out. At this rate of social activity, Mina may learn to actually show her face when other people are around.
I'm having a really hard time writing about last night. I have a lot to say, but it's difficult figuring out how to say it. I may end
up resorting to bullet points. That's not so bad, is it? Everyone likes lists, right?
Phred has reiterated her belief that I need to make a movie. I'm not saying she's wrong, but I doubt Christine Vachon is going to start returning my calls anytime soon, either. If her flight goes as scheduled, Maddy's plane will be landing in twelve hours. I've missed her, and I'm looking forward to having her back.
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Saturday, 25 May 2002 (austin texas mental hospital, part 2) 1:13pm The Wave Organ. Yes, that is where I must go today. 4:33pm Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. In fact, it still seems like a good idea; I simply should have checked the traffic in addition to the weather. (I'd checked the weather for tide information, as it's supposed to be at its best at high tide.) Had I done so, I would have taken a different way out there; my usual route was severely backed up, and when I finally changed the radio to the commercial news station I learned it was because of a protest on the Golden Gate Bridge. Not that I needed to cross the Bridge, but I was going to take one of the last exits before it. While aggravated me about the situation was not the delay—I was in no particular rush, as I'd already missed high tide by a couple hours—but the fact that the news didn't say what the protest was about. Typical mainstream media, not wanting to legitimize dissent by giving it any more coverage than absolutely necessary. It wasn't until I got home and hunted around on sfgate that I found it was, not surprisingly, an anti-war demonstration, but without signs or bullhorns. Because, y'know, terrorists can strike at any moment, and lefties carrying peace signs are their primary weapons. Anyway, the Wave Organ was neat. I think. It was kinda hard to tell, really, since the wind was loud and drowned more ambient sounds. Also not helping was the gaggle of yuppies and their dogs, who finally left when one of them (the people, not the dogs) asked the burning question, "So where's the Starbucks?" Since it's looking like my current stint with the company ends on Tuesday—which is one day longer than I was originally told, so I can't complain—I guess I'll be going back out later this week to actually be there at high tide, and it goes without saying that Maddy must see it. The others will no doubt be at Starbucks.
Since it's a place visited by humans, there was plenty of litter. There was the usual assortment of cigarette butts, of course, plus at least one empty
cigarette pack, beer bottle caps, and the like. The developer of the Organ has said that he sees it as a sign that people go there to enjoy
it, which is what it's for. I wish I could have such a positive point of view.
Sleep now, before the sun comes up. I hope.
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Friday, 24 May 2002 (austin texas mental hospital, part 1) 8:54am And sometimes you forget to put the bong away until after the landlord has been in the apartment for a while. If he noticed it, and I doubt he did, he didn't seem to care. He came by last night to work on the electricity some more, presumably to put meters on the circuits. The power was off when I got home from work, though Maddy was already there, having come home early to get ready for her trip. The landlord had given her time to turn off the various power strips (a very good thing, as it turned out), though it seemed he might not have informed our neighbors; at one point he yelled "Fucking piece of shit!" and stomped downstairs to complain. When we later asked the landlord exactly what had happened, what was with all the yelling, his first reply was that they're getting married soon. (I haven't yet decided whether or not that's a non sequitur.) As it turns out, he'd been trying to work on the circuits without shutting off all the power—which is to say, only ours—and one point fiddled when he should have faddled, resulting in a partial power loss upstairs, hence the hissyfit. Whether or not the seemingly specific curse "Fucking piece of shit" was directed at the landlord remains uncertain, but we wouldn't put it past the guy. "Fucking hell," for example, would seem more appropriate, conveying a general sense of frustration at a situation. The other is what your father used to yell when he was trying to fix something. Unfortunately, in addition to whatever inconvenience our easily inconvenienced neighbor suffered, there was another problem: there was (presumably) a power surge, which killed our microwave and the overhead lights in the kitchen and living room. Or, more accurately, the switches to the lights, since I'm sure the bulbs are just fine. He stayed for an additional hour trying to fix the switches, to no avail, and will apparently be getting an electrician (the one was originally supposed to install the meters, perhaps) to come out and figure out what's wrong. Overall, it's not too great a tragedy, as we can live without those lights for the time being, preferring the xmas lights for the living room and and the light above stove for the kitchen, and we don't use the microwave very often. Naturally, Maddy had bought herself a frozen Amy's Organic Macaroni and Soy Cheese earlier in the day to have for dinner. That's how the universe works.
Not having been plugged in the
rice steamer was spared, and I use the rice steamer almost every night. On the other hand, the
rice steamer cost about a sixth as much as the microwave. Clearly feeling guilty about its destruction, the landlord offered to reimburse
us for a replacement, a generous offer which we accepted—there are landlords in town who probably would have said it was our fault
for not unplugging it in the first place. And really, in a more just world the neighbors would have to pay for it since it was their immaturity
that brought as all to this point in the first place. Part of me wants to keep the lights dead just to see if they'll continue to blame us for
the extravagant power bills.
She was in relatively good spirits, or at least not as bad as I was expecting. After months of looking forward to this trip and seeing her sister Ritt and nephew, her enthusiasm took a serious downward slide last week after what I'll diplomatically refer to as a "personality clash" with her brother-in-law B.D. on her LiveJournal. That ugliness has subsided, and she's been focusing on good things about the trip, and if something does go bad (and it won't), we're having dinner with Michelle and Rocco this Wednesday at Herbivore. That's definitely something to look foward to. Besides, I'm convinced that the moment Ritt sees Maddy's new haircut, all of the other nonsense will be forgotten for good. (It was what I was referring to in my cryptic entry about visiting Anodyne two weeks ago, but I didn't want to be more specific in case Ritt or B.D. were reading.) If nothing else, the whole sad incident reminded me why I've resisted the widespread LiveJournal migration: I like the lack of obvious interactivity of this page, that it doesn't invite people to comment on every entry. Granted, you can turn LiveJournal's comment feature off, but still, I have a fondness for the layout of this page, and the fact that for as much as I've tweaked the code—it underwent a serious overhaul a few months back which nobody noticed—the plain/basic/ugly layout has been pretty much unchanged, in spite of how '99 it is. I mean, 10-point Arial/Helvetica and no margins? Ewww! I'd been a professional webmonkey for a while before I even started this page, fer chrissakes, suggesting that I really should have known better. (For the record, I've been considering bumping up the font a point or two. It may happen soon.) I also don't care for the idea of it being on someone else's server; yes, I'm hosted by the eternally generous folks at sfgoth, but I also have the whole kit'n'kaboodle local in case the worst happens, such as the server going down like it did yesterday morning but not coming back up.
These days, people much smarter and hipper than I go the blog route, which in spite of being ultimately the same thing in
doesn't have the stigma of the online diary.
Maybe it's the girly connotation of the word which makes people
uncomfortable, although the typically interchangeable word "journal" doesn't fare much better. (See previous link.)
Considering the title of this page
is a direct reference to a book which was published in the form of a girl's diary, complete with lock and key, I have nowhere to hide. In any event, those who have blogs
rather than diaries seem to be okay. Maybe it's because it can be traced back to a phallic word, "log." (It's better than bad, it's good!) The
Star Trek connection probably doesn't hurt, either.
At the airport this morning I was especially conscious of them for some reason. It was standard issue stuff, not to leave your bags unattended or take candy from strangers. It seems to me they've gotten a lot more frequent since The Great Overshadowing, but I could be wrong; on the other hand, airports are probably the only part of life which really has changed now that Everything Has Changed and we've Lost Our Innocence and...hey, what's that? The Gary Condit story in the news? Tabloid fodder treated as serious news and lapped up like so much vomit by the public? Woohoo! We're back to normal again! Take that, Osama! Or Saddam, or Khadafy (remember him? wasn't he a swell boogeyman?), or whoever Bush deems the current threat to civilization itself.
Anyway, it struck me: I was at San Francisco International Airport, and all the annoucements were in English. I think I'll leave it at that.
Turns out that the wiring wasn't fried after all—there had been a power surge, but it had simply burned out the light bulbs, a thought which we'd dismissed last night as being too obvious. Who knew? He also theorized that the microwave might have a fuse which had been similarly blown, and offered to take it home with him to see if he couldn't repair it. It sounds a lot better than buying a new one, reimbursed or no. He also showed me the new meter, which thanks to some (I assume) clever wiring shows only our energy usage. The old meter still exists but only shows theirs. Comparing the numbers shows we've used ten kilowatt hours since yesterday, whereas they've used thirty—and the landlords, who have two kids and live in a house comparable to this building without tenants downstairs, also average about ten per day. A 3-to-1 ratio, yet the neighbors accuse of us being the wasteful ones. (Well, they probably don't use the word "wasteful." That's the kind of hippie talk you get from people who actually seperate out the compostables, which they refuse to do. They even dumped a bunch of newspapers and bottles into the composting can, but Maddy's convinced that it was an honest accident on the woman's part and not the aggressive carelessness of the man. She's sometimes far more generous than I.) Maybe with a little effort we can make it a 4-to-1 ratio—I occasionally leave on stereo equipment that isn't being used, little things like that. This is, after all, war.
I don't know if I'll be getting sushi now, though.
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Wednesday, 22 May 2002 (requiem for dying mothers, part 2) 12:46pm So here I am again. The guard at the front desk was very liberal in her use of the male pronoun when she called Lew to tell him I'd arrived. Rather than let it go, which I do entirely too often, I showed her the F on my ID. She said it had been because she couldn't make out my first name as I'd written it on her clipboard. Uh-huh.
The Marketing Weasel is just as loud as before.
As were watching a clip of Mina chewing on lettuce (whenever we bring in groceries she inspects the bags, and if there's lettuce she tears into it), the Coordinator told me about his cat's fondness for plants. That's one of the neat things about doing this show: other cat owners always have anecdotes of their own. We got home at 10pm, in perfect time to watch through teary eyes the just-finished season finale of Buffy The Vampire Slayer on tape. Of course, even if we'd been home at the time we still would have waited until it was over then watched the tape so we could skip the commercials, because we're thieves. (And I quote Jamie Kellner, the Chairman/CEO of Turner Broadcasting: "Your contract with the network when you get the show is you're going to watch the spots. Otherwise you couldn't get the show on an ad-supported basis. Any time you skip a commercial or watch the button you're actually stealing the programming." Breakin' the Law! Breakin' the Law!) I used to be a snob about these things—it simply had to be broadcast quality—but no longer, not since the average commercial break is four minutes and most of them are horribly insulting, even with the volume muted. Radio commercials are worse, though I haven't quite figured out why. They just are. In any event, it's akin to why I can seldom bring myself to go to multiplexes anymore. It may look nice projected and the sound is great, but the rest of the experience is too grating. Not to mention most of what's playing at them doesn't interest me. On that note (sorta), we watched Vincent Gallo's darkly brilliant Buffalo '66 on video this weekend. As is so often the case, I'd seen it already, and simply had to share it with Maddy. Thankfully, she usually likes the odd movies I bring home and/or drag her to. (Please excuse the errant preposition.) The thing is, it's another of those movies which I saw in the theater by myself in the late nineties. I went a lot by myself, and I don't remember the circumstances in most cases, if The Ex was unable to join me or just uninterested. Sometimes I'd go a second time because I really thought she'd like it (as was the case with L.A. Confidential, or Escape from L.A., though in the case of the latter seeing it on acid in double feature with The Rock helped—and, no, I don't think them being L.A. movies had anything to do with it), but more often than not she just wouldn't see it. That simply wouldn't feel right these days.
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Tuesday, 21 May 2002 (requiem for dying mothers, part 1) 10:14am So a U.S. soldier gets killed in Afghanistan, and it's all over the news. Now, I'm no military historian, but isn't that what's supposed to happen in battle? Am I missing something here? If this really is going to be a long, tough war like Bush has promised, putting each individual death on the front page is going to get a little impractical. But, gosh, don't it make you feel patriotic? 12:28pm If I had to guess, I'd say that about 95% of the population don't know how to use the apostrophe. I personally wouldn't go so far as to say they're idiots (though Bob may be right), but it is quite sad.
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