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A Woman's View. That's what they call it, so it must be true. A decline in erection quality is normal over time. Just as women begin to enter their sexual peak, often we men find our performance ability and erection quality falling behind. Unfortunately, the women in our lives don’t always understand that. They may think it’s due to a lack of attraction or, worse, they may want to “talk about it.” And we all know, all the talk in the world can’t bring back firmer erections.Yeah. Dumb stupid women, always wanting to talk. Thank god (a dude, y'know) for nutraceuticals.
9:57pm The two Access SF content policies I broke in their open mic tonight:
— No illegal speech (obscenity, slander, defamation, etc.) There were a few other guidelines I didn't follow—I didn't look directly at the lens of the camera, nor did I state my name and what I planned to discuss—but those were the biggies. Lessee. The story was about the use of illegal drugs, and not only was the word "fuck" was on my shirt, and it was also in the piece I read. I'd made the conscious decision to wear that tank top knowing what it said, and was confident that the word would illegible to the camera, but I'd forgotten it was in the story until I said it. I've read the story so many times, I'm pretty much on autopilot, even though I still need to have it in front of me. (One of these days I will be off book.) Although I cringed inwardly I didn't break pace. The building didn't catch on fire, either, and Lord knows a lot of people do and say a lot worse things on that station. Besides, as I understand the FCC's current views on the word, it doesn't qualify as obscene since in either case is it referrng to people having sex. At least, I don't think "fuck yr heroes, i'm saving myself" is a sexual reference. Then again, it could be. I'm astonishingly obtuse sometimes. As for children in the audience (yeah, right), the story was about drugs. I can only hope some little tyke out there now wants to try LSD. Then, and only then, will I know I've done good. Anyway, it was fun. There were about a half dozen people in the studio, including Maddy and the two camera operators, and I knew it was being broadcast, but I still played it like there was an actual audience. It's the only way I know how, really. I'll almost certainly be back for the next one, on June 3. One of the other performers said he was taping it, so I may even get to see it someday. Imagine that. If I do, it'll be interesting to compare it to the video of me doing the same piece from my birthday reading or the Sacrifice show from last year, if only to see how much more of a spazmoid I've become. One of the employees asked about the chapbook I was reading from, and said that she'd really been struck by a part of the story...but she couldn't remember exactly what. That seems to happen a lot; it's like certain things strike so hard, they disintegrate on impact. Every so often at Rainbow I see the girl who was at Wicked Messenger 4.11, the one told me I'd said something that resonated with her which subsequently slipped her mind, and I'm always tempted to ask if she ever remembered exactly what I'd said. But, no. I don't want to give her the impression that I'm that self-absorbed. The truth hurts, y'know?
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I think I was depressed yesterday afternoon. What's more, I was listening to Sarah McLachlan, so it was evidently that sensitive sort of depression. Performing usually makes me feel better, and aside from supplying backup for Maddy at the Morbid Curiosity reading (which was a lot of fun), I haven't really done anything since K'vetch. So, I'm going to read in the open mic at Smack Dab tonight—Lori's featuring, which should be fun—as well as tomorrow on Access SF's open mic. This is one of those rare times that I wish we still had cable, or at least knew someone who had both cable and a VCR, because I'd love to get a copy of the show. Alas. (Half past five, cable channel 29 in San Francisco.) (For what it's worth.)
11:39pm Smack Dab went well. Once again, I was tempted to read something surefire (as surefire as anything can be), but no. Features are the time for the A-list material. Open mics are for experimentation, for practice, for figuring out what the A-list material is. That's why I need to go to more of them. It turns out one of my coworkers is a childhood friend of Kirk Read. In fact, his mother is the "Color Me Beautiful" woman from Kirk's book How I Learned to Snap. Is it just me, or is it getting kinda cramped in this universe? He actually missed my reading (I went first, and he was a few minutes late), but before he realized that, he assured me that whatever he heard would not leave the room. Very sweet of him, but unnecessary. What I read in public becomes public knowledge, by definition. Besides, wanna know a secret about "sharing things with the world?" The world doesn't care.
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The tightness of my jeans this morning inspired me to weigh myself for the first time in a few months. Still 170-ish. Evidently I haven't put on as much recently as I thought. (It's also possible that they're feeling tight because they got washed this weekend, but...nah.) All the same, I've decided to go off the Shakti Tomato Basil Spread. And, soon, somehow, exercise. Again. Not that the numbers matter or anything. There's a show in San Diego on July 23 called The Science of Blowing Up, and for a while it was looking like they might be adding a second show on the 24th. Unfortunately, those plans fell through. It's even more of a bummer considering the first night will feature Michelle Tea, Bucky Sinister and Anna Joy Springer. Talk about it keeping it in the family. I'm waiting to hear back from some other venues and shows in Southern California. Some, I even picked up the phone and called. Hey, for me, that's a big deal. Sometimes I still feel like a teenager trying to work up the courage to call my latest crush.
9:48pm I dug out my tape (from the letterboxed laserdisc, being a snob) of Beyond the Valley of the Dolls tonight, since there was some talk recently about me possibly acting in a stage version. My initial excitement about the idea—based on my assumption that what was vaguely described as a "lead role" would be one of the girls in the band—died an ignominious death when I learned they'd actually pictured me as Ronnie "Z-Man" Barzell. Which is just...no. I mean, yay for it being incredibly queer character with lots of great dialogue and potential stage time, but, really, no. Even beyond the fact that the character is (for all intents and purposes) male, if you haven't seen the movie, I can't precisely explain my objection. It's one of those movies where nothing can be explained, really. It just needs to be seen. The character of Roxanne was also suggested. An Evil Lesbian played by Erica Gavin? That, I can do. By the way—yes, I know Roger Ebert wrote the movie. More importantly, so does he. His openness and lack of embarrassment about it is one of the reasons I respect him so much.
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My first full week in the new position went well, I think. Feels like I'm in a different company, in a lot of ways. The contact with My Boss had been minimal; there's no doubt in my mind now that He's making a point of not speaking to me. Which is fine, perfect, terrific, can't ask for more than that. And, though I know that He would object to it, my Supervisor seems okay with IM and email. Probably because I'm still being productive; having a conversation or two while getting actual work done is a skill of mine which goes back a long way. And, for better or worse, it's necessary for me to think straight. God, how soft and coddled am I? Can't go eight hours a day without being able to alt-tab to my ssh window every few minutes to see if I'm loved (listserv mail doesn't count) or chat with Maddy or (e). Y'know, when I finally end up working at Walgreen's—right about the time my smack habit begins—I'm pretty sure that won't be an option at all. Have I mentioned that I'm coddled? Although it isn't the only work I'll be doing, the actual mechanics of the job itself are not uninteresting to me, provided I'm able to disconnect myself from the net result: men around the world purchasing a pharmaceutical drug which will help them overcome (huh huh) the heartbreak of erectile dysfunction. I find it isn't so bad if I rationalize it as an extremely removed version of sex work. Besides, this is going to send us to New Orleans for xmas, Lynnee and I to LA this summer, pay off my debts, etc. Plus there's being able to wear headphones, getting back in the City by four, the aforementioned lack of Boss contact, the e'er-important lack of anything resembling a dress code and so on. Life is a moral compromise. Besides, men are going to seek out stiffy pills whether I'm involved or not, so I might as well try to make a little money from it. I also seem to be mutating into the resident writer. We were discussing a new project earlier this week, and part of it will involve a degree of writing. My Supervisor turned to me. "That'll be your department, of course." I can live with that. Beats crunching numbers. Thursday night found us at The Dark Room. Maddy's story about Danielle Willis drinking her blood has been published in the latest issue of Morbid Curiosity, and she wanted to put bloody fingerprints in few copies to give to friends; she'd already gotten some requests, in fact. (It's not like she was just going to give them to people without any warning, although that would be kinda cool too.) Ty does this and many other sorts of things for a living, and she really enjoys it, so she was more than happy to oblige. Unfortunately, the barrel was too big, and the suction almost immediately collapsed the vein and stopped the flow. Enough blood was eventually drawn to make good fingerprints in the half-dozen or so copies, but nowhere close to enough for a decent mouthful like last time. I settled for licking it off Maddy's fingers, which ain't a bad way either. Ty very much wants to do it again, with a more properly-sized syringe. Says that it's a lot of fun when it's clotting. Okay. The reading itself on Saturday afternoon went well. It was Maddy's first time featuring, so she was plenty nervous. I was nervous as well, but not so much for her as for myself: the story uses an excerpt from my diary (about Danielle and Violet biting my arms), and she invited me to read it aloud. I stood off to the side, and when she got to that part, pointed at me. My heart hasn't beat so loud in my chest before a reading for well over a year; my hands were actually shaking. And it was just a paragraph, a minute at the most. My best guess is that I was worried about bombing and bringing Maddy down. There was no problem, of course, and the audience responded well. Maybe it was the audience that was weirding me out; I'm seldom around People In Black anymore these days, let alone performing. It's nice to know I can still fit in, even though when we dropped Darren off at Death Guild a couple weeks back, it all looked so alien to me. I don't think my own aesthetics have changed all that much, really, even if I don't wear quite as much velvet as I once did. And yet I get called a goth superhero. Go figure. Which may be why the next project in development at The Dark Room is so intriguing: Zippy the Pinhead, based on Bill Griffith's comic strip. He's even given his permission, which is a first for any play I've been involved with. The closest was Twilight Zone, for which CBS officially looked the other way. Anyhow, I've been offered a role which can be best described as "against type." It's arguable whether or not my parts in Night or Guide were of a type, but this one's a pretty big stretch. (No, not Zerbina.) Still haven't decided for sure yet, especially since it'll run during June and July, and I'm going to be busy enough in the next few months. Doesn't mean I won't do it, though.
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Alive. No, really. I'm beginning to think there's something to that (alleged) Tallulah Bankhead quote. Except I haven't really been all that bad lately. Not as bad as I'd like, anyway. Mostly I've been busy at work, or running around afterwards. I mean, I did one thing after work this week that might be considered kinda bad (and the new position itself is requiring a slight readjustment of my personal ethics), but that's about it. I'm trying, though, I honestly am. It can be difficult for me.
1:07pm We did find time this week to do some redecorating. Clockwise from the top left: the original concept sketches for How Loathsome #4; outtakes from the photo shoot; the drawing produced from the photo; and the final product. Because it's absolutely necessary to have these things on the living room wall, you understand.
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Lynnee and I now have a second show in Los Angeles: July 21, Two Idiots Peddling Poetry at The Ugly Mug in Orange. Orange County, to be precise. Which means it isn't Los Angeles at all, right? Orange County isn't technically part of Los Angeles, is it? I have no idea. Southern California's all one big blob to me. I'm working on it, though.
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