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Thursday, 20 May 1999 (nametags) 7:51am We move tomorrow night. Or, rather, we'll be moved. Everything has to be packed up by 5:30pm, at which point the movers will swoop down and take it from there. On Monday morning we pick up the pieces, which I guess means I'm not working this weekend. My curiousity overcame me yesterday and I asked to see the layout of the new office, or at least the seating chart. (I really hate that term.) Could be worse; I'm sufficiently, and intentionally, away from the windows. The Fidget Queen is far enough away to where I shouldn't have to see him on anything resembling a regular basis. On my left will be Elizabeth, an extremely sweet girl who's always been very tolerant of the volume at which I play my music. (Also a faghag of the highest order, based on her relationship with the Fidget Queen; I can only hope she'll spend more time at his desk than vice versa.) On my right will be the printer, though I'm assured the partition will be high enough that I won't have people constantly hovering over me. The very best part, the thing that makes me think this all won't be quite so bad? I'll be right across from the CDR burner which I didn't even realize we had. A scanner, too, but the burner's a much bigger deal. I asked flat-out if I'd be able to use it for personal stuff, and I was told yes, sure, feel free. Yeah! Hell yeah! Having access to a CDR burner genuinely excites me. I'm an MP3 junkie who's constantly running out of hard drive space, plus it opens up a whole new world of trading possibilites. Between alt.binaries.sounds.mp3 and Underneath The Bunker, I'll be kept busy for a while...oh, the havoc I can wreak...
And no matter what, the move's going to happen, so I might as well get used to the idea.
You may not want to, but that's hardly the point. It's not about what you want, it's about what's actually happening. Certain things are worth keeping alive, worth fighting to keep alive, worth dying so they may live. Such things do exist, though I believe they are few and far between. Most are fated to a specific, brief lifespan. They begin to exist, burn brightly, then exist no more. Occasionally you'll find something else taking its place. Not emerging from the ashes like a phoenix or becoming visible when the smoke clears, but rather simply...there. Just so happens. A coincidence at best, a lucky break. Not often, certainly not often. And rare enough to appreciate.
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Wednesday, 19 May 1999 (denials) 9:05am I was at Roderick's when the The Phantom Menace premiered. It's hard to say why that detail strikes me, but it does. Before Roderick's I went to Trannyshack. Neither place quite clicked for me, and I was home by 1:30am. I lasted all of 45 minutes at Trannyshack before I was reminded why I stopped going in the first place: it doesn't offer me much of anything. The music generally sucks (although to their credit they played Bowie's "Station to Station" and The Clash's "Spanish Bombs," both of which are unusual), and the reputation for "attitude" which Roderick's and most goth clubs are saddled with pales in comparison to the clientele at The Stud, the gay bar at which Trannyshack is held. The scrutiny is perceptible and merciless. I wasn't there very long, but it doesn't take long to get hit on. In this case the alcohol on the gentleman's breath was his most dominant feature. I don't care for balding stubbly middle-aged guys, so his inebriation can't be described as "turn-off" since that implies something might have been turned on to begin with. I was very polite, of course, as was he in his own way, although his mood turned quickly when I declined an offer to go to The Power Exchange with him. Probably he thought I was being a tease, since I'd brought it up to begin with. Well, jeez, he was making it very clear that he was desperate to get laid, and there was no chance in hell of that happening with me, so I suggested where he could go to almost certainly get lucky. He blithely described his sexual fantasies, which apparently involve thigh-high boots among other things, and wanted to know why I wasn't wearing those kinds of clothes. It was hard not to laugh at the absurdity of the question: essentially, how dare I not already be dressed according to his fetishes? What the hell was wrong with me? So I made it to Roderick's by midnight. Alone, of course. (I can't help but suspect my clubbing days with Sara are drawing to a close, as her personal life starts to move in another direction.) I was much more at home there than at Trannyshack, but still, it didn't quite click. Perhaps it was being by myself, or maybe I'm just swinging into full mopey mode. In fact, that much is pretty well certain. So I conducted my first experiment with nail polish last night. Wet 'n' Wild black, or whatever they might call it; the company's so damn cheap they don't bother giving their colors names. Can't help but respect that. It's an uneven job, single coat, and no protectant or anything. I'm sure I'll learn about proper technique as I go along. I always do. Painted nails certainly changes things, though, particularly when you spend as much time typing as I do. It's new information in your field of vision, and it changes how you regard the motion of your fingers. I don't know how else to describe it than that, though it's not dissimilar to the subtle yet profound alteration in my appearance when I started wearing eyeliner, and how I perceive my image in the mirror. God is in the details. No comment from The Ex, though, when she came by with the car. No longer will she be complimenting me on my appearance or wanting to be my photographer or otherwise indulging herself along with me. None of those things are likely to happen again if I have to blatantly prompt her to comment on the fact that my nails are painted, and this from someone who use to chide me for being so reluctant to accessorize. She finally admitted that yes, she'd noticed them, but that she didn't think they were worth comment. "For your first time, they're not a total disaster," was ultimately the best she could come up with. I apologized for twisting her arm, and left. Maybe that night last week, when I unabashedly bawled my eyes out (how about blatantly stealing lyrics?), was it. IT it. She'd said before that she wanted to continue to take my picture, and, indeed, at first she was upset that they were being used without her getting credit; no more, it would seem. The distance grows.
I haven't cried since that night, however. Perhaps I really did get most of it out of system.
So I did just now. Ironically, it was the same honcho who'd arranged for me meet with that weasel of a lawyer earlier this week, though hopefully we won't have to talk about that.
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Tuesday, 18 May 1999 (leaders) 9:10am The interview with the headhunter went well, at least in the respect that she told what I expected to hear: that it'd be in my best interest to stay put. The fact that I'm at a company which is not only tolerant, but actually supportive isn't something I should take too lightly, and I don't. Yeah, the money could be better, but I'm doing all right. My life has enough instability right now as it is; I shouldn't fuck too much with the things I can nominally rely on. So why the hell do I feel so disassoicated right now? What is it? What, specific to this moment in time, is missing? I'm still unsettled from having to talk to that weaselly little lawyer yesterday. Summer hasn't yet had the pleasure, and I hope she has better luck than I. Roderick's tonight, or not. The eternal decision.
help me when i fall to walk unafraid
Besides, I do have a practical reason of sorts; in my travels this weekend, I picked up some uber-cheap lipstick not entirely dissimilar in color to Tania's, albeit much less fancy. Much much much less fancy, and only a dollar a tube, which can't help but appeal to the wannabe gutter-punk goth in me. Thank you providence for Wet 'n' Wild, that's all I'm saying. That, and a couple equally expensive bottles of black nail polish. That represents a significant step forward for me. Accessorization has never been much of a priority; I realize it's important, but I take these things very instinctually. Everything has its time, the moment when it must be reckoned with. Right now, this is the time for nail polish. I bought it this weekend, though I've held off until now with the knowledge of what the beginning of this week held in store for me. Not even so much for the interrogation yesterday (about which I'm still agitated) but the job interview this morning. Kinda chickenshit of me, I know. Speaking of such things, Summer stopped me in the hallway a few minutes ago, pulled me aside, and whispered in an overly dramatic hushed tone that I really need to get a bra. Long since overdue, admittedly. Something else for which the time has come but which is more out of my reach is a corset. Almost bought one this weekend, in fact, at Romantasy. Being the obedient San Francisco goth I am I'd naturally prefer to get one at Dark Garden, but they're way too expensive for me to seriously consider right now. Even Romantasy's most basic model was still out of my anemic price range. Not a corset, technically, but a waist-cincher. Which is more appropriate, really, because I'm not looking into it for fetishy reasons (mine or anyone else's) but practical ones. My figure needs help. It's not bad, all things considered. Could be, and indeed has been, much worse than it is now. And, as Summer's observation suggests, my body is coming along. But the shape in the midsection isn't quite what it should be, or at least what I want it to be. Hourglass? No, that's not what I'm looking for. Retaining some semblance of naturalness ("semblance of naturalness?") is extremely important. Fact: my shoulders are broad and there isn't a single fookin' thing I can do to change that, ever. Ergo, an unnaturally cinched waist will look, well, unnatural, and unattractive. Based on my sense of aesthetics, at least, and what's the point of going by anyone else's? Besides, I've seen Maggie tightly corseted, and her wingspan is similar to mine. To me, it simply doesn't work. She no doubt thinks it's the cat's pajamas, and more power to her, but that's not for me. And...besides...well...getting back to the goddamn gym on a regular basis would work miracles. I keep on saying I'm going to, and it never quite happens, does it? I haven't gained any weight, but my stomach isn't any flatter, either. The gym fees keep on deducting automatically from my bank account whether I'm going or not. So I'd best get going...
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Monday, 17 May 1999 (cultures) 6:52am As Sundays go, this was one of my better ones. Not being home for most of the day helped. After I left work, I went to my least favorite place in the world: the mall. Malls are evil places. Capitalism is proof of Satan's existence, and malls and supermarkets are where hell bubbles straight to the surface.
But I needed some new blouses from Mervyn's, and I wanted to go to Macy's to track down
the lipstick which Tania had shown me on Friday night, Diorific Plastic Shine. In Alluring Black, of course. Didn't
actually get the lipstick in question, though I did get the Clinique eye-makeup remover which The Ex had
used. Eyeliner can be extremely I also got a reminder of whose society I'm living in—not mine, at any rate. The stare factor at Macy's was extremely high, particularly from the numerous preteen children running around, though more than a few of the adult males were looking at me oddly. Makes perfect sense, as there is no more dissatisfied and unsettled a creature than an American male forced to wait at the makeup counter in a department store. Everybody knows they're accompanying a woman, and they know everybody knows, yet they still cannot help but feel their masculinity is being questioned. At least in the lingerie department there's a certain visceral thrill; makeup, however, is far too mysterious to offer that solace. They are where they simply do not belong, and want to leave, but usually can't. So when they see a fag, it sends their discomfort into the danger zone. That queer is obviously shopping by and for himself (he's wearing makeup, and look at his hair!), and I don't look a fuckin' thing like him, but what if people think I'm gay too? Staring and/or not entirely hidden laughter is the most common pressure release. When appropriate, I return the stare. (As I did on Friday during lunch on Pier 39 with Summer and her boifriend. Two sets of tourists, both German, who couldn't take their eyes off me. Germans, of all people.) There is obviously a danger, particularly because I can get kinda ornery, as I did with the kids yesterday. Queerbashing does still happen, and I'm not a fighter. (Whether I'm a lover is still open for debate.)
It's their culture, not mine, and in the long run I wish I didn't have to have anything to do with it.
Hopefully someday I won't have to anymore. That day's a long way off, though.
That was horrible, just plain horrible. Had to be grilled by an "independent counsel." I don't know exactly what qualifies as a hostile witness, but I think I was it. I loathed the little man and his little beady eyes and his little fucking questions and his innuendo and inferences and his attempts to lead and twist me around. Eventually I wised up and did what I should have done to begin with, just refuse to answer any questions on principle. Plead the Fifth. Fuck you. My hands were starting to shake towards the end as the anger and resentment at this intrusion began to spill over. Prick. Great Neptune's Ocean, a sonic shower and a really really big Brillo pad combined couldn't get this scum off my skin. Just gotta relax now. Calm down. It's over. As far as I'm concerned, it's fuckin' over and that's all there is to it. And I'm interviewing tomorrow. Who the hell knows. On the one hand, I don't want to leave here. I like it here, I really do, it's like a home now. On the other hand, I've had to leave my home before. However I may talk about it now, I was happy in Fresno just before I left. But the little culture my friends and I had developed for ourselves was being destroyed by outside forces, and now it's gone forever anyway. It would have been gone whether I stuck around or not. The same thing holds true here, I think. We'll be in a new office next week and it won't be the same. Not damn likely to be better, either. Odds are I'll just rough it out and make do and assimilate into my new surroundings as I have a thousand times before. Or maybe I'll find someplace else to go, start over once again. Not doing a very good job of relaxing. Never ever talk to a lawyer without having your own right there with you. PERIOD.
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Sunday, 16 May 1999 (defenses) 6:41am Okay, so last night didn't go quite how I'd hoped. Sara said she might be coming over, and if she didn't, I was strongly considering going to So What!, which while far from my favorite club was feeling strangely compelling. Maybe it was because I'd enjoyed myself so much at Shrine the night before (met some really nice people, and actually spent more time in the bar than on the dance floor), I was hoping the vibe would continue. Neither happened. When I'd spoken to her earlier in the afternoon, Sara said she'd call later when she knew for sure what she'd be doing. That call never came, and I wound up sleeping for most of the evening, only waking up long enough to remove my makeup (have you ever felt so used up as this?), hop online (duh) and go to bed properly. And that's okay, because I really really needed the sleep. I was drifting in a bad way on the drive home from Shrine on Friday and then only slept for three hours. Well, MST3K was on at 8am and I had a full day of shopping ahead of me, whaddaya expect? So the rest did my body good. Particularly considering the week laying in wait for me, which is probably going to raise my stress to levels and to new and previously unsuspected heights. Hell, where to start? In about three hours the cleaning lady is supposed to arrive. I know how that sounds, and I don't like the sound of it, either. This is someone our landlords foisted upon us when they discovered how unkempt the apartment was, and we've been having to deal with her for the last year or so. (Not to point fingers, but much of the problem involved The Ex's utter inability to clean up after herself combined with her tendency to cook food on the stove and make a mess at it, all of which contributed to the local critter population. The truly bizarre aspect is her pathological fear of such critters, which you'd think would inspire her to be conscientious of keeping them away. You'd think.) So I'm going to have to clear everything out of the bathroom and kitchen so she can clean. The woman's utterly insane, which doesn't help much. Her attention span is roughly that of a gnat approaching old age, which is why every time we tell her to stay out the bedroom and she goes in every time anyway, usually telling us the next time ("Uh, yes, and, uh, yes, you see, uh, I'll do the kitchen and the bathroom, yes, and, yes, uh, you see, and I'll vacuum the bedroom again, yes, yes, and, uh, I'll, uh..."). Obviously, the upshot should be that I have an excuse to get out of here, and I was planning on going to work anyway. Problem: directly between my home and my job, which are on almost precisely opposite ends of San Francisco, lies The Bay to Breakers Race. I have the car, and if I left at this moment (7am) I could get there with minimal delay. But no, I have to wait until 10am for the insane person to get here, by which time the run will be in full swing. Driving across the city at that point won't be an option, so I'll have to take the muni, which is at least underground half the time, so that'll sort of help. That's today. Tomorrow, the fallout from from Fun Day which I'd previously didn't think existed at all will cover me in a thick, chunky blanket. An HR honcho (not the one the big boss was concered about originally, though) called me Friday morning and requested my presence in her office on Monday afternoon with "an outside lawyer" to discuss the events of that day. I suppose someone complained, though I have no idea who and don't really care. Summer, myself and one of the person are the only people they're talking to. Needless to say, I don't want to have a fookin' thing to do with any of it, but I obviously can't say no. Summer's theory is it's a witch hunt for the big boss, as a lot of people would like to see him go. She may have a point, and in truth I have no desire whatsoever to incriminate him. To make matters more complicated, the honcho in question is someone whom I've been meaning to talk to for a while now at Trevor's suggestion, regarding my coming out and transitioning and whatever else. As I say, I've been meaning to but haven't yet. What can I say? I never think about it at the right time, and I haven't had any problems, so it keeps slipping my mind. Whether or not she knows exactly who I am I can't say, and Trevor assures me he hasn't actually mentioned my name to her. The whole thing puts an awful taste in my mouth. I don't like the idea of being a catalyst for the big boss losing his job, I really don't. This is going to suck hard. That's Monday. Tuesday morning I interview with the headhunter. At the moment I'm somewhat ambivalent, but who knows, after Monday afternoon I may be absolutely thrilled at the prospect of a new job. Heck, maybe it can work out to everyone's advantage (particularly if it's better-paying). Suppose, unlikely as it is, the investigation on Monday does actually have a lot to do with me and the fact that my outing occured under less the optimal circumstances. The company is desperate to keep their progressive image, which is why the queer population is so large and visible, and the trannies are slowly growing in numbers. (I'm actually only one of three, and the only m2f.) But if me just quietly leaving the company will prevent the big boss from being crucified over this, and I still don't personally believe anything truly bad happened, then I will... assuming I have a better-paying job to go to. Can't stress the importance of that enough. If I'm going to be a salary whore, I'm going to do it right. Everything I've described is before noon on Tuesday. Then, on Friday, we get moved into another building altogether. A standard-issue office with no circulation and overhead flourescent lights and horrible acoustics and of course big huge windows sans blinds, and the windows don't open guaranteeing a lovely greenhouse effect, like it won't be warm enough as it is with all the computers. Aaargh. Did I say aaargh yet?
Oh well. As Summer always says, chin up, hands on hips, shoulders back, tits out...
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Saturday, 15 May 1999 (futures) 10:38pm Another Saturday night spent asleep in my clothes next to the phone.
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Friday, 14 May 1999 (bodies) 3:12pm I made it all the way through the movie (Year of the Horse, which I've seen a few times already and dearly love) without incident. Not touching her at all was difficult. Yet I managed. The Ex is housesitting in the city and invited me to spend the night there, since A) it's fairly close to where I work and B) there's a cat requiring attention which doesn't seem to care for her very much. There was no way I was going to turn down an offer quite that strange. It was nearly 2am by the time we got to bed, and I got in before she did because she had to call her boifriend to say goodnight. (Yes, we slept in the same bed.) That gave my brain all the time it needed, and by the time The Ex entered the room I was crying uncontrollably. She seemed surprised by the ferocity, and so was I. It wasn't intentional, though I suppose it wasn't really too unexpected, either. What's not to expect? Damn near every time I get off the phone with her or otherwise part company I either start to cry or actually do, so it rather figures that after being in such close proximity I would simply not be able to help myself. She did something I never expected to happen again: she held me. On that awful trip back from Fresno she said she couldn't be emotionally responsible for me anymore, and this was exactly the sort of thing she was referring to. I can only assume she decided that it would have been cruel to allow me to suffer by myself. Certainly I'd been doing enough of that lately. We talked a lot, and said a lot of things that needed to be said. I did most of the talking, I suppose, though it was slow in coming: almost every statement felt like it would generate another onslaught of tears before it was completed. Particularly a certain apology, for how impatient I use to get at her emotional outbursts. Which, in retrospect, were seldom as intense as mine are now. That was probably the hardest one to get out, because the shame I felt was nearly overwhelming. I used to be so certain that I could handle whatever emotional effects the hormones might have on me, keep them under check. Ha. Talk about a positively male attitude, which makes it all the more embarrassing.
As usual, my sinuses were stone-thick and it felt like a racquetball was bouncing
around inside my skull. When I finally awoke after surely no more than three hours
of sleep, my bottom-right teeth were aching horribly. That was certainly a new one.
If this keeps up, I'll be bleeding out of my ears eventually.
Going to Shrine tonight, though at this precise moment I don't really feel up to it. Hard to wonder if I'm not stressing myself into sickness. It's happened before.
According to Summer, a writer that was recently interviewed in Errata (did I mention the new issue with my column is live?) will more than likely be there,
doing research for a novel.
So, naturally, I'm going to track him down. What the hell, I'm already a degree of separation
from Neil Gaiman (note the bottom, my first credit) and Caitlin R. Kiernan, and considering that I'm getting more and more
serious about returning
to writing as a career goal, networking isn't a bad thing. Get my mind off other things.
I'm not really alone.
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Thursday, 13 May 1999 (endgame) 1:40pm So Summer walks up to me, glowing, and hands me a business card for a headhunter she just interviewed with. She says they're looking for people in my line of work, at a starting salary which is considerably more than I'm making, and to call NOW. So I did, and I have an interview this Tuesday morning.
I didn't think I was looking for a new job, but who knows, maybe one is
looking for me. Guess I'll find out. Seriously, though. I've never trusted the stuff. Not entirely certain why, except that I guess I thought it would do irreparable damage to my hair. Which is possible if you use enough, not something I'm likely to do. It might have been seeing all the grrls at Roderick's the night before with hair very similar to mine (the Betty Page thing is far from original), except down, and nary a strand out of place. I don't dare wear it down when I'm out, because it gets all over the place given the slightest provocation. So I'm experimenting with it, learning just how the stuff works and how to tame it. An important step, if in a very sad way. I've also rediscovered barrettes, which I haven't worn in a couple years. Accessorization is not one of my strong skills; it's not a skill of mine at all, actually. I have no jewelery to speak of except for a bracelet I wear now and then. I also tend to keep a black rubber band, the kind for ponytails, wrapped around one of my fingers. Primarily it gives me something to fiddle with, though in its own way it's reached accessory status. Besides, you never know when you'll need one. Anyway, I like the way they look, and when you're accepted wearing pigtails, barrettes aren't much of a stretch. I admit, I was also inspired by a book I've been reading, alt.culture. The book is sadly out of print, but the website is very much alive, thank you very much. The entries on infantilization and of course barrettes themselves particularly struck a chord in me. Hard to say why, although in a lot of very important ways this period is like a second adolescence for me, a chance to live a youth which I didn't get the first time around. I don't mean just as a grrl, either; I was always in an awful fookin' hurry to grow the hell up, resulting in endless comments about how mature I was for my age, etc. Even as a very small child I realized that children were condescended to, and I hated it. Children's menus? Sid & Marty Krofft TV shows? Blow me. While not infantilization in quite the sense the book describes, these days I look in the mirror—barretted or otherwise—and see an image which looks and feels much younger than it did a few years back. (The few Dylan fans who might be reading this, you can imagine how hard it is not to make a reference to that song. You know the one I mean.) And I like the idea of seeing how far I can take that. I don't particularly want to look like a child, but barrettes and pigtails and whatnot are common enough amongst teenage grrls, and I like how they look on me. It's as close as I'm ever going to get to living that life, and I'm never going to be younger in any other way. So there it is.
Still won't touch glitter, though.
This will be a test of something, though I'm not sure what. My resolve. The future of our friendship, perhaps.
I don't think she's bringing him along, and I've been afraid to ask. Such questions get interpreted as hostility, I've
discovered. She deconstructs most everything I say for negative intent. After a while you learn not to say much of
anything at all.
The more I think about, the more intrigued I am by the prospect of the interview on Tuesday. It's all very spur-of-the-moment; I've been perfectly happy with the thought of staying at this job for a number of years, and may still. But who knows, I may get a better offer. If so, I'm damn well gonna take it. I'm going to be upfront, though. No boi mode, at least no more so than if I was going to work normally. I'll come out to the recruiter at whatever point in the interview in which it seems most appropriate, but it's not going to be a secret. Better to get it out of the way as soon as possible. The Bay Area compuer industry being what it is, there's no reason to expect any problem. No amount of money will convince me to be closeted, though. If offered a $100K job which would require me to wear a suit and tie (which I've never worn and never will), then that job clearly isn't for me. A lot more money still has to go into my transitioning, but there's no point if I can pay for it but not actually do it at the time. What's the point of no return, they asked? I guess I'm past it now.
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Wednesday, 12 May 1999 (reflection) 3:08pm Not one of my better nights at Roderick's. For some reason, my energy level dropped precipitously after barely an hour. (Hasn't gone back up by much, to be honest.) This might be my body's way of telling me I need to start eating more, at least when I know I'll be up past my bedtime and dancing, which is the most strenous exercise I get anymore. I sweated more last night than when I went to the gym on Saturday morning, which is rather sad. Sara brought a newbie from her office along, someone curious to see what the hell this whole goth thing is about anyway. She dressed the part very well, and let's face it, that's 90% of the battle right there. Looked to me like she enjoyed herself thoroughly, and after dancing for a little while was otherwise content to sit back and just people-watch. I'd all but forgotten that it's possible to do that without getting bored quickly...ah, to be innocent again, huh? Anyway, Roderick's is the perfect place to observe, particularly if you've never been to any of the clubs before. Shrine (still my home) will surely seem like a letdown in comparison. My skin survived the ordeal, and I didn't go easy on it. (I wanted pale, and goddamnit, it was pale.) No shadow yet.
We're having a departmental meeting in a little while, the first since Fun Day. I can't even begin to predict
what's going to happen, if anything. A lot of people are expecting a formal apology from the big boss, but
I'm not holding my breath. I seldom notice these things, but I think I'm in the up part of my mood swings. Which is not to say I'm incredibly happy...just that I'm not quite as down. Hard to explain. I have no particular reason to be in good spirits, no more now than I ever have over the last couple months—less, actually, for I'm about start from zero once again. I'm just not as depressed as circumstances should suggest. *sigh* So I have no idea if I'm going to smoke for Star Trek tonight. It's very tempting, the only time I'm ever really tempted to smoke anymore. My mood almost always suffers as a result, however. The logical conclusion would be that I'd stop smoking, and for the most part I have. I didn't even touch the stuff for the first two months or so after The Ex and I broke up, and now I mostly do it on my own for Trek. Then there was Roderick's last week, but that was a social situation—the pipe was passed around and the vibes were all positive. It certainly went much much better than the time I smoked before Shrine, which was probably the first time since after the breakup. That was a mistake in the most categorical way possible.
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Tuesday, 11 May 1999 (up) 11:44am Sometimes you just have to fookin' do it. So I did it—I bought two tickets to the REM concert in August. Who I'm going with (not knowing any other fans besides my brother, which isn't likely), or how I'll be getting there (not having a car to call my own, just the payments) are both mysteries, but I'm going. Whether or not I could afford to spend the money right now (I couldn't, not really) is irrelevant.
I missed Sheryl and Alanis, will almost certainly miss Dylan, and the way things
are going it might be wise for me to skip the Bridge Benefit for the first
time in five years. Not this, though. They aren't even seats, just the lawn. Y'know?
That's okay. So much the better for standing and dancing. It's all about being
inside the music, experiencing it however comes naturally. In some cases that's sitting
still and watching the stage; in other cases it's moving however the music moves you.
This is one of the latter.
I'll sulk away to lick my thin skin. If the turnaround time between zapping and healing is really going down that much, I may well be able to start going more often. Not that I can really afford to go often, but pick pick. For now, all I ask is that the shadow doesn't return too much before Gothnic. This'll be the first time a lot of these people have seen me in person, and while I've never denied or hidden that I'm a tranny, y'know, it's a question of aesthetics if absolutely nothing else. I just got asked a grammatical question regarding the site. Oh, that felt nice, that felt really nice. One of my dream jobs, as silly as this sounds, has been proofreading. I'm pretty damn good at it. The resident f2m, Trevor (he's finally chosen a boi name!) was over here a while ago. He told me that he's been officially rejected by most of his dyke friends, the people he's been closest to for years, "the people I dance with." As far as they're concerned, he's a traitor. It's heartbreaking, really; he was at a friend's birthday party and was informed that he'd no longer be welcome at this sort of thing, because they're for lesbians only. It had gone from being a group of friends celebrating a birthday to an Official Lesbian Event. Maggie surely would have approved. That kind of bullshit is all too common in the lesbian community ; transphobia is considered quite acceptable. (My shrink told me once that she dated an extremely transphobic dyke who would go on and on about how horrible and sick and wrong trannies are—and, of course, how she could spot them from a mile away. Maybe so, but she apparently couldn't detect one in her own bed.) Worse, there are lesbian-identified m2f's who join right in. And yet Trevor is the traitorous one? I don't think so. No, not all lesbians are like that. And yeah, I know, it's just like a tranny to make these sorts of allegations. All of which is why I can never with a clear conscience call myself lesbian. I like grrls, I don't like bois. That's pretty much it. Politicizing attraction (or love or desire or whatever word you choose) strikes me as wrong. It would be so much simpler if I did like bois...and in fact there are a few I wouldn't kick out of bed for eating crackers. So I guess it isn't even an issue. (Whew!) Let Maggie and the others have their damn fascism. I want no part of it.
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