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I was gone all day yesterday, returning home during the storm and just before we joined the 23,000 San Francisco households without power. (23,000! Boy, this city sucks. No wonder so many people move away. Who'd want to live in a place like this?) I think that's a valid excuse for not posting an entry yesterday. 9:36am So it was noon, on a school day, at the Embarcadero cinema (not a mainstream theater) for a showing of a documentary, and at least two dozen teenagers are there. What the hell? A field trip, evidently. The movie in question was Michael Moore's Bowling for Columbine, which is probably one that teenagers should see, and I'm heartened to know the teacher was able to get away with it and that somebody's fighting the good fight, but...NIMBY, damnit! Alas. I braced myself for the worst, keeping my headphones on until the movie actually began. I don't like hearing regular audiences react to quick-cut/explosion/witty one-liner "In a world..." trailers, and especially didn't care to hear what they had to say about the ones for boring-looking independent and foreign movies. Watching the movie with them wasn't so bad, all things considered. They seemed to be into it, much more than I would have expected for a documentary, reacting at all the right moments with appropriate laughter, applause, even the occasional gasp of horror. As I supposed there must be for a movie which deals with so many heavy topics, there were a few moments of "I'm not affected by this" cynicism. During a clip of an amateur video of the incident involving the hijacked planes last year, someone in the background—perhaps the person shooting the video, it's hard to tell—is heard saying "Oh, my word" over and over in an apparent state of shock. A girl in the audience then said in a mocking tone, "Oh, my word! What a dork." Remember when people used to wonder if things would ever be back to quote-normal-unquote? Things are more normal than they've ever been. My preferred location in (non-stadium) theaters is the far back corner, especially since most people like to sit in the middle, and as an antisocial wretch my main goal is to not be around other people. Fortunately, being at a slight angle to the screen doesn't bother me at all. (Our favorite seats at the Red Vic, on the other hand, are the first row of couches on the far right. Do come by and say hello, won't you?) About halfway through the movie, another group of six kids made a loud entrance into the theater and sat down around me. Utterly resentful of my strategic seating having been violated, I moved. (Oscar hates sharing the windowsill with Mina. There's plenty of room for both, and under normal circumstances they're all about cuddling together, but for no good reason if she tries to join him in the window he gets all kind of cranky and goes away, usually cussing. Except for the cussing, that's how I felt.) I suppose I didn't have to, because they lasted just long enough to realize the movie wasn't jackass, and left as loudly as they'd arrived. One of them got very cross when when shushed (not by me); I can only assume they're unaccustomed to such disrespect. Here's what perplexes me, though: jackass wasn't even playing on any of the Embarcadero's four screens. And yet they (presumably) bought tickets, handed them to the ticket-taker, and made it into the auditorium, all the while thinking they were going to see jackass. I suppose I can believe they didn't look at the marquee above the door, or the poster next to it. But how did they even make it that far? When they tried to buy tickets, shouldn't it have ended right there? Or did the guy at the box office confuse the two-syllable jackass with the six-syllable Bowling for Columbine, despite the fact that they don't even share phonemes? (Yes, I'm aware that the official title is jackass: the movie, which has five syllables, but come on. Nobody's calling it that.) All right, let's say I'm giving the kids too much credit, and they snuck in. I've never tried, but given how the Embarcadero is put together, it could be easily done. There's still the fact that the movie wasn't playing there at all. They didn't just pick the wrong screen, but the wrong theater entirely. The best I can figure is they came across the theater, recognized it as a place where movies are shown, decided they wanted to see jackass, and assumed they could just walk in and that's what would be showing because it's what they wanted to see, and they always get what they want. It hurts my brain to think on that level, but there must have been some kind of thought process behind it, however moronic. All of that aside, I loved Bowling for Columbine; I found it utterly brilliant, and it occasionally had me in tears. Of course, it figures I loved it; it's a polemic which appeals to my politics. Y'know what? I refuse to apologize. I have to exist in a culture which thinks that a bumper sticker of a flag is actually making a statement ("I'm sending a message to the terrorists!") and where the vast majority consume what the corporate-owned media feeds them, and treats celebrity news as though it's relevant ("Sarah Jessica Parker had a BOY!"). I need this sort of movie to keep me sane—even if I am, ultimately, the choir. I'd like to think some of the kids yesterday walked away looking at the world a little differently. Of the relatively few new movies I've seen this year, it's quite possibly my favorite so far. Then again, I haven't seen jackass.
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If voting changed anything, they'd make it illegal. But I'm going to anyway, even though I'm an unpatriotic atheist. (I wonder if the god-fearing flag-wavers who didn't vote last year are going to this year. Somehow, I doubt it.) And, as always, if anyone asks, I voted for Bush.
kittypr0n #9 was on last night. This was the announcment:
The centerpiece is a 1944 short film by Alexander Hammid and Maya Deren
called The Private Life of a Cat. The rest of the episode should
give you a sense of how much we try to be faithful to the original
show—you'd
swear those were the same cats in the same apartment you see in every
episode and that we simply pressed the "monochrome" button. It's so
eerie, maybe *this* should have been the Halloween episode. And how the
heck were the original producers were able to use the soundtrack to Eraserhead three
decades before that movie was made? It's a puzzle right up there with
Fermat's Last Theorem. Watch the mystery unfold tonight.
Y'know, we amuse ourselves, and ultimately that's all that matters. 1:15pm As Maddy and I walked home after voting, clutching the ballot receipts in our hands like children with balloons (we were hoping for "I voted today" stickers, but no such luck), a neighbor asked how long it took to vote. How long it took to vote? I had no idea, not having though to check my watch before or after, but I guessed maybe five minutes, ten at the most. She said that didn't sound too bad. Gosh, I'm glad that five to ten minutes is within her limits, that she can spare that much time to send a message to the terrorists. (Or would it be Saddam Hussein now? I lose track.) 2:10pm Our polling place is a garage on the next block. The people around 9th and Irving, on the other hand, have to go Starbucks. (As the joke would go, the polling place was probably there first and the Starbucks opened inside.) Who knows, it could mean that people who otherwise might not vote—those without the five to ten minutes to spare—will now because they can have their "Grande" latte in hand. I wonder how many will doublepark their SUVs out front. 8:13pm I'm going to Smoke and Mirrors tonight, and (e) may or may not be accompanying me. Either way, it'll be kittypr0n's goth club debut.
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The event on Saturday night turned out to be not so much of an art show as it was a party at someone's house with a DJ, a noise band, a dance performance, video (no kittypr0n) and various artworks on display, including Chupa and Sirron Norris. It was a lot of fun, even we once again took the 7pm starting time too literally and arrived before it really got going. (We do that a lot.) We spent most of the first part of the evening hanging out with Shrike and Ladybug, which was nice since we haven't really spent any time with them since Pink Saturday. Unfortunately, they had to leave right as Chupa was arriving. Maddy and I finally left around two, having been there for seven hours and enjoying ourselves the entire time. Unfortunately, as a result of Saturday night Maddy's back and neck were not pleased with her on Sunday, so she wasn't able to go out with me that evening. My first stop was a Gay Shame "political funeral" for both Gwen and Jihad Alim Akbar, the latter of whom was killed by the police in front of the Bagdad Cafe in early October. It was a march from the Bagdad Cafe down Market to Castro, then down 18th to the police station on Valencia. It's just as well that Maddy wasn't with me, because that trek would have killed her. Though not as literally as the driver at 18th and Valencia wanted to. In an increasingly rare display of how a free society should operate (all speech is protected, even if you don't agree with it) the march had a police escort, even though it was protesting the actions of certain officers. Someone in an oversized penis-enhancement of a truck decided they didn't want to wait for the march to go by, so they started to turn from Valencia onto 18th, blaring their horn. I suspect the police anticipated this, because they rushed forward and stopped them before they actually hit anyone, which they probably would have. Woulda just been some hippie faggot protesters, mourning the death of some fellow fags. No great loss, to be sure. While noisemakers (and candles and literal torches) were provided, it was asked that you bring your own, so I used Spooky, The Thing What Squeaks. I squeaked Spooky a lot and kept to myself. It was ultimately more about Jihad than Gwen—especially when the organizers were in front of the police station, demanding that the officer who killed him come outside—but I'm glad I went, even if I kept toward the edges of the crowd. If something ugly happened, I wasn't going to be in the middle of it. I have what I think is a justifiable fear of jail (I'd be worth plenty of cigarettes, I'm sure), and I could only imagine what that would do to Maddy. Besides, I really didn't want to miss K'vetch. The signup list had already been circulating by the time I got there. As is usually the case unless someone needs to leave early, the first few spots were left empty, so I signed up to read first. Gets it over with, and it helps if anyone reads anything thematically or superficially similar, as will happen sometime. The piece I read involved icky personal things and touch in an impure manner, stuff which most people would rather not hear about and would call TMI. It's the first piece which wasn't originally in my diary, and though they've all been about me, it's easily the most autobiographical. If I ever write my life story, and it has been suggested, it'll probably be in bits and pieces like this. Before reading I plugged kittypr0n, which I wouldn't feel comfortable doing without Lynnee's encouragement. I then explained that I'd had mixed feelings about the piece while working on it these last few weeks. It's mostly about when I was fourteen, the age Gwen was when she came out. I didn't come out until I reached my mid-twenties, while Gwen didn't live to see eighteen. The unfairness of it all can be overwhelming sometimes. (Tranny Talk on Sunday morning included local teevee news coverage of the previous week's vigil. In addition to referring to Gwen as a cross-dressing boy, the spin the newscast put on it really pissed me off: that, ultimately, we were there because Gwen was human. Yes, Gwen was human, no question, but that's not why we were there. She was not killed because she was human. Gwen's murder was punishment for being a different kind of human. She was probably less than human in the eyes of her killers. I wonder how many people think those kids are heroes. There were people who thought Dan White did the city a service, after all.) Anyway, my reading was received well, and I got some compliments about it afterwards—if you were to ask me if I was milling around after the show in hopes that people would come up to me and tell me how much they liked my reading I'd say no, but I'd be lying—as well as one for the piece I read last month. Nice to know people remember. I don't know if they also remember the orange Anya dress I wore last time, because I intentionally went in the opposite direction this time, high goth with plenty of velvet, flowy sleeves, the works. I did get a couple compliments. Again, it goes to show why I'm ambivalent about dressing up for Halloween. It's more of a year-round thing for me.
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She died because she was different. She died because she was different. Sums it up, really. So said Mark Leno during the press conference portion of the vigil for Gwen last week, which was on public access last night. (I'm in a few of the shots, and I'll refrain from commenting on how I think I look.) He also said this:
I want to welcome our friends from the media who are here, and thank you all for your interest in this story. I think you'll be hearing from any number of people here tonight, not only requesting, but in many ways pleading, for your respect of this young girl's life. She self-defined as female, so we refer to her as female, if for no other reason but out of respect for her life. It's a sentiment which was in fact echoed by many others that night, and if it seems repetitive (okay, we get the point already! jeez!) chances are you probably don't entirely agree with it in the first place , or at least don't grasp how much it means to us. There's one particular person I want to show it to so they can see the pain and frustration on the collective face of the tranny community as we're marginalized by the media—and rest assured, intentionally improper pronoun usage is marginalization. (The average person doesn't hear Gwen referred to as "he" yet think of her as a girl. It suggests this "Gwen" person was a just a boy in a dress who probably got what he was asking for.) Odds are the person wouldn't get it, and probably shake their head in sadness at how misguided we all are. To hell with them. I know very well that that particular wall is red and made of bricks (always has been, always will be) and I've bloodied my head against it enough lately. 4:50pm Well, I'll be. We made it into the The Mix in the Guardian back in July. I had no idea. We were asked today if we're going to the Day of the Dead celebration in The Mission. We're not—it's one of those increasingly rare times that we're going out and it's not into The Mission—but we are going to Chupa's art show, which is not entirely un-Dia De Los Muertos-y. There may even be sugar skulls.
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According to sfgate, there were as many as 100,000 people in the streets last night for Halloween. I think about half of them were directly in front of the Castro Theater as we tried to squeeze through, attempting to escape. Now I know how the tapioca feels going up the straw in those pearl drinks Maddy's so fond of. 4:16pm I've always had an ambivalent attitude towards the costume aspect of Halloween. I actually hated it as a kid. I'm not sure why; maybe the same over-dignified part of me which resented the condescending nature of the children's menus didn't like the equally shoddy nature of most costumes (particularly when there's a picture of what you're supposed to be right on the front—what's up with that?), or maybe on a pop-psychology level I didn't feel secure enough in my own identity to pretend to take on another one. Whatever the reason, I have seldom if ever dressed up in the traditional sense. And when you're goth, it's a fine line anyway. Last night, I wore what I might normally wear to a club, and I think it worked fine. I even wore the kitty ears (which I've also worn to clubs before), just so it didn't seem too half-assed. I was not trying to be a cat, however. I was simply wearing the ears. There's a difference. To be a cat generally requires painting on the nose and whiskers, and I can't quite get into that. A tail wouldn't be bad, but I don't like face painting. (Maybe it's this damn book, which seems to follow me everywhere I go. The cover gives me the wiggins something fierce.) It wasn't until yesterday afternoon that we were remotely sure what we were going to do. Staying home and trying Maddy's recently acquired absinthe had been our tentative plan, since it involved the smallest number of people (just us and the cats) and the most hallucinations. But the thought of going out to the Castro was having a stronger and stronger pull, especially when combined with visiting Chupa at Sacrifice afterwards. Besides, Maddy had never been (and I hadn't since '98, with The Ex and Gloria), and the curiosity was strong. I still don't think we made the wrong decision, since it certainly was a learning experience. If we ever again decide to find out what that red glowy thing on the stove feels like, we'll exit at Church station and walk towards Castro, but not actually enter the biomass at Market and Castro. That's if we go again, and I suspect we may not for a few years. Let's see; I first went in '94, next in '98, and now in '02. I guess that means I'm good until '06. Somehow, the impossible happened: we encountered Phred. Her and her boyfriend were in the middle of Castro, between Cliff's Variety and Valley Pride Market, in one of those odd pockets of low density than occurs in chaotic systems. The storm's eye, if you will. We stood there with them for around an hour, just happy to be able to breathe, watching the madness go around. I think the important detail which escaped us about last night is the inclusiveness. Sure, it's Halloween in San Francisco, and centered around the Gay Mecca of the Castro, but it's really not a queer event. Which is fine, except that unlike Pink Saturday or Folsom, it gives many members of the persecuted genus iaintaafaggus an opportunity to get wildly drunk in public without anyone thinking they're a buttfucker. It can make it things very uncomfortable for the rest of us. I heard the word "bitch" used as a synonym for "woman" much more than I'm accustomed to in that part of town. If I tend to feel more comfortable around queers than straights, and don't care for drunk people at all, you can imagine what a groups of drunk straight guys will do to my nerves, particularly boisterous ones. I can't deny a degree of anthropological fascination in watching them, but more than one anthropologist has ended up with their head on a stick, y'know? And then there's the Tourists, but I won't get into that. Many of them were all sorts of worked up about the turnout of the recent Big Game, and they're none too happy about it. "Fuck the Angels!" was a common mantra, as though saying it enough would change history and cause the Giants to win. One fellow, as we were attempting to make our way through the jam-packed Castro station, was going into loud and very explicit detail about the Angels. Turns out this guy hates 'em. A lot. He sounded very sincere about his dislike of the Angels, as sincere as anyone's ever been about anything. And all because they defeated the Giants. It's what I imagine the streets of Green Bay must be like when the Packers lose. (Between Maddy and Mystery Science Theater 3000, it's amazing how much I know about Midwestern culture.) At least I was armed real well, with my metal lunchbox and peppercorn mace spray in hand. I kept having these somewhat dangerous Marilyn Manson-inspired fantasies of someone giving us shit and me giving them my metal, and macing them if they got back up. Of course, being a fantasy, it wouldn't work that way; I know damn good and well that not only would the lunchbox not take them down, but it would fly open and my money and everything else would go flying. And, thankfully, it didn't come to that. It was close at one point, though. We had just about reached Church station, and our nerves were frayed, between the intense pressure of the crowds and the negative energy which inevitably builds in situations like that. A couple fights nearly broke out near us, and at least twice ambulances pushed through the main crowd at Church and Castro. (We nearly needed one ourselves, as Maddy came close to hyperventilating at times, but managed to keep breathing. That's the trick, y'know.) As we were starting to go down the stairs, a guy with horns and creepy contact lenses pushed past us—not cutting, but going in a different direction—and said something to the effect of "Gosh, wow, what's going on here?" As I mentioned, we had a pretty bad case of jangle-nerves, and when that happens I say things I shouldn't. In this case, it was "Halloween. Look at a calendar sometime." God-DAMN, but I'm clever, ain't I? He didn't seem to think so, and shot back with "Are you a man or a woman?" Jesus H. Fucking Christ, what does it mean to get clocked on Halloween? I'd been ruminating on the train ride earlier in the evening whether I'd be more or less likely to get read tonight compared to other nights. I guess that question's been answered, though I'm not sure what the answer is. It could just mean that he couldn't think of anything better to say. (And, of course, that I never pass as well as I think I do.) (But, you know, earlier in the day I'd used the women's restroom at Target without a hint of makeup on and didn't get a second look, so that must mean something.) I looked away and said nothing, too jarred to reply. Maddy leapt in with "Are you a jerk or an asshole?" Now, by this point we were going down the stairs (slowly), and he'd been walking into the street with his heretofore unseen buddies. Backup. Why do they always have backup? "What?" he replied, stopping. "What was that?" I'm still not sure if he genuinely couldn't hear her or not. She'd already disappeared completely into the stairs, and as I was going down I made an exaggerated motion and shrugging, pointing to my ear and shaking my head. I've mentioned how clever I am, right? Miraculously, they didn't follow us in. God is as dead as Nietzsche, but fate's still alive and kicking, protecting fools like us. The muni ride home wasn't quite as arduous as I was expecting, just long, even though there were still loud obnoxious drunk guys. (They're the ones who will grow up and rule the world, not us. Just look in the White House someday.) It was one in the morning, but (in spite? because?) of how grueling the evening had been, we both still wanted to see Chupa, so we drove out to Sacrifice... ...only to find it closed early. I could see her boss in the window, cleaning, but she was nowhere to be found. Ricky Lee showed up a few minutes later, also expecting to find the bar open and the Chupester at work, and she was just as surprised as we were. It was a fitting end to the evening, in a pathetic way. So now we know. If not staying home drinking absinthe for Halloween, give the Castro a miss and go straight to Sacrifice. Got it.
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