Although my mom was very accommodating of my desire to not eat turkey flesh, and the actual meal was great, I ate rather badly during the rest of the trip. Like, Maddy and I found ourselves at Denny's with Nicole late Thursday night. (It was around ten in the evening, and Thanksgiving dinner had been at one in the afternoon.) (After years of wondering why holiday dinners were always so early, I finally asked my mom why that is. She said it's to get it over with. I'll buy that.) Nothing looked particularly good or healthy, but I was feeling an odd craving for a hot fudge sundae. It must have had to do with being in a Denny's in Fresno; nowadays that sort of thing doesn't sound good at all, but once upon a time it was fairly common for me. Armed with the rationalization that it was a holiday known for feasting as well as a nostalgia trip, I ordered it.

Problem was, the waiter misheard Nicole and thought she wanted a sundae as well. (I'd like to think that taught him to read back orders, but somehow I doubt it.) When he brought them both out and we said we'd only ordered one, the horns poked out of his forehead and he suggested we keep them both since he'd just take the second back and throw it out anyway. Heaven forbid it go to waste—think of the starving kids in Zimbabwe!—so I ate them both. Because, you know, it was Thanksgiving and all. (Nicole did get her proper order, by the way, and we didn't get charged for either sundae.) I'm trying not to think about what I ate at the Italian restaurant on the way out of town on Friday—nor of the red-haired girl in the long black leather coat who was entering Denny's as we were leaving, but for different reasons.

At a dollar store on Friday, I bought (for a dollar apiece, natch) VHS copies of Starstruck, Seaside Swingers, Strangers in the City and Kid Creole & The Coconuts Live. Besides breaking the unintentional alliteration, the latter was intended for (e), but now I realize it's Kid Koala she's into, not Kid Creole. To eBay it goes.

7:30pm

Since it was on our way home, we went to the Best Buy in Marin City today to buy a new mouse. Got that, and a couple other things. Horrible, horrible place. Didja know there's a new James Bond movie? I hate that I can't go into an electronics store without being bombarded with ads for it, some of them very loud. Of course, it's like that wherever you go. And don't you forget—even though you can't escape the mainstream media barrage and it's forced into your head whether you want it there or not, it's all copyrighted! Don't you try to sample or reappropriate any of it, or you'll be in big trouble!

It's why I'm going to see this show, specifically the second screening, at the Artists' Television Access tonight:

Hijacking Commercial Culture

SAT. 11/30: CULTURE-JAM + BILLBOARD LIBERATION FRONT +

Jack Napier and the BLF in fact present us with a gift for their 25th anniversary: Two screenings (8:30 & 10) of Jill Sharpe's (tentatively in attendance) energized hour survey of anti-advertising pranksters, including Rev. Billy Talen, Toronto's Carly Stasko, and OC's very own Craig Baldwin. The evening's second show boasts the 25-min. WTO mockery The Horribly Stupid Stunt…, by the ®™ark-affiliated Yes Men, as well as Aron Ranen's Tow Truck Driver. Supporting both programs are new shorts by Bryan Boyce (World's Fair Film), Eric Saks, Negativland, Rroom, and Paul Harvey Oswald. Free toast and jam!

Chupa's working at the DNA tonight—it's officially her second job—but doesn't seem to be at the downstairs bar, the one that's on the webcam. Nobody better be giving her any shit just 'cuz I can't see her. (Why, um, yes, I would rush right down there if somehow I saw that someone was hassling her.) While nothing's on the table yet, she says it's not outside the realm of possibility that she might end up leaving Sacrifice and working at the DNA full time. It would almost certainly pay better for her, but the selfish part of me hopes it doesn't happen. Visiting her at work would become very impractical, since when Sacrifice has a cover it's usually about three bucks and we get in free anyway, and kittypr0n would lose one of its main venues. Alas.

One's parent's home is often described as a constant, something they can return to and have it always be the same. Quite the opposite in my case; my mom's been working on her condo for at least a year now, and it seems like there are major changes every time we visit. I don't mind. I only lived here for about six months, so I don't have any particular attachment to it. Indeed, I like what she's been doing it. Especially that there's no longer a teevee in the living room. That's so cool. More homes should be like that.

This country produces more goods than its citizens could ever possibly need. Ever notice that?

In his referral accompanying my resume, at no point did he mention that my name and gender were different when I used to work for the company. Cool.

10:49pm

Tomorrow's going to be a busy day, culminating in driving to Fresno in what will probably be typically horrid traffic. So, in preparation, I've spent the better part of the evening working on the kittypr0n episode guide and screenshots. It's all about priorities. There are now halfway decent captures of the first four episodes up, and I'm kinda proud of the screenshot page layout, extremely simple though it may be.

I dragged myself to the gym this morning, and I'll probably go again tomorrow. (Leave it to me to choose a three-day week to return.) Wearing both earplugs and headphones blocks out the blaring radio—although I was subjected to a painful commercial extolling eating turkey flesh as a wonderful thing for families to do together—and I've been reading Michael Chabon's The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, which at least gives me something to look forward to.

Yeesh. K'vetch is a week from today. Gotta work on the new piece.

Dinner at Herbivore (mmmmm...vegan shwarma), a swing through Aquarius, and an evening of taping (e)'s cats and playing Taboo with her, Lauren and Susan. All in all, a very good night. I even smoked grass; it seemed one of those situations where the paranoia and depression (the main reasons I don't smoke anymore, in addition to the fact that my short-term memory is bad enough as it is) seemed unlikely to set in. And they didn't.

Though neither us said anything about it at the time, on the way home Maddy confirmed something I'd observed: when (e) finally took off the hat she'd been wearing for most of the evening, she looked seriously hot with her hair tousled. She'd probably disagree.

I sincerely wish [she] had been at The Day of Remembrance last night. I would have liked for her to have seen how much personal identity is tied to language (as it must be), to hear the continuing and ever-impassioned pleas for the media to refer to Gwen as the woman she'll never get to be, to start treating us with the slightest modicum of respect. It would have been a good thing for her to have heard the twenty-seven names and bios of the trannies who have been killed over the last year, read aloud by those of us who are still alive. (I read the twenty-sixth, Ontwon Curtis.) I would have liked her to have witnessed all that, and to hear her still insist that Gwen should be referred to as a boy, and to do otherwise is simply "political correctness." (I use scare quotes around that phrase because I don't want to legitimize it. To accuse an idea you don't like of being "politically correct" means that you don't have a real argument and are trying to cloud the issue, like referencing fascism as a grownup or yelling "You're a big dummy-head!" as a child. In this case, the maturity level was closer to the second example.) Or, perhaps, to realize her error, and to acknowledge that those of us who are transgendered might have a slightly better idea of how Gwen felt than someone who doesn't know what it's like to be told you're something which you know deep down you aren't.

But that never would have happened.

At least I got to hang out with Tiffany and Sindee and have dinner with them afterwards. I only wish Maddy could have been with us. It was certainly a whole hell of a lot better than Maddy and I meeting [her] outside [that fucking yuppie bar in North Beach] just now. I never want to go into, or near, that place again. If by circumstances we're forced to go there, especially since it seems to be [her] favorite bar, I'll be at the arcade down the street playing Moonwalker. I hated how the bartender (who gives her free drinks because he's a nice guy with no ulterior motives whatsoever) seemed to peg us at friends of hers as soon as we walked in. No. No. NO. Wrong. We are not her people. Don't ever say that. I don't want to be associated with her.

I still have some anger to work through. It'll probably be with me for a while.

Earlier in the afternoon we saw Lynnee read. That always makes me happy. When I'm not wanting to be (e) or Michelle when I grow up, I want to be Lynnee.

That morning, I went to the dentist for a regular checkup for the first time in years. (I saw a couple different ones in '99, but that was in a frantic attempt to get my wisdom teeth yanked.) Although my brushing habits aren't entirely adequate, my teeth are in fine shape. Yay for eating lots of vegetables and drinking almost nothing but water, save for soymilk in my cereal. Not liking sugary things helps, too. Although I still feel fat.

#26:
My name is Ontwon Curtis. On September 13th, I was shot several times in the chest while at home in Newport News, Virginia. Andrew Coleman has been arrested for my murder.