Earlier in the evening, I watched Spielberg's War of the Worlds. It was much better than it had any right to be.

3:03pm

Sometime in the eighties, Rolling Stone printed a sixties-era picture of Marianne Faithfull. She was wearing a large furry coat, clutching it at the top, and look a smile on her face which I always thought said more about sadness than happiness. The caption, as I recall, was something to the effect of Marianne Faithfull prepares for a cold spell—in chart terms, anyway. Oooh! Burn, guys! Anyway, though I lost the track of the magazine over the years, the image has always stayed with me. It was very much on my mind during the shoot for the How Loathsome cover, though it helped that Chloe's pose in the original sketch is uncannily (if coincidentally) similar to Marianne's in the original picture. Thank you, Google Image Search.

7:50pm

I haven't seen The Nice Lady in several months, since shortly after breaking up with Maddy. I really should make an appointment. So much as happened since then.

10:54pm

Ignoring the costs of the veggies and tofu and balsamic vinegar and hot sauce, I figure I save $25 a week by making my own lunch, based on an average price of $5 for lunch-type stuff around my office. Go me.

Wearing kitty ears is like a sociological experiment, especially when there's no overt reason for them. (Which was actually the case; my ulterior motive was so my head would be obvious amongs the silouhettes in front of the screen. That, and they look cute, and how much more justification is necessary?) (For the record, I didn't put them on until I got to The Dark Room. I have my limits.) It's interesting to see who acknowledges them and who doesn't. Ty and Cory commented on it, as I suspected they would, but nobody else said a word. I suspect most were making a point of not looking above my eyeline. don't look at the ears...don't look at the ears...don't look at the ears...

Vash wasn't able to make it to the show—she has a life of her own—but we hooked up afterwards.

This evening, I return to The Dark Room for Bad Movie Night. I think I'll wear kitty ears.

4:32pm

I'd parked around the corner from my regular produce market at 32nd Noriega, and was walking to said market when I passed a woman talking to two derelicts sitting on a bench outside a building. I don't think they were homeless, exactly, and I hesitate to use the word "bums." They were fucking derelicts. Anyway, as I passed by, I heard one of them say Is That A Guy Or A Girl?

It probably wasn't about me. I've been told that so many times throughout my life, often by people who I would not only expect to know better, but whom I would have expected to have my back. Seldom works that way. But I could hear that voice all the same: it wasn't about you! don't make everything about you! So, fine. It wasn't about me. Besides, I looked sufficiently nondescript, or at least vaguely feminine, right? Or not. Boots, purple and black stripeys, black capri pants, spaghetti-strap tank top, black trenchcoat, no makeup, and my hair down in what I've been told is a "softer" look for me, especially now that I've been growing out my bangs. I don't know. Probably screams out "androgyny." Then again, maybe it doesn't, and I'm acting like the universe revolves around me again. Besides, in today's queer political climate, passing is a bad thing, which means that NOT passing is a good thing, right? So I want derelicts to say things like that, don't I? Just means I'm fighting the good fight, resisting the tyranny of assimilation? Sure, of all that.

I got my veggies and walked back to my car. As I approached them, I got out my cell phone and pretended to be looking at something. One of them, wearing a red shirt (I hope that means he gets killed first), saw me and started chairdancing and singing a weird melange of "Le Chic" and "Super Freak": "Freak out! Freak out! Super freak! Freak out!" Putting my phone back in my pocket, I stopped and looked at him. Just, looked at him. Which, of course, goes against everything I learned in Girl Army, but I couldn't help it. There's been so much of this sort of thing lately, people staring and doing the nudge-n-nod while murmuring things I can't quite discern except for "man" and "woman." Or that's what I think is going on, anyway. Probably doesn't have anything to do with me at all, does it?

"Freak out! Super Freak!" With a grin a mile wide on his face, he explained, It's A Song That—

I turned and walked away. Didn't say a word, didn't make a face, and just turned and walked away, though I did blink slowly as I was turning, which felt strangely satisfying. This also goes against what I'd learned in Girl Army, turning my back on a potential threat. Worse, it had the desired effect: it pissed him off. How dare I walk away from him? Didn't I know that he had the power in this dynamic? Fuck You! he yelled after me. I kept walking, at the same pace, listening for the sound of him getting up and following me. Nothing, though after a few seconds I heard one of them, presumably the other guy, say That Was A Man? As I was rounded the corner, seeing my car thankfully just a few yards away, the heavy artillery was fired: Eat Poop!

Their coprophagous command was the last salvo, though I waited at the car for a moment, expecting them to come barreling (or at least stumbling) around the corner. Given the condition of my car, I figured it was better to face them outside, on my own two feet. Felt I had a better chance of being loud and fending them off. Nope. I got in my car, and paused. Slight shakes came over me, and I felt for a moment like I might cry. A little hint around the edges, but nothing beyond that. I considered going into the Safeway on the other corner, as long as I was there, but decided that I just wanted to get home now.

Sometimes, it is about me.

11:57pm

Home is a myth.

What I feel, I can’t say
But my love is there for you any time of day
But if it’s not love that you need
Then I’ll try my best to make everything succeed

Tell me, what is my life without your love
Tell me, who am I without you, by my side

What I know, I can do
If I give my love now to everyone like you
But if it’s not love that you need
Then I’ll try my best to make ev’rything succeed

Tell me, what is my life without your love
Tell me, who am I without you, by my side

What I feel, I can’t say
But my love is there for you any time of day
But if it’s not love that you need
Then I’ll try my best to make everything succeed

Tell me, what is my life without your love
Tell me, who am I without you, by my side

George Harrison,
"What is Life"

After class on Wednesday (during which time she made the majority of Thanksgiving dinner), Vash and I did ecstasy. It hadn't done much for me before; once was a full hit with Maddy which had no noticeable effect at all, and another time was half a hit which was barely noticeable. This stuff, acquired from a coworker, definitely worked. We'd considered candyflipping, which is what the kids call mixing ecstasy with acid (those crazy kids!), but decided against it. Vash hasn't done either drug for a while, and I'm unfamiliar with ecstasy, so we decided to keep it pure.

It was an amazing experience, especially doing it with someone for whom I'm developing such strong feelings. The desire on ecstasy to get all kinds of touchyfeely and emotionally expressive on ecstasy is strong. Under the blacklights and Music from the Hearts of Space, we talked and felt the weight of each other. Those feelings and desires were sincere, and I didn't say or do anything that wasn't already in me. But the edges burned brighter.

Though we didn't candyflip, we did flip through Candy Darling's My Face for the World to See, the book which the title of this page homages. (It's an homage rather than a rip-off because I call it "Part II," right?). The book had been in my bag because I used this picture for a scanning and retouching exercise in class that evening. It's my favorite one of Candy, and possibly my favorite portraits of anyone. At first I was a little reluctant to alter it, to remove so much as a freckle, but after a while I realized that Candy surely approved of airbrushing. When the teacher first saw the picture, she asked if it was me. Awww. That's just as flattering as when I'm occasionally asked if this is me. I'd love to work with a photographer (and, I suppose, hair and makeup artist) who could recreate that picture with me. For that matter, I've been tossing around the idea of doing a solo show as her, based on her writings. But I toss around a lot of things. Wasn't I talking about a band recently? Something to do with Marilyn Manson? I forget.

I crashed around four on Thanksgiving morning, and we slept on and off until the early afternoon, sometimes together, sometimes in shifts. The main course had mostly made the night before, so we assembled the Big Salad (including but not limited to red lettuce, purple carrots, tangerine slices, pomegranate seeds, mushrooms, pecans, cherry tomatoes, and hothouse cucumbers) and she made a multi-mushroom dish. Most touchingly, when she went on an emergency Walgreens run for a corkscrew, she also stopped by an open diner to get me a slice to pumpkin pie, the only traditional Thanksgiving-y food I actually like. How thoughtful is that?

Less thoughtful is her place of employment, which required her to be at work this morning. Not to mention the Friday and Monday around xmas weekend, which result in a somewhat truncated Fresno trip. Whether that's necessarily a bad thing is debatable, though I'm oddly looking forward to giving her the Tour, showing the pitufita stomping grounds. She's also asked about Foriestere Underground Gardens, which I've never even been to. (Though the abrreviation of Foriestere Underground Gardens is FUG, it is not to be confused with Go Fug Yourself, a common mistake.) But at least we got a lot of time together. So it evens out.

sometime after midnight

you have a talent for attracting people who really care about you.

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