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Wednesday, 10 November 1999 (pressure) 10:45am Although I liked it, I was bothered by the fact that Toy Story didn't adhere to its own internal logic. I have no problem with toys or any other inanimate objects talking in movies, or even animals. (Babe: Pig in the City was the best film of 1998, after all.) That doesn't mean I'll watch them, necessarily; no force on earth could possibly get me to watch Baby Geniuses. Ever. Period. I'd sooner wallpaper my room with Anne Geddes babyporn. Anyway, all I ask is that the movie follow its own logic, which Toy Story doesn't. (I'm talking about the original, not having seen the sequel.) The toys can talk to each other and move about on their own; fine. They know they're toys and stop moving of their own accord when humans are around; fine. This is clearly an act of will on their part, since Woody talks directly to the evil neighbor kid towards the end of the film. Ergo, they could be moving and talking on their own the whole time. It's not like in the Babe films where it's an issue of perspective; animals can talk to each other, but not to humans, and the humans may not even be aware the animals are talking to one another. So what's the deal with Buzz Lightyear? He doesn't realize he's a toy, which is a great comedic device, but it makes the whole concept fall apart when he suddenly freezes up around humans. If he doesn't realize/believe he's a toy, then why would we exhibit was it clearly willful toy behavior in that case?
Just a thought.
I actually had lunch with Summer today, for the first time since before surgery, so I got to show her my teeth. It was very satisfying to see her grossed out, as it is not an easy task.
While waiting for Summer I ran into Trevor. (I decided not to bring up the Outlook discussion, on
which we'd been at odds. There's a time and place for everything.)
His voice is getting more gravelly all the time, and lifting
weights is bulking up his body quite nicely. He'll be passing in no time if he isn't already,
and he was almost giddy about the fact that starting tomorrow he'll get to use the men's room.
Apparently he was awaiting some kind of "executive decision," which seems odd considering
how supportive the HR department has been. In any event, it isn't an issue I've pursued yet,
and I'm happy to sit back for now and let Trevor blaze those trails.
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Tuesday, 9 November 1999 (i got a problem) 8:17am At 9am I have to go into the non-harrassment training, the direct result of the big boss getting liquored up and acting like immature, repressed frat boys with too much power do when they're intoxicated and untouchable. I didn't want to go on that fucking "Fun Day" excursion to begin with. I didn't want to talk to that weaselly lawyer, to be grilled and interrogated as if I'd done something wrong (America 1999, blaming the victim and demonizing the disenfranchised is still alive and well, thank you very much) while the violator went off on his month-long worldwide cruise. And this...god, this just needs to be over. Not since the aforementioned events have I had such a sense of dread, such a sense "please mommy make them stop hurting me" as I do at this moment. I want to just not budge from this very spot—I want to be obstinate, to hide, and if they find me to tell them I'll be goddamned if I'm going to get penalized (which is what if feels like, being mandatory, and I don't give a flying fuck if it is company-wide) because I was powerless to stop one of the most powerful men in the company from going on a drunken rampage and indulging the fantasies of his perpetually arrested adolescence. They'll find me, though, and they'll just keep rescheduling me, I'll be told that everyone in the company has to go so I shouldn't act like I'm special, I'll become even more of a troublemaker than I already am (and I've already made my share of waves as it is). Or I can just go no, survive the two hours, and be done with it. The time for saying no was the day of the trip itself. I didn't, and now the only way to get it all past me is to do this today.
And—this is me reaching for any bright side I can possibly find—this is
my best chance to not have to attend the same session as The Fidget Queen. He was
gone yesterday, he isn't in yet today, and even if he does show up today it'll
be after the session has begun and they'll have to reschedule him once again. If
I don't go today, that increases my chances of having to spend time in the same
room with him (bad enough doing that in here, with the cubicle walls and my curtain)
or, considering my luck, being at the same table. In that respect, self-preservation demands that I
go today. So, I will.
Madeline expressed a strong desire for my apartment to be as free of The Ex's presence as possible, and she's going to get her wish. This place is going to be quite well gutted. i'm pushing an elephant up the stairs 11:48pm I just checked my voicemail and heard a message from my mom from earlier this evening. She's taking the train here for Thanksgiving, and has made her reservation. She arrives on Thanksgiving day at 11am. Fair enough. She leaves the next day "at 10 o'clock." No AM or PM specified. Just "10 o'clock." Since 10pm would mean not getting back to Fresno until at least 2am, I'm guessing it's for 10am. Huh. Funny how that works—the closest she's come in the last five years, but gosh, she just won't have the time to venture into my evil little city. Awful sorry, honey. Maybe in another five years. I'm not insulted. Not at all.
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Monday, 8 November 1999 (hard luck stories) 1:23pm Ack. The "non-harrassment training" session for which I've been rescheduled is tomorrow morning. I'm not sure if I can get out of this one. The Fidget Queen, who's supposed to go to the same session, is out sick today; I can only hope it lasts through tomorrow. Halfway through Lost Souls, one of the characters is revealed to be a fan of R.E.M. I don't know why that strikes me as significant. Speaking of which, at the theater last night I saw a poster for a movie by the same name, starring Winona Ryder and Ben Chaplin. I didn't see Poppy's name in the credits, so it's apparently not based on the book. Oh, good.
Also speaking of which, there was a poster for Man on the Moon, The Andy Kaufman biopic starring Jim Carrey, featuring Courtney Love and named after
Maddy's favorite R.E.M. song. There,
on the poster, are the words Music by R.E.M. Well, I'm certainly excited.
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Sunday, 7 November 1999 (people on the street) 10:18am It wasn't quite as bad as last time, at least... 3:07pm It's coming down pretty heavy out there. Fuck. Of course it is. This is one of those days where normally I'd be grateful that I have nowhere to go, that I can just relax at home while nature does its thing outside. No such luck.
So when did the definition of the "friendly-looking stranger" change to encompass people who
look like me?
Otherwise, as Imani would say, The Divine Feline was watching over me; it barely rained at all tonight. Got lucky, to say the least. Between dropping off Imani at her work and picking up The Ex from the airport (all of which timed out perfectly), I saw David Lynch's new movie The Straight Story. Seeing onscreen the words "Walt Disney Pictures Presents A Film By David Lynch" was more than a little disorienting. Brilliant movie, though, as I suspected it would be. And rated G, no less (or, rather, no more). A G-rated David Lynch film. The mind reels at the concept, but it works. It's very much a David Lynch film, every bit as much as his graphic R-rated material, and in fact there's some fairly disturbing imagery which I would have thought would have earned the film at least a PG. But there's no overt , no sex, and not so much as a single profanity. We'll have to wait for the Blue Velvet sequel to hear the immortal words "Baby wants to fuck!!!" again.
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Saturday, 6 November 1999 (touch the night) 10:00am Today, Madeline tells her mother in person that she's moving to California next month. Her mother knew it was coming, but not so quickly. I'm sure her whole family's going to be surprised, but then again, they've been constantly surprised by Maddy lately. I wish I could be there with her, so she didn't feel so alone... 5:20pm It went fairly well with Maddy's mother. Tears were involved, of course, but that's to be expected. There was no attempt by her mother to talk her out of it, tell her she's wrong, that she's being selfish or hurtful or anything like that. Rather, her mother actually admired her for being able to take control of her own life in a manner that her mother had never been able to herself. Like being stuck in Clay Center; she was living there purely because that's where Maddy's father wanted to live. They'd lived there before when Maddy was a small child, and when they moved, her mother never wanted to return. Alas, the man in the equation had other ideas, largely because Clay Center was where his family already lived. Indeed, her family's presence (at least, that of her maiden name) is palpable in the town. Her father wasn't there, and in fact she has no intention of telling him in person because of what's sure to be an extremely negative reaction. (This is not to be confused with why I haven't come out to my father, which is mostly out of indifference on my part.) It was decided that Maddy would write a note for her mother to give to him, so that her mother wouldn't be saddled with having to tell him, and more importantly, that he couldn't accuse Maddy of having saddled her mother with said duty. My head hurts just thinking about it.
As for my father, he must know by now, between hubbub at Joe's wedding and some emails
on which we've both been cc'd. Seems to me he'd want to know who this "Sherilyn" person
is. Still, yes, we need to talk in person. I hope to do so at xmas, if I can catch
him before or after he makes his annual trip to Grass Valley. The fact that Maddy will
be there with me makes it much less daunting.
here comes that awful feeling again
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Friday, 5 November 1999 (bad news beat) 8:34am Good lord, but I've been sloppy and negligent of my journal this week. Still haven't fully recovered from the trip, I suppose. The elderly, veteran faggot-killer was on the train last night, but didn't appear to be on the job. Not only did he fail to notice me once again, he didn't even bat an eye at the two uber-fey flamers who passed in front of him at the station. On the other hand, he didn't have his bottle with him, and of course alcohol equals courage for such people.
Part of me feels absurd for having spent half an hour getting made up this morning
when I know damn good and well I'll be cubicle bound for most of the day. Then again,
I've put my hair up in pigtails for the first time at work in months, so I might as
well go all the way.
Steady, steady...
Quite by accident, and at a distance. Whether or not he was aware of my presence, I can't say. Probably I was nothing more than a shadow in Maddy's car. I couldn't really make out any details of him, either. He waved, mostly from recognizing the car.
It's probably as close as I'll ever come to meeting him, and surely as close as she wants
me to get; in a perfect world, she'd never have to deal with him again at
all. But him and I meeting, while a concept I find morbidly intriguing, should never happen
for many reasons. It would likely result in an unpleasant verbal exchange, and while I'm
fairly confident that I could annihilate the bitter little drunken abusive wretch of a man,
it would be very hard on Maddy. She wants to put him out of her life as much as possible,
and I respect that.
Right now, Brian and I are fighting Marketing's insistence on using a "Mail this to a friend!"-type scheme on a promotion, because they think it'll generate business and turn pages and that's all they care about. While those things are important (I realize the hand that feeds me must be respected), we're treading into some very murky waters. Spam is a very bad thing, but the people who make these decisions— the uber-perky Marketing kids —don't care about the consequences to our reputation, as they have no real experience with the medium and thus don't heed our warnings.
Still beats working on nike's site, though. I'm almost amazed I was ever able to bring myself
to do that.
Reading Poppy Z. Brite's Lost Souls has been doing it to me as well. For as much as I enjoyed Exquisite Corpse, and I did, this one is really getting to me. Maybe because it's describing a certain aesthetic or archetype which is quite unfashionable now, one which in my overly romantic middle-class way I wish I could have been a part of, and which is regarded with scorn and derision at best. And that's without even considering the vampire angle, that being the greatest of all sins in the modern goth scene. And, again, that was one of the things that I found remarkable about the few that I met in Kansas; the utter lack of the self-consciousness that's so pervasive out here. The Boi Summer was dressed as Brandon Lee, which would probably get him turned away at the door of most local clubs. Then of course there's Maddy's vampire/bloodfetish leanings, which have been a part of her since long before she discovered that wearing all black makes people look at you funny, and she isn't going to pretend to deny it anytime too soon. (She did enough of that while married.) I'm not complaining, really; the scene is the way it is, and if I don't like it I should just detach myself from it entirely. But I don't plan on doing that in the near future... Anyway, I've been feeling strangely nostalgic for what might be considered my old school days—barely nine months ago, for fuck's sake—when there was still the sense of discovery. And pain and loneliness and misery, too, being in the thick of the breakup with The Ex as I was. It's not nostalgia in the sense of wanting to go back, either, because I don't, not by a long shot. I'm much happier now than I was then; for the time period I'm thinking of, I didn't even know Maddy existed. An extremely dark period. When Summer introduced us we had no idea that we'd end up together, but it's still not hard to look back on that moment and feel like everything changed right then, even if I wasn't aware of it at the time.
So it's not a dissatisfaction with my life at the moment, particularly not when I consider that Madeline will
be moving here in less than a month. It's just...hell, I don't know...when Lee was first showing me the ropes
of makeup (not a very good metaphor, is it?), he commented that he envied me for just starting out, since he'd
been doing it for years and it wasn't as fun as it once was. I'd like to think I haven't reached that point
just yet...
I'm tired, but jeez, when aren't I tired anymore?
but i have no regrets. what i once was i can never truly escape from, even if i'm completely different now; what i was then was all that i could be at the time, and i could not have been then who i am now because the time was not right. (whew! there's a tongue-twister for ya.) to turn my back on where i've been means not learning from it, and that would make it all in vain. what i saw and felt and observed and experienced then informs me a person now, and for the first time in this lifetime, i don't dislike myself as a person.
then again, i'm screwed up in a rather unique way, so your mileage may vary.
And, just to keep the night moving along, The Ex should be by in a little while to pick up more
stuff. Busy weekend for her, as she's going to LA tomorrow morning (I guess) and flying back
Sunday night, and I'll be picking her from up the Oakland airport. Since there seems to be
a correlation between precipitation and me going to airports, rain is predicted for late Sunday
through early Monday. Her flight is scheduled to arrive at 10:45pm. You do the math. Sunday
is going to be a very late night for me. I may end up dragging along Imani just to keep me
company on the drive.
I couldn't help noticing her t-shirt, which bore what I remembered as once being Maggie's domain name. She'd gotten it at the official opening party of Maggie's club, essentially a bondage affair which bore the same name. I hadn't been invited, of course, since I'd at least known that the club was to be "women only," ergo I wasn't allowed. Never mind that Maggie was a pre-operative transsexual as well, a few years farther along in transitioning but still no more a genetic female than myself. Hypocrisy? Uh, yeah, just a smidgen. I commented that I hadn't heard from Maggie in a long time, and she said that she wasn't surprised. As I'd suspected, Maggie had been one of the people that The Ex had vented to the most after the breakup—indeed, that same day Maggie came into my home and completely ignored my presence, The Ex told her many things which probably permanently skewed her opinion of me. Fair enough; I know I did the same thing, often in this diary. I suppose if I want to make amends (so to speak) with Maggie, it's up to me. I'm still unsure if I want to. But, damnit, I'm cuter than her, and in the long run, isn't that all that matters? Sure it is. (Work with me, people.)
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Thursday, 4 November 1999 (hippie dream) 8:51am Imani arrived a little later than planned, but that's no surprise in navigating this city. Her cat Isis did the freakout that they'll do when confronted with new surroundings, and this poor cat has been subjected to its share of moving over the last week or two, but she settled in and made her peace with Mary's ghost fairly quickly. Isis is properly named, probably being the most regal cat I've ever seen; though Siamese, she's very resemblent of the way Egyptians rendered cats, sleek and practically aerodynamic. Not the kind of cat I'd necessarily get for myself—I'm still leaning towards a Domestic Shorthair of Mary's coloring—but she's quite friendly and will certainly satisfy my feline leanings until Madeline arrives with her cats next month. Oh, did I mention that Maddy is moving to California? She's planning on hitting the road no later than November 30. She'll be staying with me until she finds a place of her own.
This is a very good thing.
So sayeth some Marketing yutz when I pointed out the illogic, infeasibility and overall
stupidity of one of his ideas. It's nice to be recognized for your talents.
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Wednesday, 3 November 1999 (violent side) 7:42am I don't want to open Outlook, yet I know I have to. There's probably some messages for me on the voicemail, regardless of whether or not I want to hear them. And Imani will be calling at some point today to finalize plans for tonight, so I can't just ignore the phone as I often will.
I've already taken my first vicodin of the day, so I'm definitely off to a good
start.
And though I suspect I'll escape without a vicodin addiction, something tells me that pudding (fat-free, natch) is going to remain a staple of my diet. Which is kinda scary. Speaking of scary things, my boarder for November should be arriving in a little while, cat in tow...
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Tuesday, 2 November 1999 (weight of the world) 10:33am rest is for those whose work is done 6:16pm After a two-year hiatus (including renovation and a change in management), it appears The Connelly Home For Wayward Goth Chix is re-opening for business. 11:12pm As I suspected I would, I kinda missed the point of a day of rest. Let's see: I paid my rent, sent off a number of bills, dropped off my film from Kansas at Presto Prints in the Castro (I'm beginning to realize that their promise of developing film to disk in an hour is a big huge lie, as I have to pick it up tomorrow—not being in a fighting mood today, I didn't pursue it), donated a bunch of books and clothes (which have been sitting in bags in the garage for well over a year now) to the Community Thrift Store on Valencia, shopped at both Safeway and Trader Joe's, and voted. While at home, I cleaned and purged. I'm now very tired and require sleep. Tomorrow's my first day back at work since last Wednesday, and I can't say I'm looking forward to it. But return I must, and hopefully this creeping sense that I've been neglectful if i take a break it would make me irresponsible of my duties will go away. The Kansas trip had been planned for well over a month, and it wasn't my idea for my wisdom teeth to be impacted...and as far as my teeth go, they're fine. It's my fucking gums. My gums are still bad. I honestly don't know if it's leftover trauma from the surgery, or my distant stalker gingivitis has decided to get familiar, or what. But I'm not out of vicodin just yet... Damn, that reminds me. I got a bill from the oral surgeon today—for the full amount. Gotta call the insurance company tomorrow and make sure they're covering at least half of it, which I've already paid for. If they, for wahtever reason, decide not to cover it at all, I'm not going to be a happy person at all... Oh, and Imani will be staying here starting tomorrow night. As she has made abundantly clear, it's temporary until she can find a permanent residence, one which will let her have her cat Isis (no small feat in this city), or until I kick her out, whichever comes first. I don't want to have to do that, but for assorted reasons I'll need to at the end of the month. Still, I'm happy to help for now, since I've been in her shoes. Had it not been for a friend offering to let me stay with her in the weeks between the final meltdown with The Other and moving in here, I would have been functionally homeless... Okay. Sleep, damnit.
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Monday, 1 November 1999 (resuscitation) 11:14am cst Heading out. I'll be arriving home alone, as I knew would happen.
But not, as I was afraid, single.
Oh, that was a long trip home. They loved me at the Dallas airport, lemme tell ya. My life here is waiting for me to resume, full-steam. In fact, it looks like things are about to get very interesting—including but not limited to Imani staying with me this month. Just for starters. I haven't even checked my work mail, and I don't really want to. I'm soooo glad I'm not working tomorrow, 'cuz I require serious recuperation, and I still have a lot from this weekend to absorb...
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