|
|
< 10/21 10/22 10/23 10/24 10/25 10/26 10/27 10/28 10/29 10/30 10/31 >
|
Okay, I'm a tad embarrassed. Both Naqoyqatsi (the third film in the Koyaanisqatsi series) and Michael Moore's Bowling for Columbine are playing, and yesterday we went to see Auto Focus, about the guy from Hogan's Heroes. But Maddy's very reluctant about Columbine, and Naqoyqotsi is only at the Lumiere, which was impractical given our schedule, plus Maddy hasn't seen Koyaanisqatsi yet. I'll fully admit that I've been looking forward to Auto Focus since it was directed by Paul Schrader, who wrote some of my favorite Scorsese movies (Taxi Driver, The Last Temptation of Christ and Bringing Out the Dead) and is a swell director in his own right. Besides, it's ultimately a junkie story, albeit with sex instead of drugs, and it's no secret how we feel about those. Perhaps most importantly, we're not responsible for Jackass being the most popular movie in America, with an opening weekend gross of 22.7 million. I'd weep for the culture, if I had any tears left. And I'm not saying you shouldn't go see it, or watch the show; be my guest, and I hope you enjoy yourself. Just don't turn around and complain about how everybody's an idiot except you. You've surrendered that right. Open your beer, turn on the Game, and shut the fuck up. 11:02am
From Timbre, who attended Gwen's memorial Friday afternoon (not to be confused with the vigil Maddy and I went to that evening):
| ||
 | ||
You know that early morning game where you look at people on the street and guess who's been up all night, and who only recently woke up? We were playing it yesterday morning while taking Chupa home. While visiting Steven on Sunday night we bought a copy of Unspeakable, a documentary about him, and upon returning to San Francisco we went to our place to watch it. Typical for the three of us, we mostly just talked and didn't get around to watching the movie until two in the morning (not an inappropriate time for it, all things considered), and didn't take her home until five. There's always something disconcerting about being up all night long, particularly when drugs aren't involved. Actually, we got lucky; between the gradual changing of the season and the more direct changing of the clocks that morning, we managed to get back home and get into bed right before the sun came up. Once it's up, going to sleep just isn't an option. After getting a barely adequate morning's sleep, we went to Chupa's to tape her cat Cretin for kittypr0n. Not to mention the curiosity about her home, where she creates her artwork (and necessarily keeps it between shows), had been killing us. I think the footage is going to result in one of our more peculiar episodes. | ||
| ||
On the negative side, a person whom up until recently I considered a supportive friend has suggested that using the preferred gender prounouns for transgendered people is simply being politically correct. And, of course, we all know there's nothing worse than being PC, so I guess I'm a "he" and that settles that. I'll have to inform Rocco, who probably won't be happy about returning to the female pronoun, but hey, what can you do? We're far too hip to risk being labeled PC, right? On the positive side, the Giants lost The Big Game. I'm always happy when the local sports teams lose—it brings us one step closer to them giving up entirely. We went to Berkeley yesterday with Chupa to have dinner with Steven Leyba and Miiyu, who left for Europe today. From the sounds of it, if they do return, it won't be to stay. Just our luck. They're more than a little disillusioned with the USA, though, and I can't say I blame them.
| ||
| ||
Never ones to pass up a disturbing junkie tale, we went to The Red Vic yesterday to see Cookers, an independent horror movie about crystal meth. Even though turnout was light, we were reminded that while The Red Vic is our favorite theater and just about the only one we feel comfortable going to anymore, it's still a movie theater, attracting the swine who go to movies to laugh out loud at them, the kind who've made it well nigh impossible for us to enjoy movies at The Castro anymore—because, you know, they're so ironic and post-modern and above it all. And this one, with its graphic portrayal of methamphetamine and what it does to the body and mind, was a knee-slapper, literally in one case. (He's grinding his teeth and his speech is garbled—whatta hoot!) In true multiplex fashion someone's cell phone rang and they started talking, but they got shushed loudly from several directions and cut their conversation short, though it was obvious they felt their First Amendment rights were being violated. Y'know, if cell phones had existed when Oliver Wendell Holmes was alive and ruminating about theater etiquette, he would have included those, too. Before the movie, I asked if they have job applications. For as much as I'd rather return to an office job, at least The Red Vic is a place I really like and wouldn't mind working for. They don't, and in fact they don't hire people per se; it's all on a volunteer basis. Which is what "Worker Owned and Operated" means, I guess. They gave me the phone number of the person in charge of these things, though I'm not sure if I'll be calling or not. Since we were in the Haight on Saturday and had thus paid a flat $5 for "special event parking" at the otherwise inexpensive and hourly Kezar Pavilion (we're beginning to suspect their new defintion of "special event" is "the weekend"), we did some shopping. In Amoeba I encountered Stanley, whom I haven't seen since last December at Le Video. I won't be running into him again there any time soon, as he now works at Amoeba. He seems quite happy to have made the change, but Stanley no longer managing Le Video a major paradigm shift for me. In addition to explaining why their selection has been suffering lately (he says their current manager wants to start selling off DVDs to make room for VHS, which sounds like a swell way to go out of business) it also means I don't have quite the open door jobwise that I once did. Considering that I never really wanted it—I don't get the nightmares as often anymore, but they still come occasionally—I guess it's not such a bad thing.
| ||
| ||
The Strombolli Tour just ended, and in spite of having done exactly this sort of thing every night for the last two months, Michelle read at the LGBT Center last night, along with fellow road veterans Tara Jepsen and Tara Hardy, the latter of whom joined them in Seattle halfway through the tour. We brought Michelle a kittypr0n tape and some flowers as a welcome home present, and she said she got us a scorpion from the desert. She didn't have it with her at the time, but that's okay. It's nice to think we were on her mind at all. Anyway, seeing Michelle was my excuse for missing Poetry Mission for the second time this monrth. Not to mention I still don't have anything new written, though I think I will by the time Poetry Mission and Oral Fixation roll around next month having been inspired by Tara Jepsen. Blood and semen will be involved. Afterwards, we went to Sacrifice to see Chupa. The last we'd heard from her, a neighbor who'd moved across the street a year ago was complaining about the noise from the five year-old bar (the math doesn't quite work out, does it?), and if they're successful in getting the club nights cancelled then Sacrifice will have to close altogether. As a professional bartender her job prospects are a little brighter than mine as a professional webmonkey—her services are a bit more in demand than mine, y'know?—but she's scared all the same, and I don't blame her one bit. Just in case, she got herself a gig bartending at the DNA Lounge tonight. She can take care of herself better than just about anybody I know, but the protective side of me still wishes I could be there so she'll at least have a familiar face nearby. Alas, the $15 cover ($10 if I print out the flyer from their website, woohoo) is a tad prohibitive, but hopefully that'll means she'll get paid/tipped well. At the very least, they'd better be nice to her. Instead, I'm planning on going to a vigil at the Center tonight, and you can probably guess what it's for. I'm keeping my distance from the memorial service this afternoon, though, both because I didn't know her (even though it's open to the public) and because Fred Phelps will be there. I don't think I could quite handle that. We shared the train last night with many people returning from the Big Game. Most were carrying what appeared to be inflatable orange baseball bats, which had no doubt been distributed for free. I've never seen so many phalli in one place, and I've been to the Folsom Street Fair. They were still distinguishable from football fans, though, since their parents clearly had children who lived. 11:13pm Where do we go from here? (The restroom at the taqueria this evening was clean, and the person before me brought the key out when they were done. Clearly, I was mistaken on the whole hero issue. Forget I said anything about it at all.) The vigil was beautiful. Sometime in 2000, we were in a store in the Mission. An employee and a customer were talking about Elian Gonzalez. The customer said, and I quote, "I hope that poor little baby gets returned to his family." First, while I'm not sure how old he was, but Elian Gonzalez was not a baby, at least not as that word applies to human growth. Secondly, in any other circumstances they would have been called his "relatives," not his "family." But that's what happens when Americans get themselves emotionally invested in situations they don't really understand or have had hugely misrepresented to them. Lord knows there's been a lot of that over the last thirteen months. (Remember when Osama was the bad guy, and when we got him, everything would be better? Boy, those were the days...) The point is, there was nothing like that tonight. It was all genuine.
| ||
| ||
Now and then I glance at the media coverage of the Gwen Araujo murder, and I always wish I hadn't. As if the simple facts of the case distrubing weren't enough, the contant use of the male pronoun and referring to her as a boy "who sometimes passed as a girl" or simply a gay cross-dresser—and a naive one who didn't know any better than to stay away from drunk straight boys, and was therefore all but asking for it—is a bit too much. Also making it difficult is the fact that, based on the few pictures I've seen, she was beautiful. Does that raise the overall tragedy level of the event? No, and it's terribly shallow of me to bring it up at all. Right or wrong, though, it makes it hurt more. Maybe because she would have had a fighting chance of making a life for herself. Being passable isn't a guarantee of happiness (and your past can certainly come back to haunt you, as Tula can attest), but it's a step in the right direction. No, I didn't know her. Who knows, if we'd ever met, we might not have gotten along. No telling. It's also tempting to make her a hero or raise her to martyr status for being in the wrong place at the wrong time; she was probably no angel, and most definitely human. (I still maintain that she was braver than me, though, since I was ten years older when I finally started being honest with myself.) I'm reminded of an article I read about the wife of someone who died during The Great Overshadowing last year. Very much against her will, she became a local celebrity, and as a result total strangers would come up to her in public and hug her while sobbing copious tears. It got very old very fast, and did nothing to aid in her own grief, but no doubt made the other people felt really good about themselves. Just in case they weren't doing enough by putting a flag bumper sticker on their car. But I digress. The point is, I cannot speak for her nor I say exactly how she felt. All the same, I have a pretty good idea this isn't how she would have wanted to be portrayed. At least, thanks to her mother, her preferred name will be on her tombstone—I can only hope I'll receive that courtesey when my time comes, and between Maddy and my mom, I'm sure I will. (That my tombstone will say "Sherilyn," I mean. For it to say "Gwen" would kinda silly.) And, y'know, if I'm ever the victim of a high-profile murder, I hope I pull a Crow-style comeback. Not for vengeance against the killers, mind you, but the reporters and columnists who will inevitably use the male pronoun and refer to me as "a man who pretended he was a woman." They'll deserve it more. sometime after midnight By the way, if anything bad ever does happen, please don't pray for me. I don't believe in any deity which can be petitioned with prayer, and as such I'd prefer that it wasn't done on my behalf. It would feel false, and even if I never found out (say, your god decided to ignore you and let me die like it had clearly intended), it still wouldn't be right. And if you can't not do it, at least be honest and admit that you're ultimately doing it for yourself, not me. Simply hope for the best for me, and comfort Maddy as best you can.
| ||
| ||
Three somewhat squirmy hours under the electrified needle today, bringing my total to 226. Maddy also got a few of those pesky chin hairs zapped, and confirmed my suspicion that he was using more power today than usual. Which is fine by me, since in my mind power = permanence = being done with all this. It also helped that he was in a thorough mood today, including clearing my entire chest, breasts and all. Quite uncomfortable, especially since the vicodin had already worn off, but worth it. A few hours of pain every month or so beats having to shave for the rest of my life. And, you know, at least I still have my life, and I'm grateful for that. Others like me aren't so lucky. Times like this remind me that if I'd come out while a teenager, it might not have gone so well, particularly living in Fresno. I still wish I had, though, and Gwen was braver than I'll ever be. I hope others are encouraged by her life and not discouraged by her death. Or, for that matter, by the news media constantly referring to her as "him." I was listening to Catholic Family Radio yesterday (it's the light at the top of the dial, don't'chaknow), and a talk show host was going on and on about the sniper back east—how much it disgusted him, how wrong it is, how angered he was by the thought of innocent people getting shot. Yep, that's right, he publicly stated that he's against snipers! Isn't his bravery truly inspiring? I tell ya, one of the remaining Kennedys oughta republish Profiles in Courage and devote it to him. I'll bet he thinks terrorism is bad, too—political correctness be damned! I can only imagine his opinion on young trannies being killed and buried in shallow graves, though. I suspect he wouldn't use the word "innocent."
| ||
| ||
Although I'm human and thus doomed to wickedness and error, I try my best to be a good person. To use a recent and somewhat controversial example, when I piss on a toilet seat (in 29 years, accidents have happened), I clean it up. Little things like that. I've been home all day, and I just found a note from UPS in the mailbox saying they tried to deliver a package but couldn't. Our doorbell is working, but ours is the lower of the two, it's unmarked, and nobody's home upstairs to answer their bell. The reason ours is unmarked is the old neighbors took the label with our name off when they left, for no other reason than sheer pettiness. (It's the same sort of scorched-earth thinking which resulted in their predecessors shutting off the power to our apartment when they moved out in '98. Maddy had used a labelmaker at work, and as such we haven't been able to put our name back on. At least not in any form that would last. And, so, because of our (most recent) ex-neighbors, we've missed a package. Every so often they still get mail, things which slip through the cracks of their official change of address. Sometimes it looks rather important, like something they actually need to get. I should write "Not at this address" on the envelope and drop it back in the mail, or maybe find out if the landlords know their new address so the mail can be forwarded. Basic courtesy dictates that I at least try. The golden rule and all. So, of course, I immediately throw it away. 2:26pm (This entry will involve my genitals and the previously mentioned noodelty. If you decide to skip it, I don't blame you. I wish I could skip it.) I graduated film school without actually watching Jean-Luc Godard's Breathless, but thanks to my fondness for Mark Rappaport's brilliant documentary From the Journals of Jean Seberg I can make references to it which make me sound like I was paying attention in class. I already did it once when discussing Yoko Ono's Cut Piece, and I'm going to do it again. Though he hadn't given me any particular direction except where to look, I tried to do my best impression of the last shot of Breathless as the lens of Steven's camera came within inches of my face: no expression at all. Just blank. Any meaning or emotion to be found in it would be what you brought along in the first place. I'm often told that I don't smile in pictures, even when I think I am; well, this would be as far from a smile as it would get. Granted, the last thing I expect to hear from anyone about the final product is "Why aren't you smiling?" More likely, at least from people unfamiliar with Steven's Sexgoblins, it will be "Is that what I think it is?" And the answer will probably be yes. After the face, we moved south. I removed my blouse, apologizing for the fact that I hadn't shaved by chest recently, since I'm letting it grow out for my next electro appointment. As soon as I said it I knew it wouldn't make a difference to him. It was how my body was at that moment, and besides, this wasn't about my body as such, just certain details in extreme closeup, in this case my nipples. It helped keep me from being embarrassed about my stomach; he wasn't going to be photographing it, and he didn't strike me as being judgemental about body types. What's more, I wasn't doing anything that Chupa hadn't done. That helped, a lot. Especially when I took off my pants so he could photograph my nether regions. We'd agreed to it beforehand, but I was still nervous as hell, though Maddy assured me it didn't show. It's the Vulcan in me, I guess. Again, the fact that Chupa had done it herself was reassuring, as she's not one to let herself be exploited. And these weren't "sexy" pictures for the purpose of wanking by anonymous men; indeed, though he's been called a pornographer, nothing about it seemed pornographic on any level, unless you consider genitalia to be pornography by definition, in which case you should be out protesting Michelangeo's David. Besides, he isn't shy about using his own body in his art—you can bet Irving Klaw never took off so much as his shoes—so at least he isn't a hypocrite. In fact, based on the pictures I've seen, we're roughly the same size, and he clearly isn't embarrased about what some would describe as "really small." Not that there was any comparing done. When I removed my panties, my penis (penis! penis! lookit, I'm sayin' penis!) was hiding like a sleeping turtle, and somewhat obscured by pubic hair. He photographed it as is, which I appreciated. Steven Leyba himself is a terribly nice guy, almost shy. Chupa had said he'd probably be as nervous to meet us as we would be to meet him, and I got the feeling that was true. I find it interesting that the actual card-carrying Satanists I've met—he's is a legally ordained priest in the Church of Satan, and showed us his documentation signed by Anton LaVey, which we found terribly cool—have always been perfect gentlemen. Funny how that works. Anyway we sat and talked with him and Miiyu for a while before he got out the camera, and chatted for a couple hours after that. Being that circles always cross somewhere, we have mutual friends beyond Chupa, such as Imani and Danielle Willis. Regarding the latter, I discovered I somehow managed to live in San Francisco in 1997 without hearing about the infamous 50th birthday party of political consultant Jack Davis, at which—in front of a who's-who of big names in local government and sports—Danielle dressed as Pocahontas and sodomized Steven (a Mescalero Apache) with a whiskey bottle as "The Apache Whiskey Rite," which represented the curse of alcohol forced on Native Americans by European settlers. He also cursed the 49ers and their proposal for a new stadium mall; even though the ballot eventually passed, construction isn't going to start anytime soon, if ever. (It's a shame he couldn't have done something similar regarding the Giants and The Evil Pac Bell Park, but hey, you can only take on so many Goliaths.) We even subscribed to the newspaper back then, for pete's sake, yet I had no idea any of this was going on. Y'all think I'm self-centered now? Anyway, he gave us a signed copy of his mass-published book Coyote Satan Amerika to give to Danielle the next time we see her. Which probably won't be soon, but considering he's leaving the country in a few weeks and won't be back until next year, it'll probably be sooner than him. In spite of the extreme (fuck Vin Diesel movies, this is a proper use of that market-saturated word) nature of his work and the righteous anger which pervades it, he's ultimately quiet and terribly sweet. Maybe he just knows how to channel his energy properly. I was rather honored that he let us leaf through his self-published, handmade and blood-drenched collage-art books, individual pages of which sell for more money than I can wrap my little brain around. (Speaking of such things, even though I probably would have done it for free, payment for modeling for Sexgoblins comes in the form of getting to keep one of them when completed; the other two or three that he makes are his to do with as he pleases, to sell or publish or whatever. Lord knows I'd be thrilled if Maddy and I ended up in a book with Chupa or Poppy Z. Brite, who wants to be in one. Provided that none of her own genitalia is used, that is; apparently Poppy, who writes from the perspective of gay men with an authority that belies her status as a genetic female, wants cocks on hers, and lots of 'em.) Indeed, he seemed happy to show them to us and point things out, even though we clearly weren't potential buyers but simply kindred spirits—he does make money from his art, but in this case, it wasn't buy my stuff so much as it was this is what I made, isn't it cool? Well, we're kinder-kindred spirits, anyway; we're nowhere near his level, but we were able to hold our own, and weren't visibly (or otherwise) shocked. I was rather proud when I asked where the UPC symbol used on the cover of the honesty titled My Stinking Ass had came from, and Steven, who usually can the tell story behind every element in his work, said it was a good question, becuase he honestly didn't remember. (Yay me! I asked a good question!) Afterwards we went to Sacrifice to see Chupa, who admitted she'd been wondering how it was going to go. I kept waiting for the what-the-HELL-did-I-just-do feeling to hit. It never did. Still hasn't. I don't think it's going to.
| ||
| ||