Vash and I were both more than a little exhausted, so we headed straight back to the Black Light District and crashed. She has a date with Dietrich tonight, so after the movie I'll probably be heading to the Power Exchange solo. I was looking forward to us going together, but that's for another time, preferably not a schoolnight. I just hope there aren't any more Snoids.

10:27am

I want a chew toy of my own.

sometime after midnight

After The Last Movie ended, one of the yutzes sitting directly behind me (why are they always directly behind me? I hope my pigtails blocked their view) said now i know why it's one of the fifty worst movies ever made, referencing the hateful Michael Medved book. I declined comment—I know better than to debate a bitchy queen on the merits of a gloriously druggy experimental film—but I suspect their reasons for hating it were the same as my reasons for liking it.

I decided to keep my glasses on at the Power Exchange. As it happens, I got more random compliments and offers (mostly men asking me to domme them) than any other night. Huh. It was probably the pink fuzzy hairclippy thing of Vash's that I was wearing. I was also informed that being a Gemini explains why I'm so "intelligent and sane." All along I'd thought it was good genetics, and that the only advantage to being a Gemini is that we're as far from xmas babies as you can get.

It's almost four in the morning. I've been up for twenty-three hours and Vash will probably be picking me up in around twelve hours, so I should really go to bed. But it's a new moon, the sky is clear, and the Orionid meteor shower is about to begin...

Not doing much better healthwise today, still coughing and sneezing and such. I don't suppose that going on the Port of Oakland Harbor Tour to see the giant metal ducks up close helped, since it involved being on the windy deck of a ferry for over an hour. It was worth it, though, as Vash did a lot of sketching, and many of the no-necked monsters from the eight zillion school field trips on the tour decided before too long that trying to figure out what hell I am was much more interesting than the dumb stupid harbor tour. At least one person described our occasional displays of public affection as "sickening." They were probably referring to my runny nose. It is pretty gross, when you think about it.

Afterward, Vash and I had lunch at The Home of Chicken and Waffles. I'm a firm believer in proper conduct in Rome, so I ordered chicken and waffles. Actually, not just chicken, but fried chicken liver. Why? Because I've never had fried chicken liver before, that's why. Dunno if it's really the best thing to eat while battling a cold, but it was quite yummy all the same.

Though I intend to load up on various cold medicines before then, I hope Diamanda will forgive me if I'm my sinuses are a little...active during the show. I'll try my best to keep it to myself, honest.

6:16pm

Went to Walgreens to the most hardcore cold medicine they've got, the kind where you have to take the product card to the pharmacy and show ID and sign their little screen. Man. All this for pseudowhatsit. It better be some good shit, is all I'm sayin'. If I'm going to be treated like a criminal, I'd goddamn well better feel as good as criminal.

Maddy was going to be going to the Diamanda show with us tonight, but she had to bail for personal reasons I neither entirely understand nor especially care to. (Possibly similar to why I didn't see Lucinda Williams all those years ago, though I doubt it.) (Fun fact about that harsh night: Sister Edith ended up going in my place, not only before she was in the Sisters, but before we'd ever met in person.) Thankfully, I still had the ticket and was able to find it a good home.

He also mentioned that the frontrunner for the new office is actually very close by, within a block or two. I hope so. It's bad enough that I surely won't have such a nice secluded jungly spot in the new place, and it would really suck if it was no longer a terminal-to-terminal ride on the N-Judah for me. I'll still go wherever it is, of course, because I recognize those luxuries for what they are. Even if I'm in the middle of a fluorescent-lit warehouse with an exposed monitor (like at Organic), it still beats not working at all.

6:46pm

Whew. The show isn't until Thursday night, but I'm glad I had the foresight to track down the Diamanda tickets tonight, especially since they proved difficult to locate. Of course, they ended up being exactly the where they were supposed to be, the first and last place I looked. At least some very necessary housecleaning got done in the process.

I finally figured out how to make my cell phone only ring for certain people. Otherwise, the screen flashes, but the phone doesn't make noise or vibrate or otherwise call attention to itself. Fuck you, telemarketers and phantom campaign recordings. In fact, unless I'm actively expecting a call from someone, the only person who makes it ring is Vash. As a result, I'm actually happy when it rings. That's a first.

Speaking of whom, here's Vash from the Doggone Fun Run last saturday with other cats, a dog (mass hysteria!), and a nun.

This week is slated to include giant metal ducks, Diamanda Galas, bad pr0n, and The Last Movie. For starters.

8:11pm

I don't get the song "Stardust." I wish I did. It just doesn't stay in my mind at all. It's supposed to be one of the most recognizable American popular songs, but I can't recognize it to save my life. I've listened to the Willie Nelson version several times (my mom once described Willie's Stardust album as "the best record ever," and though it's not bad, the existance of Red-Headed Stranger and Phases and Stages in Nelson's own catalog keep it from that status), and I just can't identify the melody. Hell, it was used prominently in my favorite Woody Allen movie, the not-so-coincidentally titled Stardust Memories, but even though I know the movie and the scene by heart, I'm not able to recollect the music. Maybe I'm just distracted by the image of Charlotte Rampling's face, I don't know.

Earlier today, we met with the organizer of a black satanic mass thingy in which Vash will be participating. Specifically, she's going to be dressed as a nun and piddling onstage into a pot. No dressing like Pocahontas, strapping on a whiskey bottle and fucking a guy him with it—that's so been done. Unsurprisingly, the guy is a friend of Leyba's. Tiny tiny tiny world.

The latter half of October is going to be a busy one. The day before the mass (which itself is the day before Halloween), I'm probably going to be an extra in a movie. Shawna Virago contacted me about it, and not only do I inherently trust her, it's a really neat-looking project, inspired as it is by Eisenstein-era Russian filmmaking. Sets my not-so-inner film geek a-twitter. And, as I say, I trust Shawna, and know she wouldn't suggest me for a part described in the script as a cross-dresser. Though I still get grumpy every time I think about it (especially because it's such a negative, laugh-at-the-freak portrayal of cross-dressers—though I am not one, they deserve equal respect) I have no ill will towards the person who though I might be interested in the role. They just didn't know, is all.

Last night, Vash and I went hooked up with the Litquake Lit Crawl at Good Vibrations, where my almost-neighbor Jen Cross read. We then scuttled over to Borderlands to hear Loren Rhoads. Loren then joined us on the way to our next destination, the commie pinko cafe, but it was way too crowded and scary for us. Vash and I instead loaded up on soyrizo at Paplotte and headed back across the bridge to Wonderland.

By the way—

Political correctness is a strawman. Pure and simple. There is no such goddamned thing anymore, and it's certainly not this huge fascistic force which it's made out to be. If you want to sound rebellious or edgy, all you have to do is claim that you're being politically incorrect. Oooh! You're being so brave and daring! What. Fucking. EVER. It's meaningless. Two people can espouse completely different points of view, and yet both claim to be politically incorrect, thus presenting the illusion of being a radical freethinker who's bravely standing up against the idealistic hegemony (fear me and my rampant polysyllablism!):

i know it's not "politically correct," but i believe in god.

Or:

i know it's not "politically correct," but i don't believe in god.

Extra points if you make air quotes and use a sardonic tone when you say the words.

Political correctness is whatever the hell you need it to be. Kinda like when my roommate in college said i know it's not "politically correct," but i really hate spics. Way to stand up to the Political Correctness Nazis, Chip!

Fuck knows it's not a liberal or conservative issue, though it was hijacked very early on by the conservatives. As I understand it, the concept originally started out as an attempt at linguistic equality. Whether it was misguided or not I can't really say, but damn, it scared a lot of people. Still does.

As the term is mostly used now, then, political correctness is a question of community standards. Whatever your particular choir is for, then political correctness is against. When those girls stormed out in protest during my reading at the Camp Trans Benefit because I said that I personally associated being fat with being a boy (I lost over a hundred pounds before I transitioned), they were offended by my words, by my personal ideas, by what they parsed as my politics, even though it was wholly personal. They found me heretical, seditious, politically incorrect—by their standards. I am not describing myself as such, and I wonder how many of them would agree with my assessment of the situation, or describe themselves as being politically correct. I'm guessing "none."

Ugh. Claiming to be politically incorrect is about as brave and subversive as knitting. Which is to say, not at all.

Anyway.

That afternoon, Vash and I went to the 1890 Bryant for SF Open Studios. While Vash excitedly geeked out over ink at Atelier Gargoyle, I got seriously fangirlish at SomaFM, my favoritest internet radio station. I've been a fan of their primary channel Drone Zone ever since The Weatherman mentioned it on Over the Edge back in '01, and it helped me survive my hellish job in Sausalito more than once). I was dumbly thrilled to get to meet the people who run it and see their computers and hear the story behind the picture on the website and get a SomaFM baby tee in XL. A baby tee! In XL! It fits! Now if someone would manufacture (affordable) maryjanes in size 13. Yeah, right.

Vash ran in the Doggone Fun Run in Golden Gate Park that morning. She showed up on my doorstep around noon, in full leopard regalia (she ran dressed as a leopard, duh), her makeup somewhat smeared by sweat but mostly in good shape. I'd originally planned on being there, since it was just a few blocks from the Black Light District, but she assured me it was not necessary. It felt a little weird, but since she did not actively request my presence, I didn't go. Boundaries and disattached hips and all.

Just as well, I must admit, since I'd only been awake for an hour when she arrived. I was at the Power Exchange until about half past three, and didn't get to sleep until well past four. I awoke at seven, and almost stayed awake, but I fought my instincts and went back to sleep. Operating on three hours of sleep is one thing when I have to get up and go to work, but damnit, if I don't have anywhere to be, I'm going to give my body a chance to rest, particularly if I didn't get much sleep the night before. I managed six hours, which for me is the equivalent of a full night's rest.

In a rare burst of foresight, I parked my car across the Power Exchange before the Queer Open Mic, since there was plenty of space available and I knew there was a very good chance I'd be going to the former after the latter. Even if I did decide to go straight home (unlikely), the car was still all of five minutes away.

I went straight into the dungeon, made myself comfy on the couch and wrote. Neither of the regulars I've been hanging out with, Hal or Rhonda, were there yet. Still early, though. Always takes a while to get rolling.

10/13/06
10:27pm
Freedom is a harsh mistress. For it to work, there must be equity and responsibility in parallel measures. Others must be allowed to follow their own path, to pursue happiness just as you pursue yours. Sometimes, that will be painful and scary and seem to threaten your entire world, even if it has nothing to do with you. You have to learn to live with it. It is survivable. It is tolerable. You are alive, and there is only where you are at this moment. What other people are doing in other places is not relevant. The past should only be mourned if you didn't appreciate it at the time. If you did, then you should appreciate this moment as well.

For example.

It was around midnight. Hal had arrived (Rhonda was taking the evening off), and we were talking with a couple that had also set up shop in the dungeon. Really nice folks. I'd since changed into a chemise, and was in my usual place, leaning up against the long wooden table in the middle. A fellow I didn't recognize came in and made himself awkwardly comfortable on the one of the black-padded spanking horse thingies. He was bald with a mustache and glasses, wearing a towel and white t-shirt made blinding by the ceiling blacklights. The towel set off warning bells. (Towel equals tourist.) (Yeah, I'm a bigot.) Nobody else seemed to be objecting to his presence, so I tried my best to ignore him. I haven't quite worked up the courage to police the inside of the fence yet. Rhonda, on the other hand, is quite fierce about it, and probably would have called bullshit on the guy the moment he slithered in.

Just when I'd managed to forget about him, he touched me. Lightly, but noticeably, and most assured nonconsensually. I turned to him and loudly said no! you do NOT get to touch me! hands OFF! Without saying a word he developed an attitude, making an exaggerated "jeez, don't have a cow!" face. Needless to say, that pissed me off even more. Louder, I said do NOT TOUCH ME! He started sniggering, putting up a hand to cover his mouth, and suddenly I realized that he was a goddamned Snoid. Crawled his way up from the sewer (perhaps emerging from that one faucet in the women's restroom that's constantly running), put on a towel for plausible deniability, and went on about his business. very funny, mr. snoid!

Hal told him that if he didn't get out of the fenced-in area he'd be kicked out of the club altogether, and as the Snoid was getting up, he said she's ugly anyway. Oh, man. I pointed to the gate, hissing, out! now! there's the chain! get the hell out of here! He left, with the grinning, incredulous look on his face the entire time. Hal went and told one of the security guards (all of whom he knows by name, natch), and I confirmed it. The guard asked me if I wanted the guy thrown out. It took me about a half-second to say yes. Fuck it. I have so little recourse or power in the world, certainly the world upstairs. I might as well use what I have down here, where that shit does not fly, especially not if the snickering little Snoid is going to call me ugly. I'm a lot of things, damnit—weird, freaky, confusing, indeterminate, alien, but I am not ugly. Just because he couldn't taste my grapes didn't mean they're sour.

As Hal was escorting the Snoid through the fence, I happened to glance over at the naked guy masturbating in the sling. I've never caught his name, but he's always there, forever watching people walk by as he strokes his wood, not bothering anyone. I've always found something rather sweet about it. I'll have to introduce myself to him next time. Presently, he gave me a thumb's up and said good job! That almost made it all worth it.

Unfortunately, shit defies gravity: Mr. Snoid evidently apologized to the security guard and promised not to do it again or somesuch, and was allowed to stay. Feh. At least he kept his goddamned distance.

What gets me is that he used the proper pronoun. He said she's ugly, not he's ugly. Trust me, I'm way too conscious of these things not to notice. Did I pass, even though I was agitated? Was it a slip of the tongue (ew)? Do I really want to know? No, I don't.

One of my superpowers is the ability to bounce back (that, and talking myself out of buying things), so the Snoid did not ruin my evening, not even when he occasionally slithered past the fence. It also helped that I was able to bust out my notebook and write while it was still fresh in my mind.

I had my notebook out more than usual that particular evening. I wasn't writing strictly about goings-on about at the Power Exchange; a lot was stream-of-consciousness about Vash and I, about Vash and Dietrich (whom she was out with that night), turning it all over, figuring out just what my feelings are by putting them on paper. But, yes, some of it was also about my immediate surroundings and its denizens, none of whom cared. Hal shrugged and said that a lot of people write about the place, and the boy of the couple asked me if it was for a class. Feeling horribly pretentious, I replied no, i'm just a writer. Nobody told me not to put it in my damned blog, or that what happens there stays there. At one point I told Hal, my pen is mightier than your flogger! He nodded and said, probably true.

No doubt it helped that I walk the walk. I may have been a journalist, but I'm also there to play. And play I did, with Hal. He's not my aesthetic cup of tea by a country mile, but I've grown to trust him, and that's even more important. I went on the St. Andrew's Cross twice throughout the evening. I didn't actually keep track, but based on the number of songs that played, I'd guess about half an hour each time. "The Hand That Feeds" by Nine Inch Nails played on the club's sound system during the first session, and being able to sing along to a song I like makes it an entirely different experience. I wish I could arrange to have Antichrist Superstar on sometime.

It was pushing two in the morning when I went again, and the post-bar tourist crowd was starting to arrive. The bouncers don't let anyone in who's obviously intoxicated, and I don't believe that any of them were actually drunk, but they were certainly were obnoxious. (I don't begrudge them the right to be there, mind you. Indeed, I'm glad they are, since they shell out the big bux to get in, thus subsidizing freeloaders such as myself. It's when they get grabby that I get cranky.) One of the other tops lured in a tourists to take a ride, and by virtue of the double-sided design of the Cross we were face-to-face.

Ick. Talk about a buzzkill. I rearranged my lightly shackled hands (in cuffs lined with leopard-print fake fur, making me miss Vash every time I saw it) so I wouldn't have to look at the guy. Even worse, he was getting into all the standard-issue cliches: oh, i've been bad! i've been bad! I turned to Hal and said, for the record, i have not been bad. i've been very good. Telling Vash about it the next day, she said, exactly. you were being rewarded, not punished.

Hal and I were also being upstaged in the other direction by a domme and her rubbermaid slave, the latter tottering slightly in their platform boots, visibility largely obscured by the eerie, featureless mask. I've seen pictures of such things, but never in person. Yay for freakshow night at the Power Exchange! So much more interesting than I had I just gone home and gone to bed. Someone, statistically likely to be a man, had paid good money for the privilege of being lead around by a leash constricted and largely blind in a corset and mask, ending up (as I confirmed when I glanced around at one point) on one of the spanking horse thingies getting fucked by the dildo-strapped domme. More power to them, says I. They're getting out there in the real world and doing it, and that's more than most of us can say. It's one of the reasons I admire Ali so much.

Of course, it can all be rather overwhelming. When I was in the restroom toward the end of the evening, I heard a timid voice from the next stall say is this anybody else's first time? When nobody else replied, I thought of the others I'd seen in there when I entered (mostly familiar tranny faces) and said, i doubt it. It was a small genetic girl asking, and when we both emerged, from the stall, I confirmed that it was her first time. She said it was, and I told her that it was okay and understandable to be scared, nervous, overwhelmed, and that she'd do just fine. I was basing that on nothing at all, of course, but it seemed like the right thing to say. Probably she left shortly thereafter and will never return again.

11:43pm

I've been writing for six hours straight on Vash's computer, which is a hell of a lot more productive than I would have been at home, especially considering how long it would have taken to get there.

Came to work to find a new monitor, a snazzy flatscreen job. I had requested a new monitor, since the one I've been using since I got here last year has always been a bit on the janky side, and recently started making a high-pitched death rattle. Wasn't expecting to get one at all, and certainly not so soon. Yay. I'd made a point of making one (1) single request and leaving it at that, as I figured I'd used up all my squeaky wheel credits getting moved to this new desk. Combine that with how many fires I've started lately, and...well, I've seen firsthand that you have to be a much more obvious screwup than myself to get shitcanned.

Especially since Sister Edith put in her two week notice. It makes me really sad—she didn't get me this job per se, but she did get my foot in the door, and for that I'll be forever grateful—though I'm happy for her and her greener pastures. From a survivalist standpoint, a Nietzschean view of which I know she'd approve, it means I'll become a little more useful around here. Hopefully.

9:14am

Never underestimate the psychological comfort value of hair over your eyes. Teenagers know it, girls know it, teenage girls know it, and those of us who qualify as "none of the above" know it.

For as much as I've wrought upon others over the years, change scares me. A lot, sometimes.

2:23pm

Sister Edith just showed me a lot of her duties that I'll be taking over, mostly involving updating the main site. Nothing I can't handle, though I'll have to strengthen my Flash Fu. Despite my low energy, I managed to pay something resembling attention. So very, very tired.

When we got out of bed this morning—Perdita was kind enough to start biting Vash's toes a few minutes before the alarm went off—Vash asked if I'd gotten any sleep at all. I wasn't sure what she meant at the time, but now it feels like I didn't sleep a wink. It's like I was awake all night long, but forgot about it. I'm expecting slash hoping to get my wind back for Queer Open Mic tonight, and beyond.

10/11/06
5:10pm, 3rd and Folsom
You got time to read, you got time to write, eh? Waiting for Storm at a place which is beyond too swanky for me. Yeesh. (Maybe she's upstairs?) I guess this makes me firmly middle-class.

At a quarter past, I begin wondering and wandering. It's a big multistoried place, and she'd mentioned food. I go upstairs to find the restaurant. Nothing. Still, she could be anywhere, so I call. Whaddadayknow: she's running late. Overslept. Occupational hazard, I suppose. Will be there in half an hour. Not the same as being stood up, right? Still, as promising starts go, this is not one of them.

Trying to resist the siren song of Starbucks. No, damnit. No yummy coffee beverages for me this week. I'm, like, caffeine-detoxing or something. I can manage with my own energy.

As I sit on a bench in front of the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts (The Last Movie and Diamanda next week, yay!), a scraggly-looking guy starts to approach. I immediately wrap the strap of my bag around my arm, as it should have been already. History will NOT repeat itself. It may, however, parallel itself: we're meeting at the building literally next door to where Vash and I went on our first date. A meaningless coincidence.

I found I had to reiterate a few times throughout the course of the evening the fact that she was not "the girl" in this particular dating dynamic, certainly not the lone girl, because that defaults me to the position of "the boy," and, uh-uh. No. The crux was that since I was taking her (the girl) out on a date, I should pay for everything. Again, no. I really don't think she'd realized that I identify as female, and as such, do not consider myself a boy, and perhaps more importantly, really really really do not like being asked to assume what are considered male roles. We were two girls on a date with each other; I was not a boy-thing taking out a girl with all the social requirements some say that implies. But, you know, very few people really grok that I consider myself female and am not just a boy with a highly idiosyncratic fashion sense, and she's young (several years past legal, but still younger than I'd realized), and whatever.

The Vash-n-Sherilyn origin story got told once again, as is growing into a weird custom when I'm on dates. What can I say? They almost always ask, probably because how lovingly I talk about her. She also asked what color Vash is, which nobody else has. Storm herself is African-American, so I guess she was curious if there was a pattern at work.

There'd been some talk about going to see a very bad movie starting at eleven at the Evil Sony Metreon (my treat, of course) after first going back to my place to smoke some of the weed I mentioned I had. Another one for the "uh-uh" file, on more levels than I can count. We eventually compromised, settling on just going back to my place to smoke and watch a movie there, after which I'd drive her home. I was kinda tempted to just call it a night then and there, but figured, what the hell. Sense of adventure and all, and didn't involve me paying ten bucks twice (or even once) to have to get home from a bad movie at half past one in the morning. if I'm going to be awake until three, it won't be for that.

On the train ride back to my place—I'm never conscious of how far away I live until I'm traveling there with someone else—it occurred to me to ask a rather vital question: um, you aren't allergic to cats, are you?

a little, yeah. how many do you have?

just the one. One fullsized cat with long hair, sure, but still just one.

does it have long hair?

Oh. That. Her hair's not too long, it's... I approximated the length of Perdita's hair with my thumb and forefinger. She does, in fact, have long hair. To an outside observer, I probably looked like I was approximating penis size. If so, I hope they didn't think that I was doing my own—not because I'm worried about anyone knowing about my lack of endowment, but because I'd prefer people didn't parse that I was endowed at all. But, well, I know better than that, don't I?

After stopping at Java Beach for a mocha (breaking my caffeine detox out of necessity) (necessity, I tell you!), we finally made it to my place. Predictably, she started coughing and sneezing after a few minutes. Perdita was all yay! new person! love me!—when Embeth visited last week, she commented that Perdita seemed more friendly and outgoing than the last time she was over, and I'd like to think it's true—but even if she hadn't, the Black Light District is so thoroughly irradiated with her fur, it wouldn't have mattered. I put her in the bedroom anyway for placebo value. We decided to watch Freeway 2, but before getting that far she started reading a copy of Adult Video News. She read until well after midnight, coughing and sneezing the entire time. I just went on about my business, burning DVDs (arrrrrr!), reading The Children of Men, and making sure Perdita didn't feel too lonely.

I drove her home around half past midnight. There was some talk of getting together again; she seems to want to, but I'm not so sure. My instincts are still making up their mind.

I picked up Quentin Crisp's The Naked Civil Servant from the library today; I've been wanting to read it ever since Quentin's brilliant comments in The Celluloid Closet, which seem more relevant than ever these days. I finished Tom DeHaven's lengthy but tasty It's Superman! yesterday morning, and moved right on to P. D. James' The Children of Men. I'm sure I'd get a lot more reading done if I didn't tend to fall asleep on the train.

Also got a flu shot, for the first time in a couple of years. Shortages and all. I didn't get sick when I didn't get sick, but I'm a firm believer in the placebo effect.

sometime after midnight

It makes perfect sense. After dinner with the girl I met at the big skanky sex club, we wind up back at my place and...sit on the couch, reading. I kid you not. It isn't a bad thing, necessarily—it's how things went, she was a guest in my home, and I'm a firm believer in hospitality—but it's just so me, it ain't even funny.