I don't want you anymore, cause you took my joy
i don't want you anymore, you took my joy

you took my joy, i want it back

i'm gonna go to west memphis and look for my joy
go to west memphis and look for my joy
maybe in west memphis I'll find my joy

i'm gonna go to slidell and look for my joy
go to slidell and look for my joy
maybe in slidell I'll find my joy

you got no right to take my joy, i want it back

you took my joy, i want it back

i'm gonna go to west memphis and look for my joy
go to west memphis and look for my joy
maybe in west memphis i'll find my joy

i'm gonna go to slidell and look for my joy
go to slidell and look for my joy
maybe in slidell i'll find my joy

i don't want you anymore cause you took my joy
i don't want you anymore, you took my joy

you took my joy, i want it back...

Lucinda Williams,
"Joy"

The old Web: "Me too!"

Web 2.0: "Thanks for the Add!"

Granted, "Me too!" wasn't strictly a web-based phenomenon—I mostly saw it on the usenet—but I think the point is still valid.

This page, which has not changed significantly since February of 1999, was non-Web 2.0 before there was even a Web 2.0 for it to not be.

Speaking of emerging technological stupidity...I loved Neal Stephenson's Snow Crash. If the technology in Cronenberg's eXistenZ ever came to pass, I guarantee you Vash and I would be the first in line. Same for Strange Days. Heck, my favorite video games have always been the ones with the first-person perspective, all the way back to Star Ship on the Atari 2600, and Battlezone still makes me happy. If I could find a Playstation 2 for less than three digits, I'd be very tempted, so I can play Star Trek Voyager: Elite Force.

And yet, I cannot get myself interested in Second Life. Just...can't. No reason I should, I suppose, though it seems like something I might like. Mostly the thought of it makes me uncomfortable. There's just not enough time in the day/week/year/life for me.

There's also the graphical squick factor, the Uncanny Valley. CGI characters often make my skin crawl, and the notion that some people can them having sex to be, well, sexy is a testament to the power of the human imagination. And it's fine for them. They're welcome to it. Just means there's more parking out in the real world for me.

And, you know, I understand the desire to not go out into that real world. It can be spooky. As I was walking from the bus stop to the Power Exchange on Saturday night, a guy said to me, hey, cutie, wanna suck my dick? Granted, it was two in the morning at the corner of Otis and South Van Ness—a seedy place at a seedy time—but that's the kind of thing that happens in the flesh-and-blood world. I'm sure it happens in electronic worlds as well, especially ones which seem to go to such great pains to replicate reality as Second Life, but there's no real threat if it happens while you're sitting in your bathrobe at your computer, is there? No real threat, no real excitement, no real adventure. But, again, no real danger. No real physical danger, that is. And that can make all the difference.

I don't especially want to get raped or assaulted, and do what I can to prevent it from happening. When I'm walking down the street I am very aware of my surroundings, especially at night. If anybody gets the jump on me, it won't be for lack of vigilance on my part. Unless, of course, you consider being out at night in scary places to be asking for it, but even then, I'm careful. Even though I could have easily walked the distances between Temple of Atonement, Taqueria Cancun and The Power Exchange, it was not a risk I was willing to take alone at two in the morning. I am not completely sans reck. I'm attempting to (at long, long last) enjoy my body as much as I can, and getting the shit beaten out of it nonconsensually wouldn't help.

Feh. Maybe Divas, then? What probably seems the obvious choice for me lately, the Power Exchange, is only open Thursday through Saturday. (At least this means I'm never at a loss for something to do with myself on the weekend.) In spite of the fact that I was out so late on Saturday night and have plans to go out at least two more nights this week, I kinda want to be elsewhere this evening. Because I can be. I feel like I'm only now beginning to recognize the profundity of that.

I used to go to clubs a lot in 1999, especially the first half after breaking up The Ex. I started going less often when Maddy and I started corresponding and chatting, and even moreso when we started considering ourselves a couple. I'd had this fantasy that when she moved out here we'd go together, especially since she seemed to enjoy herself when we went on Shrine during her September visit, and even had made the rounds in her native Kansas.

10/28/06
11:42pm
Temple of Atonement is a goth club, essentially. Feels like Bound. No, not Bound. Sanctuary. Yeah, Sanctuary.

I miss that sense of wonder and discovery. Can I get it back? I have seven years to make up for. Okay, that's not fair. Six years. Whatever I've done or not done since April of last year is nobody's responsibility but my own.

The more distance I get from it, the less real feels. Having to negotiate my every goddamned movement? How did I let that happen? How did I so badly bungle my first chance at adult freedom, to allow myself to be reduced and cowled and in my own home? Weakness and pride: being too proud to admit my weakness. "no, her moving out here was a great idea! everything's going swell! i'm/we're happy!" lies, goddamned lies, and false statistics.

When she moved in that December, though, my clubbing days came screeching to a halt. For as much as I enjoyed Roderick's and Shrine of Lilith, she never wanted to go. Which was her prerogative, except that she didn't want me to go by myself, lest I be stolen away by Christina Aguilera lookalikes. (Such a thing had happened to me in a dream of hers, and she was afraid it would happen in real life. Them playing with the strands of hair around my face was a tearfully described terror.) If I still wanted to go out even after she'd declined to join me, an explosion was inevitable, as that was proof that I didn't want her around, in spite of the fact that I always invited her along in the first place. She also admitted (in the form of an angry accusation) to being afraid that if I went to clubs or even just to visit Dana and Constanza by myself, I'd discover that I had more more fun without her. As facts went, this was in no more need of discovery than the Bering Strait.

It was a conundrum wrapped in a stalemate, to put it mildly, typically ending with me surrendering and staying home. On very rare occasions would I leave the house anyway, to the sound of her sobbing her eyes out, after the pouting and swearing had subsided. (I have never said fuck you or i hate you to someone I claim to love, and never will. She had no such qualms, and used them liberally in fights or just when I was saying or doing things she didn't like.) I do hope that in the unlikely event I find myself in that position again, I'll have the backbone to walk the hell away.

I have a callous on my left big toe from dancing at Feast of Souls last night, and my I sweated so much, it's a wonder i didn't soak everyone else on the dancefloor. I also have some gnarly marks on my back (nothing compared to what Vash used to get back in the day, but still), which I probably didn't help any during the shoot.

The Black Mass thingy tomorrow has been cancelled. Seems a dean at the college (it was a student's senior project) has called it off. It blows my mind that some people are still afraid of Satanism. How old hat can you get?

Vash is coming over to spend the night. That alone makes it one of my better Sundays in recent memory.

Afterwards, we went to Cindy and Charlotte's place to carve pumpkins. Haven't done that in years. I mostly sat back and let Vash have at it, since she's the more visually artistic one, and I was already starting to fade, so using sharp things would not have been especially wise. It was fun, though, and again made me think of how different being a grownup is from what I'd expected it to be from looking at my parents. Obviously I had a very skewed perspective while growing up (and it's only slightly less skewed now, one could argue), but even though me and my friends are now the ages my parents were when I was a child, we feel so much..younger than they looked to me at the time. If that makes any sense. I suppose an important detail is environment and context. My parents were living in Fresno and, well, parents, with all the responsibilities and social requirements that brings. In addition to being childless, the four of us last night were a writer, an artist, a poet and a filmmaker living in San Francisco. Okay, the artist lives in Oakland, but she spends much of her time in San Francisco, not to mention she was wearing a nun's habit and going commando. So, close enough for jazz.

Sister Satani and I returned to the Black Light District and crashed. This morning, Vash and I walked to the Sea Biscuit for coffee and bagels, something we haven't done for a while. She has Black Mass rehearsal tonight, and I'm going to the Temple of Atonement's Feast of Souls, and then probably to The Power Exchange for their big Halloween brouhaha. It's ten bucks to get in, which offends my sense of entitlement, but all four stories of the club will be open. That's worth the cost of admission right there. Besides, every time I see him, Hal nudges me about it: you're going to be here for halloween, right? right? So, what the hell. Besides, the Temple of Atonement thing is until three, and the Power Exchange even goes until six, and it's not like I have to be anywhere on Sunday until...er...half past eleven in the Mission for the movie shoot. Which will probably seem extremely early if I don't get home until after six. Huh. That's the rock'n'roll lifestyle, I guess, doing at thirty-three what I should have done at twenty-seven and younger. Not that I'm a rock'n'roller.

sometime after midnight

Drove and parked across from The Power Exchange, walked to The Dark Room for Young Frankenstein, took BART to The Porn Palace for Feast of Souls, caught a cab to Taqueria Cancun, rode the Muni to The Power Exchange, then drove back home. The modern urban warrior, she knows how to ride the currents.

Which is not to say that it's my fault if I'm walking along the street and a car suddenly swerves into me, or if the Muni train I'm on crashes, or a piano falls out of the sky, and it certainly goes without saying that other humans can fuck your shit up something fierce. The universe is and always will be a godless, random place. But, to paraphrase eXistenZ, we have just enough free will to make it interesting. And lord knows I've had some entirely too interesting times due to exercising that free will. I've been known to fuck up something horrible, and I'm sure I'll be known to do it again. I try to write about those things, too. Indeed, those are generally the more interesting stories, aren't they?

this is what i did, and this is what happened to me.

this is what happened to me.

Were I inclined to boil down the essence of my passion for writing to six words (and evidently I am), that would be it.

Those have been the only kinds of stories I've ever really wanted to tell. I've managed to crank out some fiction now and then, mostly as a teenager, but even before then I tended to chronicle my life. While looking for that particular notebook the other day I came across the incomplete but lengthy story I wrote about the week at camp that I met Summer Zero. It started out as email to a friend (well, this was 1986, so we called it "electronic mail"), but when I realized how lengthy it was getting, I switched over to good ol' Atariwriter on my equally good ol' Atari 800. I literally switched over in mid-sentence, mid-dialogue even, so what I have starts rather apruptly. Hey, I was a kid, all right? I was years away from learning about segues. I also didn't bother to port over the parts I'd already written. Whatever BBS I was using probably didn't even keep sent mail. Stone knives and bearskins I tell you! So, the part of the tale involving the bus trip from the church to Camp Gaines, my first glimpse of Summer Zero (every physical detail of whom I still remember like it was yesterday), my utter failure at assimilating into the microcosm, all that's lost. Judging from the quality of what survived, it's not what I'd call a great loss. It's not good stuff at all, but who isn't rather embarrassed of what they wrote as a teenager? On the other hand, the voice is clearly mine, the central preoccupations are in place. I'd evidently recently discovered The Dark Side of the Moon, and I was also rather fond of Star Trek at the time.

I still have all my original floppies, with Oscar only knows what other things I wrote as a kid. A few fiction stories I can guess at offhand: "Hell on Seven Dollars a Day," a somewhat misnamed reworking of a dream for which I inexplicably won the William Saroyan Award for Young Writers or some such thing; "Post-Apocalyptic #62," a self-conscious and largely unsuccessful attempt at surrealism (John Shirley I weren't and ain't); "The Samaritan," a shaggy dog story in the classic sense; and some collaborations with my friend Darren, which were my favorites to write because he supplied the outline of the story and I did the dialogue and fleshed out the characters. That's always been the way I prefer to work in fiction. I'm no good at coming up with stories, no good at all. (Brian Wilson didn't write the lyrics for Pet Sounds, generally considered one of the most confessional and emotionally bare records ever made and one which has been heavy in my rotation, but he still gets credit for it.) I'm lacking in imagination, which I suppose explains why I'm such a relentless memoirist: I don't have to make shit up.

I did attempt in '99 to get my old Atari up and running, but the decay of both the hardware and my technical knowledge kept it from happening. The floppies themselves are probably nothing but flimsy coasters, but damnit, I've still got them, and one of these years I will have someone who knows what the hell they're doing give it a shot.

But, yeah. It's my thing. I'm lazy as hell and don't do it as often as I should, but I can't not do it, either. And as for why I can't keep it to myself? Why do I have to make these things public, especially since I don't exist in a vacuum and write about other people, too? Well, I'm also an entertainer at heart. I like for people to see my work, and connect somehow, whether it's to laugh or be enraptured or both. And if it's my story, if it's what happened to me, so much the better. It's how I'm wired. And, more often than not, it helps me learn something about myself, too. I do often ask people for permission to write about certain things, but otherwise, it's at my own discretion. It has to be.

This is what I do, and in the end, this is what I'll have left behind. It isn't and never will be great literature. It's not even very good prose, certainly not on this page. It won't change the world or inspire generations. But it doesn't have to.

7:45pm

After the writing group, Vash came back to the Black Light District with me. She'd been fading for a while, so she went straight to bed. I joined her shortly thereafter. When I got into bed, she briefly awoke, smiled, rolled over onto me, and went right back to sleep. Vash is a fairly deep sleeper, with very prominent breathing. I've never minded that; The Ex snored, as did Maddy, and I've always been able to sleep right through it. (Collette and I spent only a few nights together, and I don't remember if she snored or not.) In this case, there was something wonderfully comforting about having her increasingly muscular body draped over me, face next to mine, feeling and hearing her breathe onto my face. More than ever, perhaps, each moment with her is precious. She's not going away anytime soon (she isn't, no she is not), but that's no reason not to appreciate the time we have.

The next morning on the way to work, she dropped me off at Fourth and Townsend. She didn't want to, since it was still dark; she wanted to drop me off in front of my office. I insisted, though. I wanted to hit Safeway and library and drop something in the mail while I was thinking of all those things. So she dropped me off there, clearly uncomfortable with the idea. As I waited at Fourth and King for the light to change, a homeless guy came up to me and started talking to me. I was in nothing resembling a mood to deal with that sort of thing, so I stepped away and put up my hand, my compromise of the Girl Army defense posture. As I was doing so, I heard him saying, me from yesterday, i... and I realized it was the guy who'd complimented me. Well, what of it? That means I'm obligated to talk to him if I don't want to? He seemed to think the obligation existed, because he got very cranky, and though it was hard to make out exactly what he was saying, i picked up on ...better remember, i live here, and... He didn't move any closer, however; I may be a yuppie moving in on what used to be strictly his turf, but I'm still six feet tall and could probably take him if I had to. Sometimes I'm just waiting for someone to give me a reason.

So I wrote to American Apparel to confirm that if I send back the shirts, they'll send the ones I ordered. Yes, I'm told. So I package them up, take them to the hellish Post Office on Brannan (really, it's the like the Church and Market Safeway, it makes me want to kill myself), and send them on their way. A little later, I get an email from a new person entirely requesting that I wash one of the shirts, then try it on to see if it fits properly. They also suggest that SomaFM might have "altered" the shirt somehow, hence it fitting differently. Um, no. I reply that a) I already sent them back, and b) if for whatever reason you cannot send me the shirts i actually ordered, please refund my money. (but i'd really prefer the shirts. i like them.). Honestly, I don't mean to be picky. But I don't have much choice.

Of course, that's not true. I have a choice. I can't find clothes that fit that I don't like. But I don't wanna. I'm going to demand at least that much out of the universe, and do what I can to make it happen.

We met with my niece Shandon for dinner this evening. She hadn't arrived yet and Vash was parking the car, so as I sat alone at the table, I busted out my notebook. Yay for verbal hemorrhaging! (I almost called it "literary hemorrhaging," but I don't want to devalue the word. After a few sentences I realized I was getting teary. Nope, that would not do. I put the it away. If I go to the Power Exchange tonight, which seems likely, I'll give it another shot there.

I came home to find a letter from the IRS. Definitely not a check—no pretty colors poking through the window. Being an American, my immediate thought was audit!!!, but I was able to push that one back fairly quickly. My potatoes are entirely too small for them to bother with an audit. But I had a hunch wouldn't be good, and evidently I'm a goddamned psychic, 'cuz I was right: I owe. I still owe. Seems TurboTax didn't...quite...calculate things right. Or I did something wrong. That's more likely, isn't it? Human error. As near as I can by briefly comparing their numbers to mine, I got my withholding wrong, added up all one (1) of the W-2s incorrectly. Hey, who wouldn't make that mistake, right? So I'm still in dutch to government for another Ulysses S. Grant plus change. If I pay them by mid-November, I get to keep my kneecaps. The letter doesn't say it so many words, but I'm the daughter of a CPA. We know these things.

And now, to face the music and dance.

do you know how to waltz?

sometime after midnight

you're reserved. i can tell that.

I feel cold and lonely reading a lot of it now, which makes sense. It's how I felt at the time.

4:42pm

Walking to the library today, I passed a fellow on the street who said i like your look, young lady! you do punk rock damn good! He kept his distance, sounded genuine, and called me young lady, so I smiled and thanked him. "Punk rock" as an adjective phrase is largely meaningless—at least "goth," which is still what I think of in terms of my look, is somewhat quantifiable—but there are worse things to be called.

I assume he was referring mostly to my hair, which is awfully busy today. Started with the de riguer high ponytails, which are then divided in two. I've discovered that's just right to give them extra body; any more than two forks per tail just doesn't look right. I rather thick strands on either side of my face, plus a fair amount of hair from the lower half of the back of my head going over my shoulders, so I that all-important hairframe plus ponytails. I like to tell myself that it has an effect similar to the dreaded extensions I've always wanted but will probably never get until my disposable income level goes way way up. Then there's a fuzzy hairclippy things. One of them, a modest but beautiful fuzzclip made by Vash (who herself is modest but beautiful), is in front of my right-hand ponytail. Behind my lefthand ponytail is a larger, more ostentatious one which I bought at Mulitkulti on Valencia. A pale peach color, it has has a lot of long strands going in various directions and resembles nothing so much as a sea anemone. Indeed, even when I'm sitting still it moves, gently buffeted by air currents. Way too much to have in the front of my head, but works nicely in back. My hair fu is getting stronger all the time, yes it is. I've been tossing around getting the roots bleached this Saturday for the movie shoot on Sunday, but I don't think so. It'll look too much like a wig.

I had my sunglasses on so he couldn't have seen my swirly eyeliner, though the black lipstick was still hanging on from this morning (it's been a black lipstick kinda week, upcoming Tourist holiday be damned). Then there's the Fluevogs, which are probably "punk rock" by most people's standards, and the black tights—I haven't worn stripeys or fishnets in several weeks, not even to the Power Exchange—and the Penny Lane coat, the latter of which isn't really "punk rock" at all, but what the hell, I make it "punk rock," right? Right.

Naw. It's gotta be the hair.

He called me "young lady." Go him.

5:56pm

The American Apparel shirts arrived. Well, sorta. Shirts from American Apparel most certainly arrived, but not the ones I ordered, goddamnit. I knew it from the moment I saw their texture, and then as I took one out of the envelope, it was glaringly obvious that the order had been fucked up. And the problem was on their end, not mine. The packing slip says they're supposed to be Baby Rib Basic Short Sleeve T-shirts by Classic Girl, and while they're t-shirts, they're not the same make and model as the SomaFM shirt, they don't say "Classic Girl" on the label, and they sure as hell ain't "contoured to flatter women’s curves." Fuck, fuck, fuck! I immediately contacted both the company and SomaFM, the latter to confirm that they do in fact use the kind that I ordered. (They do.) The company responded quickly, and it sounds like I'll be able to exchange them for the kind I ordered in the first place, and gah. This is among the many reasons that I loathe buying clothes online. I tried to buy them in person, y'know? I really tried. And it's just so goddamned difficult to find clothes that fit me that I actually like. Every piece of clothing I own felt like a goddamned miracle when I found it. There's a reason I'm still wearing the simple black tops I got from Mervyn's seven years ago. They still fit and they still look good and if I could get more and wear those for another seven years, I would. That's essentially what I'm trying to do now.

Summer used to give me shit because when we went thrifting because I wouldn't just grab stuff almost at random to try on likw ahw sis. I tried to explain to her that very little suitably fashionable women's clothing is made for someone who's six feet tall and born male (and my body was considerably more male in those days), but she thought I was just being negative. Yeah, of course she did. Her size and shape exists to the fashion industry. When my physical reality happens to intersect with something that I like and which fits and which I can afford (the latter being the most flexible element), I'm damned well going to leap on it.

The Ex liked flowers in general and liked getting them from her boyfriend in particular, but it was a habit I never got into. Never even occurred to me most of the time, except when we were fighting or I was otherwise in trouble. In those cases, it felt like a hollow gesture, so I tended not to do it, which probably made things worse. The most notable exception was after that horrible, horrible phone call very early in the morning of Wednesday July 25, 1990. (I was seventeen years old, and she was sixteen.) After becoming a couple on June 17 of that year, she broke up with me over the phone on Sunday, July 22. She originally tried to leave me on the Fourth of July, but it didn't work. Coincidentally, I tried to break up with Maddy ten years later to the day. That didn't work, either.

I kept my shit together pretty well, until The Ex called that late Tuesday night/early Wednesday morning. She was way schnookered, crying, telling me how much she missed me...oh, and that she was in her ex-boyfriend's bedroom, waiting for him. She hadn't been properly laid in several months, since our attempts at having sex had failed miserably due to my sheer inexperience and ignorance, and that was part of the reason she broke up with me.

This pretty well devastated me. I was up for much of the rest of the night, crying my eyes out, the real deep-breathing type. I'd never hurt so bad, ever. It was my benchmark for emotional pain until that certain weekend after The Ex and I broke up for real.

The next morning, as soon as they opened, I went to the florist in Fig Garden Village and sent her flowers. I'm not sure how I got the idea, whether it had been my mother's suggestion, or if I'd learned by then that The Ex liked flowers, or I'd seen it in enough movies, or what.

The emotional floodgates were finally open, and then as now, part of the way I dealt with it was to write. I coredumped into a notebook, stream-of-consciousnessing all over the pages, barely legible angst and pain, as short a path as I could find between my heart and the paper.

Eventually The Ex and I got back together, but I kept the receipt both the receipt and notebook. It felt important to hang on to them, souvenirs of that very very dark period, proof that it actually happened. Memory has a way of seeming fake to me after a while, and lord knows I don't retain stuff in my brain very well. I knew even then how important an incident it was, and I wanted to be able to reach back to those emotions.

Cut to 2000. Maddy had moved in. (I was twenty-six years old, and she was twenty-nine.) She had...issues with The Ex. Not necessarily as person (they'd never met), but as a symbol of my past, which was frightening to her. So, I didn't talk about The Ex. When talking about anything between 1989 and 1999, I had to edit myself as I went along by changing "we" to "I," or more often just keeping mum. he past decade of my life ceased to exist, though I heard about Maddy's abusive ex-husband in great detail. I did occasionally write about The Ex or the past or even our current strife in my online diary when I felt especially brave. I wasn't brave much.

Contact was also verboten. One Sunday afternoon in early 2000 I returned home from an errand to find Maddy steaming mad. She'd looked through my email and discovered that I had been talking to The Ex, ust as she'd suspected. Worse than that, I'd been implying all was not well at home. Talking to anyone else about my/our problems was a no-no (mostly I k'vetched to Dana and Tania in secret), but talking to The Ex about it was exponentially worse. The ethical question of her reading my email for evidence to use against me was shrugged off in light of the crime she'd discovered.

One day she came across the flower receipt in the desk drawer where it had been languishing since the Bush Administration. (The first Bush administration, mind you. We hadn't gotten to the second one yet.) A huge mondo blowout ensued. I had to explain why I'd kept it for so long and why I still wanted to keep it, all of this with the crying and gnashing of teeth on her part which accompanied any mention of The Ex, along with the rote accusations of still being in love with and/or wanting to have sex with her. I don't recall if this was one of the times she locked herself in the bedroom. The incidents kinda blur together.

Since keeping the peace was my windmill in those days, the receipt went away. At least, I assume it did, since I haven't seen it in years.

I haven't seen the notebook in a long time either, but I think it still exists. Somewhere. I hid it. It had been in my bedside table for most of the nineties (if The Ex knew about it, she didn't care), but when the pogrom on my past began, I buried it, probably in the closet. For such a tiny space, it's amazing how much square footage I can squeeze out of the apartment. I've gone through a few likely boxes, without any luck. I'd like to think that I palmed the receipt at the time and sent them on their refugee journey together, but I'm not holding my breath.

11:30pm

Temple came over tonight. We talked, ate salad, and watched Last Night.

i guess i've come to live here in your eyes
this must be the place called paradise
you are so special to me
what a special time within our lives
so i guess i've come to live here in your eyes
a thousand times i see you
a thousand times you take my breath away
fear and doubts consume me
i'm afraid someone will take it all away
i hope i'm here forever
but i think it's time that we both realize
i guess i've come to live here in your eyes

Willie Nelson,
"I Guess I've Come to Live Here in Your Eyes"

Directly across from the fenced-in area is the Frankenstein Room, with a large monster on an upright slab in the corner and all manner of mad-scientist lights, probably acquired at Spencer's. Like the other rooms facing the fence, it has a low wall and a lockable gate, so spectators can spectate but keep their distance. Immediately on the other side and slightly below the top of the wall in the Frankenstein Room is a long wooden bench, on which a dark-skinned tranny propped herself up. She was dressed mostly in shiny black PVC, top and pants and boots. Now, I wouldn't call myself aloof (I wouldn't call myself a lot of things which I probably am), but I don't tend to talk with many of the other trannies. Chana and I hang out because she tends to come inside the fence, but that's about it. Intrigued by this newcomer, I introduced myself. Her name was Icon, and it didn't take long for us to get into a "boys are icky" conversation. Hey, I'm always up for one of those. She started it, I swear to Oscar.

Of course, boys were constantly stopping and talking to her, ignoring my presence entirely. Which is how I prefer it, but, hello, I was here first, right? Though she wasn't really in the mood to deal with them, Icon was always polite and responsive; she works the streets of the Tenderloin, so it behooves her to be friendly to the people who represent her next meal. Not next fix, though; something of a rarity among Motherlode girls, she's clean and sober. She mentioned it herself, though I'd already guessed. Lucidity is such a lovely thing.

While one particular sleazebag was talking and poking at her, Cur came up and apologized all over me. She said she was really sorry for calling me "he," that she hadn't meant to hurt my feelings, and she seemed like she was about to cry. I took her hand and assured her that it was all right, I wasn't angry, she just didn't know, I'm a girl and she's a girl and now she knows and it's all good. I appreciated the genuine-appearing apology and was glad to get the air cleared, but ugh. An initial response of anger and extreme crankiness, followed later by an apology? That's a pattern I know waaaaaay too well.

Icon wanted to get something to drink but didn't really know the place, so I led her upstairs. Unfortunately but unsuprisingly, the sleazebag followed, keeping just a pace behind, close enough to reach out and touch her bullwhip. (The bullwhip I didn't even realize she was carrying until I saw him grabbing at it as we walked up the stairs.) As we entered the main big lounge room on the ground floor, with a dance floor, pool tables and an anemically stocked vending machine in the far corner, I pointed out to her that she didn't have to let him touch her if she didn't want him to. She seemed even more surprised when I informed her that not only did all contact have to be consensual, they paid to get in. isn't that brilliant? he probably paid seventy-five to get in, we got in free, and we don't have to let him do anything. I had no problem talking about him in the third person, as he was continuing to not pay attention to me. As she stood at the machine, he pressed against her and dry-humped. Ew, ew, ew. Thing was, I couldn't do anything about it. It had to be her decision.

She finally shooed him away. Undaunted, he circled back around to me. And why not? As he approached, I put up a hand and growled as best as I could over the music: touch me and you're pulling back stumps. It's a line I've wanted to use since the Gloom days. Hell, I may still have the t-shirt somewhere. He seemed a little confused that it wasn't okay for him to poke at me (yay entitlement!), but got the message.

For all that, there were no sodas to be had in the lounge, so we made our way into the Impulse Boutique just off of the comics-laden coat check. In addition to beverages, they have all kinds of fetish clothing, including really neat boots on sale for thirty bucks. If I didn't have a complex about my height, I might have been tempted, but I simply don't need to add on an additional four inches. Anywhere. Icon has no such complex and very much wanted a pair, but was lacking the immediate fundage. This lead to me telling her that, in addition to the consent issue, solicitation is highly frowned upon. I'm sure the owners don't have anything against it personally (especially not the guy I saw on the Cross a few weeks back), but it's a whole not-getting-closed-down-by-the-cops thing.

It was pushing three in the morning, and Icon, Chana and I were back at the Frankenstein Room. They were jonesing for a cigarette, and Icon was considering venturing into the Tenderloin to make boot money. It had been established earlier that I have a car, but she didn't ask for a ride, which made me all the more inclined to give her one. I have an office day job (she asked what I did for a living), while she's on SSI. The economic class disparity embarrassed me a little, and I admit to feeling a little gunshy, hoping that she wouldn't ask for various bits of assistance. But, she didn't. She had, however, made the connection between my alleged intelligence/sanity and the time of year I was born.

Anyway, Icon and Chana went upstairs to bum cigarettes, and I told them I'd join them in a few minutes after putting my warmer clothes back on. I no longer feel the need to be especially dressed up (or dressed down), from the moment I step inside; more often than not, I'll be down in the fenced-in area for a while before changing into skimp mode. I may not have changed that night at all, except it was rather warm and I felt more comfortable wearing less.

By the time I made it to the street, Icon had disappeared. Chana had no idea where she went, but I presumed she'd already started making her way Tenderloinwards. Oh well. I was actually rather intrigued to see where the night might go if I took her, but no biggie. I hung around for a few minutes in case she reappeared. There had actually been a stronger than usual goth presence in the club, and a couple of the kids came up to me, a girl and a creature of indeterminate gender. (You know that's a compliment coming from me.) The latter couldn't take their eyes off of me, going on about how pretty I am. It's gotta be the glasses. Go figure.

10:52pm

I will be in bed before eleven, damnit. Midnight at the absolute latest.

This morning, Vash and I met up with Loren for her birthday picnic at Stow Lake in Golden Gate Park. We parked just off of Lincoln and took what we didn't realize at the time was the scenic footpath to the Lake. Though we'd originally planned on going to Wendy-O Matik's Radical Love Workshop in Berkeley, we decided to part company, and I walked back home listening to The Red-Headed Stranger on my headphones.

10/20/06
11:10pm
Oh. Great. "Stan." THIS cd again. I should bring the HalloQOM disc next time, see if they'll play it.

At the PE for yet another patented all-night drug-and-drink-free sleep dep bender. Do I know how to party or WHAT? Whoo!

I'm here because I can be, because I've fought long and hard to be able to have adventures. I have a girlfriend and I love her dearly (oh do I), but she's off doing her own thing with someone else. Remember when she got upset because of the "whore" reference, how it was more than she wanted to know? You completely sympathize now, don't you? The genie is way, way out of hte bottle. This is the world as it is now, the world you created and entered. It's okay, isn't it? The healing hands of time. You still have a ways to go, but you've started. It's going to be okay.

Neither Hal nor Rhonda are here yet. The night is still young, though. What if, say, by one they haven't shown up? Where to then? I mean, I suppose I could go hope, but I don't wanna. I want to see the dim lights tonight. Life is to be lived, isn't it? When I look back on the end of my road, I don't want to feel like I've spent too many nights noodling around at home. Better to be noodling around in some grimy club, yes? It's different, anyway.

The lone little blonde tranny awkwardly dancing by herself in the huge red room. I'll always be grateful to Summer for teaching me how to dance in goth clubs. It's served me well all these years.

What appears at first to be a genetic straight couple but is probably a dyke and an f2m on the St. Andrew's Cross. He's topping her.

I'm terribly afriad that I've let down Vash, that I've

("pardon me, I didn't mean to intrude on your space without permission, but are you a domme?" "not tonight, no"--"okay. you're very pretty." "thank you." and that was that)

left her unfulfilled due to my own inhibitions and fear of hurting her more than she wants to be hurt. which is why she has to go elsewhere. Absurd yet logical. Absurd, from experience: when I was with Ryder, it wasn't because Vash was disappointing and thus sending me running to another. Logical: nobody can be everything to someone else. It's not just not possible, and an unfair expectation to boot, one which is responsible for a great deal of unhappiness in the world. (IMHO.) So, at worse, perhaps it's like a pressure valve. What she gets from Dietrich helps her to focus on things I *am* good for. And Vash loves me, not her. If she does grow to love Dietrich (which would be natural and not anything she can help), that'll be okay, and I'll deal. Starvation economies and all. mi vashita tiene amor sin fin and they'll always be enough for me.

(cur, quite genetic, says "you are so pretty. really. you make the other girls who are trying to look as good as you feel bad. i love it when men do that." needle goes flying off the record. "well, thank you, but i identify as female. i've been on hormones for eight years." cur gets that look on her face. "whatever. that doesn't matter.")

Just like mine for her expands to fill the available space, and there's a lot more space than I ever though possible. In the past, I've never felt like I was really able to open my heart, usually because I felt inhibited, and there were phantoms about, usually from her past. But I couldn't relax and open up.

(he walks over and kneels down next to my chair. "i was wondering if you might be looking for someone to play with on one of these contraptions. i've always wanted to try one." "not at the moment, but thank you for asking.")

You can't when you're having to censor every word, pretend like the past decade didn't happen, living in constant fear of an explosion which could happen at any moment for any reason, offenses sometimes real but more often conjured into existence because neurosis abhors a vacuum. Dana called it abbreviation. (Sweet. The naked guy masturbating in the sling is here. That's something.) (I wonder if's the glasses that are getting me all the extra attention tonight. That, and Vash's pink thingy in my hair.) But with Vash...yes, of course, I have a filter. I try not to dump or harp. But...by god, not only am I allowed to talk about The Ex, she's ASKED ME TO. I can even tell her that The Ex liked the Midori Margaritas from Chevy's and that's perfectly okay. She doesn't get angry or threatened. I can have contact with Maddy, see her, go into her home, and that's perfectly okay too. I don't have to pretend I'm something I'm not. The sense of freedom is like being able to breathe for the first time. She loves me for who I am, not for who her fears can shape me into. How can I not love her back? (No, she is not a saint. Far from it. I've always known the potential she has to break my heart.) Love fades. It happens all the time. Name me one emotion that doesn't erode. (You can't open your heart to someone who's grinding it under their heel. Just doesn't work that way.) Could it happen with us? Yes, it could. But I can't/won't live in fear of it. And we'll always be in each others' lives. I believe. I hope.

Man. Slow night. An employee (I've gathered he's one because he's mentioned working the coat check) just did his usual thing of stripping, putting on a leather mask with metal collar and chaining his feet. Sometimes he just kneels on a blanket, though this time he went shuffling off. A self-starter, indeed.

Cur just returned from a sojourn, complaining that there aren't any guys to spank. I commented that I've gotten plenty of offers, and she replied that a lot of them don't wipe their butts. Okay, EW. And she has really going to stop referring to trannies as boys. Not cool. A guy in white bathrobe is wanking furiously as she jerks off a tranny. (Does a bathrobe count as a towel for the admission discount?) At least one other carrot is being waxed. DO. NOT. CALL. ME. HE.

After the scene is over, I'm going to ask politely but firmly that she not called me "he." Seems only right to wait.

("are you writing a book?" "something like that." "what are you writing about?" "whatever comes to mind." "don't worry, I do that all the time." "i'm not worried, i assure you.")

I wonder if it's a defense mechanism, because she feels inadequate somehow?

If so? Not. My. Problem.

1:10am
So I asked her not to refer to me as boy, and unsurprisingly, she got all defensive and mopey, acting like I shouldn't care. Man oh man, there is little I find more offensive than a non-trans person telling one of us to lighten up. Nuh-uh, baby. Goes to show, though, doesn't it? This is not something I will ever be able to get away from, period. I am again amazed at my arrogance, to think that my "decision" to not go stealth was ever that--a choice rather than an inescapable fact. It's like saying I choose to have XY chromosomes. It ain't up to me.

I could lose weight and get facial work and a bewbjawb and work on my boice and not have such garish hair and makeup and you know what? I'd still be six feet tall with a wide wingspan and appear nothing like a girl from most directions, and people, you see, especially in the freak/queer/kink community would still decide I'm a boy, and you have to learn to live with what you can't rise above, yes? yes. Life, this is what it is, and I wouldn't trade it for any other, I have to believe that this is the best possible life for me--with room for improvement, certainly, but what it is now is pretty remarkable and beautiful too.

Chana, a pretty black tranny with a damn near flawless body and an accent best described as heavy New Orleans with cotton in the cheeks and a bit of crystal meth slurring added in for good measure. When she talks to me, I can't usually make heads or tails out of it. "Girl, ------ ------ ----- ----- big dicks ----- ----- big dicks ----- ------ -----." She has a thing for big dicks, so at least I recognize those words. I nod and smile a lot. Haven't ended up on the Today Show wearing a puffy shirt yet.

It's feeling a a bit more hostile tonight, probably because Hal and Rhonda aren't here. I keep waiting for Cur to tell me to leave the fence. There WILL be fallout, I know it.

The fellow in the bathrobe was invited in by a straight genetic girl to do some spanking. Phone numbers are being exchanged. That's strangely sweet.

Motherfuckers had better be here next Friday, is all I'm sayin'.

1:42am
No Hal or Rhonda, but Storm.

Bad Movie Night is going on hiatus. Or, should I say, quote-hiatus-unquote. Only two more shows between now and February: White Christmas on xmas eve, and Snakes on a Plane in early January right after it comes out on DVD. The latter was my suggestion, so I'm very happy they're doing it, but, um, ow. Bad Movie Night was my Dark Room thing. It kept me involved there, since I don't get cast in plays anymore, and now it's gone for at least three months.

After what I hadn't realized before would be the last Bad Movie Night, I went to Divas. I went out because I didn't want to be in, since I'd probably just be futzing about on the computer engaging in piracy (arrrr!), which admittedly beats playing games, but the real world beckoned. The more rugs get pulled (and it's been that kinda day—please don't take a picture), the more I want to just wallow in the filth. I'm not exactly a world-class wallower, unfortunately, but I do what I can.

So. Sitting at a table, getting some writing done. (See? Not so sharp with the wallowing.) A Peachy's Puffs girl walked in and started working the room. I recognized her from the Power Exchange on Friday. At one point she was in the restroom stall next to me, and I'd commented on how the neat the flashing lights of her flashing-light doohickeys looked from the other stall. Presently, she sat down at my table and we talked, about the Power Excahnge and our day jobs and hair and all manner of pleasantries. Not so much my type physically, but she's really nice. That's one of the reasons I don't especially mourn the loss of the people who've turned their backs on me over the last few years, whether for the sins of breaking up with Maddy or Collette or for simply telling my story (nothing has ever gotten me into more trouble)—well, there's always more people to meet, aren't there?

A guy with a red fauxhawk who looks Brian Posehn playing Bucky Sinister approached the table and started gesturing oddly towards her, nudging her on the shoulder and pointing towards the door. We realize that he's trying to hit on her. no, no, no. she says, standing up, that's not how you're supposed to touch someone if you're trying to hit on them. He put his hand on her shoulder, then her side; she took his hand, placed it on her chest, and said this is how you say, "hi, i'm hitting on you!" Deciding to try out this new trick, he turns and reaches out to my chest. Oh, for fuck's sake. do NOT touch me I hissed, putting up a hand. An argument could be made that she encouraged him, but that's no goddamned excuse. He just stood there (hovering over me, really), staring at me, looking terribly confused, his face saying whaddayamean, don't touch?

No doubt sensing the extreme awkwardness of the situation, she says to him, let's go outside, then to me, i'll see you around, i'm sure. They go outside, and few minutes later, he comes back in alone. She does not follow. Goodamned motherfucking breeder biomale chased her away. A genetic girl at a tranny bar, no less.

Boys are stupid. Throw rocks at them.

sometime after midnight

Shoot. Vash got me a twisty jar of Giovanni Hot Chocolate Sugar Scrub, but I left it at Wonderland. I hate it when I do that.

Having realized that my SomaFM t-shirt fits perfectly and looks damn good to boot, I determined the make and model and ventured into the Haight to buy more at the American Apparel store. Note to self: always, always call first. Even though they admit that the shirt in question is "among their most popular," they don't carry them in their retail stores anymore.

Why? Because they're old. That's right. Heaven forbid they have "old" styles clogging up their shelves, no matter how popular. Guess I shouldn't be surprised, seeing as how their photo models tend to be emaciated, prepubescent heroin addicts. (Some of them are very hot, of course. What am I, someone's ethical role model?) Thankfully, the shirts can still be ordered online, so I went back home and did just that. I know from experience that when I find a shirt that I like and fits and everything, I need to buy as many as I can, because very soon they'll be gone.

Ironically, Vash and I headed into the Haight later in the afternoon to find her a nun's habit for the black mass thingy. That mission was more successful.

At Wonderland now. There are some signs of last night's adventure. That's okay.