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Sunday, 31 October 1999 (a little ghost for the offering) 1:21pm cst Okay. So I crossed a timezone to get here, and it became two hours later. Now, while in this timezone, it's gone from daylight savings time to standard time; I didn't adjust my clocks accordingly before I left, meaning that when I go back to my timezone (which is two hours behind), the clocks will be...what? One hour behind? Three hours fast? Have I somehow been gypped out of an hour of existence, or have I simply entered into another dimension altogether? Most importantly, will my VCR in fact not be taping The Simpsons tonight as I'd originally intended? Oh, that is so going to piss me off...
Our plans for Halloween at the moment: run some errands, come back here, continue
our South Park marathon from last night, then go to a late showing of
Stigmata, a movie I'd wanted to see which I don't even think is playing
in San Francisco anymore. Then, tomorrow, unfortunately, going home. Not looking
forward to that one bit. On the plus side, since we'll be passing through
Topeka on the way to the Kansas City Airport, we're thinking in terms of swinging
by the legendary Westboro Baptist Church, home of the legendary Fred Phelps.
I must have a picture of myself in front of his church...
Everyone here writes checks for everything. As if it wasn't weird enough that they also automatically serve water and have smoking sections, even the restauarants take checks. No Stigmata tonight. Rather, it's Little Casear's, ice cream and more South Park. This is definitely my best Halloween yet.
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Saturday, 30 October 1999 (driver 8) 9:00am cdt It's overcast outside. This is more like it.
Madeline's new kitten has a vet appointment this morning, then it's
off to meet the family. Well, off to meet the mother, anyway. I
suppose I'll meet the rest of them the next time I'm in Kansas, or
the next time they visit California. Hey, stranger things have
happened. Can't think of anything offhand, but I'm sure they have.
I thought Manhattan, Kansas was a shitkicking little town. Then I experienced Clay Center. Jesus Fucking Christ, that place makes Bolinas seem like Gattaca. Then again, their one movie theater is showing Better Than Chocolate. This is such a strange planet.
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Friday, 29 October 1999 (shaking through) 10:03am cdt Booms continue to emanate from Fort Riley. I woke up at 3am, convinced that it was raining; apparently it was a combination of the wind (still raging) and squirrels running across the top of the trailer. Fuckin' Kansas. I'm rather proud that I've gone my entire life without ever stopping at a Dairy Queen; if memory serves there is (was?) one in Fresno, though I only ever saw it from the freeway and never felt compelled to stop. Last night, though, I insisted on going through the local drive-through and getting a milkshake. Besides the fact that it sounded good on my slightly irritated throat, I know Tania would never forgive me if I didn't do as much of that sort of thing as possible. A closer examination of my mouth has revealed that, as I had suspected (but was hoping wasn't the case), it's no longer my teeth which are quite as much the issue as my gums. Specifically, the gums around where the teeth have been removed are whiter than the burrito from last night. *sigh* My own culpability notwithstanding, this is why I wish they'd refilled the antibiotics. Alas, much more vigorous and frequent brushing combined with, of course, vicodin (a thousand uses, it has) should do the trick. If it means no chili dogs, then so be it. Customs will probably check my clothes on the way out of the state for stains and refuse to let me leave without evidence that I've fulfilled the nutritional requirements for passing through Kansas, but damnit, I have a medical excuse. And that probably won't have been the last milkshake I'm going have while I'm here, so it kinda evens out. (If they put nutritional labels on those things...my lord...)
Today, the freakshow begins, as I'll be on display—er, that is, we're
going to lunch with some of her coworkers, and tonight is a party involving
what I presume to be almost the entire queer population of the greater
Manhattan area. And then, tomorrow, it's meeting the family. Well, what
percentage of her family will be at her parents' house, which at the moment
looks to be only her mother. Just as well to take it slow at first, I
suppose.
Fishnets, garters, velvet, pigtails. She asked, she received. I witnessed another of those cliches tonight which my California liberal mindset has always told me is just a stereotype: the white frat/jock crashing a party, drinking the beer and being generally obnoxious. I swear, these guys couldn't have been more generic had they tried, even down to making blatantly homophobic comments. Lest anyone should think they're a fag just for being at a fag party. I got to meet some of the local goffs, at least, which certainly made me feel more at home. Granted, a number of them would have gotten now small amount of static in SF, where dressing as Brandon Lee from The Crow is a big no-no, almost as much as being an open Mansonite (a rule I tend to break, it's true). At least one of the frat boys, swelling with pride at having made the cultural connection, insisted on high-fiving one of the Crow lookalikes, a very sweet bi-boi improbably named Summer. There were a number of drag queens, and I don't compare myself to them, because a) I have different intentions and B) well, DUH I'm cuter. I mean, really. There were a few trannies who naturally went right on my shitlist for being cuter (fookin' cunts), including one whom I didn't even know wasn't a genetic girl until after we'd been introduced. That doesn't happen very often, and there's still a part of me that doesn't want to believe it. She wasn't remarkably beautiful or anything (and Maddy tells me that her breasts weren't real and as such was uncomfortable to hug), but damn, she looked natural. And that's the goal, really. If nothing else, I got comments to the effect that people were fooled at first—which is to say, it took closer examination to realize I wasn't a genetic girl. (Okay, so it was at one point phrased as "you're actually a guy," but pick pick.) Which gave that opportunity I'm always looking for to whip out the ol' driver's license...being the unrepentant compliment whore that I am...
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Thursday, 28 October 1999 (catapult) 5:28am The rain has died down for the time being. I seem to have completely misplaced the case for my glasses. This is not a good thing, since I switch between my regular and sunglasses on a very regular basis. Oh well. I have no idea what this trip is going to bring. It'll probably be wonderful. It might not. It's impossible to predict at this point. I can only hope. There's a heavy surf advisory. Damn! I hate missing it the ocean gets dangerous.
Here goes nothing.
Arrived. At Madeline's right now. Her bedroom is officially the coolest thing I've ever seen. I feel so ashamed of my simple white walls. The SuperShuttle was twenty minutes late—not a promising start, but everything else went smoothly, more or less. The flight from SF to Dallas was quite nice; the plane was barely thre quarters full, and I got the exit row over the wing to myself, meaning I could actually strecth my legs. From Dallas to Kansas City, however, the plane was packed with families bearing loud children, and I had no feeling in my legs by the time we landed. That second flight was mercifully short, though, and my entire body regained feeling when I saw Maddy in the terminal. So far, she's been graciously indulging my smug curiousity to experience Midwestern culture at its most Midwestern. I pretty much got what I expected when I ordered the "burrito dinner" from Roost's Family Restuarant in Topeka. I swear, those tortillas were whiter than my thighs, and that's no small accomplishment. (Remember the end of Goodfellas when Ray Liotta described the spaghetti and marinara sauce he'd ordered? Same idea.) Significantly, it was my first attempt at solid food since before surgery last week, and even then, I avoided the chips. Crunchy food is going to hold no appeal for me for a long time, I suspect. I haven't eaten Cheetos in years, and it's a safe bet I'm not going to start again anytime before the end of the Gore Administration. Driving through Kansas is not dissimilar to driving through California: a whole hell of a lot of nothing. Somehow, though, I was expecting a different kind of nothing. I think that for most Gen-X'ers on the West Coast (why yes, I am the voice of my generation), when we think of Kansas, we think of Linda Hamilton and Peter Horton in the opening scenes of Children of the Corn. Every so often, through the walls of Maddy's of trailer we can hear explosions from semi-nearby Fort Riley. Apparently, there's still some things the military hasn't learned about blowing shit up. My teeth still ache occasionally, though a vicodin now and again is helping. Perhaps what I hope will be the relatively lower stress level of the next week will speed along the process...
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Wednesday, 27 October 1999 (dirige, domine, in conspectu tuo vitam meam) 8:20am at the time, it all seemed perfect. it couldn't have been more wonderful, more relaxed, more joyous. surely it had been years since i had been so content. i had no idea, none whatsoever, that i was being tested, and that i was failing the test. i thought i was showing her my life, my world. that was all i had ever intended.
i'm so sorry.
In any event, I at least am not going to have to worry about my either driving out there and paying for parking, or having my car get ticketed for staying in one place too long, and I actually have The Ex to thank for that. She offered to both pick me up when my flight gets in Monday night, and move my car while I'm gone so it doesn't get ticketed. I didn't ask, and I had no intention of doing so; I have a hard time asking people for rides as it is, and poor Dana's fiasco last week has certainly soured me on the idea. But it was her idea, and considering that it'll save me at least $50 and a lot of driving when I probably won't really be up for it (like Monday), I'm very grateful. I do suspect an ulterior motive, though: the following weekend she's going to L.A. on a Mae West pilgrimmage, led by some old friends of Miss West's with whom she's become friends over the yast few years. Visiting the apartment where she spent most of her life, sacred ground of that sort. I'm not sure what the equivalent would be for me; visiting the set of Star Trek, perhaps, or what's left of it. I suppose I did that a few years back when I toured Best Brains Inc., where Mystery Science Theater 3000 was shot. Truth be known, the flight I'm taking tomorrow feels more significant and more deeply personal any other trip I've gone on. Anyway, she has transportation down there, but currently no good way to get back up here; in all likelihood she'll hop on a plane, and wind up stranded at the airport, probably the (yuck) Oakland airport. Which is where I come in. Her boyfriend will be out of the state, and I've always been a firm believer in airport rescue. In this case it'll definitely be the decent thing to do.
She also told me she plans to have the rest of her stuff out of the apartment in the next
few weeks, and will be giving me back the keys. Then, as it were, the next chapter truly
begins.
If all goes well (first time for everything), in twelve hours I'll be airborne. Journal entires might be...well, even more sporadic for the next week or so.
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Tuesday, 26 October 1999 (love to burn) 5:37am Though not outwardly more swollen, the inside of my cheeks has changed shape somewhat, to where they're pressing up against the teeth, something they hadn't really done before. (Both sides, too. Odd that it would be symmetrical like that.) Ick. It doesn't feel very pleasant at all. Worse, yesterday the surgeon's office decided not to give me a refill on the amoxicillin, saying that it had just been a precaution in the first place and wouldn't make a difference now. It would have great placebo value right now, if nothing else, but alas. This is just so gross, and very distracting.
No matter. Off to an actual, full day of work.
My sensitivity to light also seems to be getting worse. I turned the brightness of my monitor way down, and I can't keep my sunglasses off for more than a few minutes at a time.
Oh, and look. He's back. Swell. It still pisses me off that he would have to be gone
during much of the same week that I'm gone. At least I'm leaving again on Thursday...and
I'll be with Maddy again...
Anyway, although I didn't include her to begin with—I didn't include anyone, since I live alone and nobody has access to my keys—they've decided to include The Ex on the exclusion list, and have sent me the papers to sign. It's no big deal in and of itself, I guess; doesn't cost me any extra, and while I don't believe she will, if anyone else is ever likely to drive the car, it's her. What bugs me is that she's listed as my sister. Christ, I have no idea where they got that from.
So, if you believe Chrysler and Mercury Insurance, I married and divorced my sister. Terrific. At this
rate, I'm going to get arrested.
I'm not doing a very good job.
The feeling is coming back to my hands. My arms still sting, and I'm going to have some cool scars tomorrow. "Tomorrow?" What the fuck? It's already tomorrow. Okay. So I'm either going to sleep for a couple hours, get up and get to work fairly early, so I'm going to sleep for as long as my body wants to sleep (which might just be a couple hours) and get to work when I get to work. I just wish there wasn't a storm rolling in. Not right now. Not when I have a flight in thirty hours.
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Monday, 25 October 1999 (can't not) 10:26am It's kinda cool to be able to walk into your boss's office and drop a bag of teeth on his desk. If you ever have the opportunity, I suggest you take it. Otherwise, I'm not convinced I should be here. Besides the fact that Leigh has things nicely under control, I don't feel right. I don't feel right at all. So I guess it's a good thing I'm going in for a checkup, since I suspect he'll tell me to go straight home. Madeline left work early; she's starting to get sick, and our fighting isn't helping matters much. Emotional stress makes physical stress worse, and vice versa.
I am extremely conflicted right now.
Maddy's at home, she's not online, and I don't have her # because it's in the notebook that I lost last week, any email that she might have sent it in is on my computer at home. I want desperately to talk to her, but I can't.
Yes, we'll be together in three days. But the pain is current. This sense that we're about to crash and burn is
happening right now.
A short while after I sent my earlier message and had gone back to bed, I realized what the date was too and wondered if I shouldn't get my butt back out of bed and give you someone to talk to. I didn't think I would be very good company, so I didn't, but now I wish I had. 5:27pm At home now. Head pounding.
Make it stop. All of it. Please.
Now all I need to do is somehow survive the next two days at work.
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Sunday, 24 October 1999 (everybody knows this is nowhere) 1:32pm Dana tells me that Lee was at Shrine on Friday night.
The bastard.
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Saturday, 23 October 1999 (running dry) 4:00am My eyes hurt, and are still a bit red. My front teeth are aching, although the molars feel relatively okay. My cheeks are as swollen as they've ever been, of course. I have to resolve myself to the fact that there's not telling when they'll deflate. Maximum swelling, three days; this is for basic oral surgery. Occasional reference is made to "especially if you have had 2 or more impacted teeth removed." I had 4 impacted teeth removed. I see no reason not to assume that everything won't be at least four times worse. I'm going to look this way for a long time, at least all the way to Kansas and back. There's nothing in the instructions about crying, but I know from personal experience that it can be traumatic for the teeth. After that night back in May, my teeth were aching horribly, almost like they'd been rattled. Considering that opening my mouth is still a chore, then the less shaking around they're put through, the better. (And I won't even go into what it can do the sinuses.) Indeed, if the blood clot is dislodged or the sutures come open and I start bleeding again, I've got big problems. Bigger problems, anyway. I'm tired but not likely to sleep anytime soon (although just curling up in a ball on the living room floor presents a certain appeal), in pain both physically and emotionally, my face is about three times its normal size and unlikely to change anytime soon, which probably means it's just as well that I haven't seen another living soul since Dana dropped me off almost two days ago in spite of feeling so desperately alone. I still have the appointment with Miguel later today—in roughly twelve hours, in fact—and while the prudent thing would probably be to cancel it, I'm going out there anyway. Priorities and all. Probably just head straight back home, in spite of a dinner gathering in honor of one of Dana's oldest friends being in town. They hit Shrine this evening too, and Imani (though not part of Dana's circle) had even called to see if I was going to be out there. It's reassuring to know that people want me around, as pathetic as that is of me. The cause of this latest crying jag (besides the fact that I can't take this much vicodin and not expect to squeeze our a few) was a fight/argument/debate with Madeline, one of the ugliest yet. I don't think she'd really gotten a grasp of just how emotionally needy I am before now. I might not have even realized it myself. My entire existence at this moment is based on impossible expectations which I have somehow nevertheless managed to bring to life. It's only right that there are some which simply can't happen. Good god, my head hurts. Every part of it.
I don't know how much longer we can handle this goddamn distance.
In the valley of hearts there's a house full of broken windows 10:12am So long as we keep talking, we can make it through anything. If we face our problems head-on, no matter how painful they are (and the last thirteen and a half hours hurt really bad at times), if we don't give into the temptation to just walk away and pretend they don't exist, we'll survive. Sometimes love demands that you suffer to keep it alive. if you live through this with me i swear that i will die for you 3:26pm Oh, it's bright out there. Way, way too bright. Let me explain something. This aversion to sunlight is not a goth thing. It's not me trying to be spooky or worshipping the the prince of darkness or thinking I'm a vampire. If I'm in a room with the curtains shut, don't even think about opening them to let a little sunlight in, 'cuz garsh, who knows, maybe it'll help to brighten up my gloomy mood. It's obvious I could use some cheering up, and some sunshine will do the trick.
It fucking hurts my eyes. Period.
Didn't get to talk to Maddy after this morning, though a number of people asked about her. Hopefully, tomorrow morning, after we've both gotten much-needed sleep...
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Friday, 22 October 1999 (exsanguineous) 6:25am I wonder is this is when the delirium sets in. "You will reach your maximum swelling in approximately 3 days." Good lord, this isn't it? Oh, I am in such trouble...
The sun's going to be up in a little while; I need to try to sleep more while I can't. All told,
I've probably slept three hours. At the most. I kept awakening and popping out of bed. Once the light
starts piercing through the windows, I'm screwed...
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Thursday, 21 October 1999 (eclipse) 5:55am Leaving in a little bit. Can't hurt to be early, I imagine. As per the instructions, I haven't had anything to eat or drink since last night. I took a shower, but kept my mouth tightly closed so no errant water got in. I do have my 'mones to take, and the instructions say to take pills "with MINIMAL water." No problem, I could probably dry-swallow them if need be. Maturally, my tendency towards melodrama is kicking in. What if someting does wrong? Are my affairs in order? Have I said everything to everyone which needs to be said? No and no, to the last two.
To Madeline: I love you, and always would have. You deserve nothing less, even if you don't believe it yourself.
Yeah, I'm being completely silly. I know that. I don't care.
I even still have my wisdom teeth, though they're in a sterile baggie now.
Pain, and lots of it. From where all four wisdom teeth used to be. I'm supposed to be keeping gauze stuffed in the holes where they used to be, but as anybody who's done this before will tell you, it ain't as easy as it sounds. You're very close to the triggering the gag reflex back there, and I'm feeling nauseous as it is. (Due to not eating enough, probably.)
Oh, this sucks. Oblivion. I wanted oblivion. Where is it? I don't want to feel
anything anymore, not for today...
This may sound borderline hypocritical coming from someone who's doing as much and extensive bodily modification as myself, but that sort of thing makes me very uncomfortable. Between Phil's protestations, my own increasing acceptance of my appearance, and Madeline's delusional insistence that I'm beautiful, I've ruled out reconstructive facial surgery, except of course for the electrolysis I'm already undergoing...and possibly lipo. But, as I have to keep reminding myself sometimes, I don't have the most masculine face to begin with. Surgical reconstuction is not necessary—and in that, I am very, very lucky. When you're getting prepped for surgery, you can't help but be nervous. Period. That's all there is to it. And I was. It was somewhat fascinating to watch as I got strapped into the operating chair. Well, I didn't watch the whole time; I kept my eyes closed, and opened them every now and then as the I was further Borgified. All this, and they were still going to boot me out into the street afterwards? One moment I was sitting there with my eyes closed and listening to the doctor and nurse moving equipment around; the next I was lying down with a very numb mouth, hearing someone say that my ride was there and to tell her that I was going to be out for at least another half hour. Oh, good. Dana made it. Little did I know at the time how difficult the trip had been for her. I was actually fully awake (or as awake as I was going to get), so they helped me up, and as I was getting my jacket and shoes on they brought Dana in. She seemed a bit frazzled, which seemed reasonable. Again, though, I had no idea what she'd gone through. They went over the post-operative instructions—including how to apply the gauze inside the mouth, which is more complicated than you might think—and Dana went downstairs to bring her car around. One of the nurses took me down to the street in a wheelchair, the first time I've been in one about twenty years. The nurse offered to wait on the sidewalk with me, but I insisted it wasn't necessary. In what was probably a violation of her duties, she agreed and took the wheelchair back upstairs. I took down my hair, put on my beret and sunglasses (The Gothic Avenger Returns!), and leaned against building, waiting for Dana. Regardless of how I felt, I looked cool, and really, isn't that all that matters? Although as usual my fridge is overflowing with yogurt from Trader Joe's, Dana offered to stop by the store if I needed anything else. Along with yogurt, ice cream and pudding are the top of the acceptable food list, so she got me stocked up on those. (I wrote down what I wanted her to get; apparently it was slightly incoherent, and with a decidedly evil grin she said she was going to save it and show it to me another time. I'm scared.) I waited in her car as she went into the store. Natrually, I looked at myself in the mirror. My lips were encrusted with blood, at the point where they touch when my mouth is closed. At first I thought it might have been because my lips tend to be naturally dry, and surely this procedure requires the mouth to be open as much as possibe, and they essentially stretched until they bled. My lips certainly hurt during the cleaning on Monday morning for that very reason. When I opened my mouth and looked inside, I realized it was filled with blood. I was completely numb, so I hadn't realized it, and I'm assuming that had I been dribbling blood while talking to Dana, she'd have mentioned something. Though I didn't entirely trust my motor skills, I opened the door and leaned out. Spitting wasn't really an option, so I let the blood spill out of my mouth at an angle which seemed least likely to go onto my chin or clothes. I seldom see that much of my blood, but it was thicker than I would have expected. Perhaps having something to do with the anaesthic IV they used, I don't. I'd created a nice little puddle of blood before Dana returned. The first few hours at home were the worst. Though I'd been conscious for a while, the numbing effects of the anaesthic were definitely going away. For some reason, unlike when I'm getting zapped, I was being extremely conservative with the vicodin. Maybe because eating wasn't much of an option, and is still difficult. My jaw doesn't not like to be used unless absolute necessary. I tried to lie down and sleep, and I napped for a while, but staying horizontal just wasn't happening. As has long since been established, I'm too fucking restless. Guess that makes it doubly good that I was strapped into the chair. So they gave me an ice pack to use for the swelling, which is supposed to reach its maxiumum in three days. If that means it'll be gone again in another three days, I don't know. Somehow, I doubt it. As it is, they wanted to schedule me for a return apppointment next week to check my progress—as in, in a week from today, as in the day that I'm flying to Kansas. Uh, no. I talked them down to this Monday. Anyway, I'm glad they gave it to me, because aside from the immediate need I've been wanting one for post-electrolysis. For some reason, it only recently occurred to Phil that it keeps swelling down, and I swell like crazy after I've been zapped. He also let me use a pillow last time I was there. Oh, that makes such a difference. One of these days, I'm going to fall asleep during electro. With enough vicodin and the right music, I'm sure it can happen. Anway, the problem presented itself: how do I keep the icepack applied and still use both my hands? (For typing, silly.) I've seen the image of the person with the icepack tied onto the top of their head countless times, and that seemed the most logical approach. To the bottom of my head in this case. The only question became, with what? What do I have that's sufficiently long and elastic do the job? Yes, of course. So have the icepack held to my jaw with a pair of red-and-black stripeys tied around the top of my head.
Ah, modern medicine.
But, she acknowledged with a heavy heart and resigned will, that day remains long off.
Looking in the mirror now, a question keeps going through my mind: did Brando send the Native American girl to accept or decline his Oscar for The Godfather? For the life of me, I can remember which it was. Guess I should sleep on it. Besides, my credit card info is for some reason unavailable, so I couldn't sign up for Giganews right now even if I wanted to. Oh, and do I ever. Full access to all of the Usenet, everything posted for the last two weeks? The havoc I could cause...it'd be like when I used to work at Le Video and would bring home two or three laserdiscs a night to videotape, except (among other things) I needn't leave the relative comfort of my own home and I'm still getting digital quality...and, y'know what? There's a ton of live Jewel stuff being posted, and I'm loving every minute of it...but if I wants to get all of it, well, my company's news server is just too darned slow. Hence...Giga me, baby.... I feel Laurel's pain regarding her screenwriting classes. 90% of film students are pretentious assholes. When I took a film history class at my junior college in Fresno, testing the waters as I was preparing to switch my major from journalism to film, there I encountered the archetype which I naively assumed I'd leave behind once I got to the university: the Bitter Boomer. They go to college (either return or for the first time, depending) and for some reason resent the hell out of the teachers for presuming to know more about a particular subject than they do. Oh, and they're set in their ways, bigtime. When the instructor told us that we'd be watching John Sayles' Lianna and said that it dealt with lesbian issues, you have not heard a louder, more petulant groan in your life. "Oh, god, can't we watch something else?" That sort of thing. Constantly. Any theory, any way of looking at a film or a theme with which they disagree, was constested bitterly and often with a touch of anger. Even if it wasn't being shoved down our throats, just being mentioned in passing, it didn't matter; if it offended them somehow (all that was required to make offense was to be something they might not have thought about themselves), then bullshit was called, and hard. Frequently I wanted to slap them and tell them to shut the fuck up. I am all for debate, discourse, discussion. These are good things. Treating everything from the intellectual level usually found in daytime talk shows and Rush Limbaugh is just a fuckng waste of brain cells. Which sends my somewhat goofed mind back to the journalism classes I took when I actually thought that would be my career. The instructor and sum total of the journalism department was a shmuck of the highest order, a laughingstock in Fresno's journalistic community. Once I covered Dan Quayle's visit to the Central Valley (I still have the media pass in my desk), and in the press van when my companion and I mentioned that we were from Fresno City College, a collective shudder passed through the occupants, followed by sincere condolences for us having to deal with him. He wasn't a bad person—in actuality a very sweet guy—he was just spacey as fuck. I believe he meant well, but his good intentions weren't enough to make him a good teacher. Certainly, I think he could have shown a little more judgement in assigning duties, and indeed who he let onto the newspaper staff at all. The Hardcore Xtian comes to mind. Pardon me for saying this, and call me a religious bigot if you so desire, but this guy was completely fucking certifiable. No, not because he believed in gawd or sonny jesus or anything like that. Rather, he believed that his god spoke to him, and told him that his destiny was to teach sign language in Jerusalem. (I couldn't make this stuff up if I wanted to.) He wore a yarmulke, a long beard and a perpetually stern look. When gawd gets so specific about your destiny, I guess it makes you focused: never once did I see him smile. He tried to make a joke once or twice, and though I'm sure it was a genuine attempt at levity, combined with his "all things serve My Lord so let's keep it reverential" demeanor, the overall effect would have given me nightmares as a child. There's something so very wrong here... So I was sitting in the FCC cafeteria one day, eating a bowl of cereal and reading a book while listening to my walkman, as was my wont. He parked himself across the table from me. Swell. He asked how I could possibly eat, read and listen to music at the same time. I didn't have an answer for that; it's something I'd always done, and still do to this day. It's just how I am, and never before had I thought it requiring explanation or justification. I still don't. He began praying, and I went back to my reading, reserving comment on his discourteousness. His right to pray wherever he wanted was probably greater than my right to not have unsolicited praying happening right in my face, and however I feel about it ideologically, at least it isn't as physically noxious as smoking. (In one of the cruelest ironies I've ever witnessed, The Doctor is allergic to cigarette smoke. Watching his face drop on Saturday night at the bar as people lit up absolutely broke my heart. He had to go outside a few times for some fresh air because so many smokers were pointedly ignoring the law prohibiting smoking in California bars. It's no wonder he prefers animals to people. "Smoker's Right's," my ass. It's a poison which is being forced on other people, pure and simple. Don't even fucking start on me with the Nazi references. It's an unforgiveable insult to the Jewish people, who were slaughtered in the millions for no reason other than how they were born. You voluntarily started smoking, even though you most likely knew the health risks and addictive qualities. If you don't like having to step outside to smoke, that's a shame. I swear, on Saturday night, I just wanted to kick every one of them in the nuts, whether they had nuts to be kicked or not. Particularly that smug asshole sitting right next to the No Smoking sign...but I digress.) When he was done, the inevitable questions began: do I believe in his god? Have I heard that ol' jessie died for my sins, and that eternal salvation comes from his blood, so I oughta just sidle right up to a teat and suckle away? (I'm paraphrasing.) No? I don't believe in god? Why not? Haven't I read the bible? Not the whole thing? How can I say there's no god if I haven't read the bible? Don't I go to church? Oh, my parents took me to a catholic church, no wonder. I just need to learn the truth about his god, and I'd receive everlasting life though the grace and mercy of his god's boi, and of course he'd be more than happy to show me the way. I finished my food and excused myself, leaving him looking bewildered. Why would I not want to hear what he was telling me? Do I not want to be saved? He's doing such a wonderful thing for me... And, mind you, I looked nothing then I like I do now. I had long (brown) hair and glasses, and tended to wear black clothing, but otherwise I was not even remotely the same person physically as I today. Funny how nobody's tried to save me to my face recently. Perhaps Tom will try over xmas. Okay. Back to bed for now. Really.
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Wednesday, 20 October 1999 (one more weekend) 6:05am If my mom could see me right now, she'd be pleased as punch. "Oh, honey! You're going back to your natural haircolor! I'm so happy for you! I don't suppose you're getting it cut, too?" No matter what I look like otherwise, I don't think she's ever going to give up hope that someday I'll have short brown hair once again. "Once again" being relative, of course, since I haven't had it short in at least ten years. Maybe I should take a picture (color, yuk) right now of my decidedly brown roots so she'll at least have something to cling to...in a perfect world... 11:12am The big guy was just on the phone with his 12-stepper again. It's horrible. There's nothing I can do to drown it out except walk away—turning up my headphones isn't an option because I don't care to shatter my eardrums, which would be necessary to drown him out. Never mind the banging and swearing and gurgling and coughing and...
Anyway, that spare office doesn't appear to have entirely been moved into yet. I'm writing
an official request that Leigh and I occupy it. Brian said he looked into it, but a little
proactivity (pardon the phrase) is in order. Besides, I've caused enough waves by this
point, what's one more?
Anyway, I faxed over my insurance and other paperwork to the oral surgeon's (but only after being informed that unlike every other office fax in the universe, with ours you don't need to dial "9" first). Now it's a matter of them contacting the insurance company to determine my coverage. Without insurance, it'll be $1,725. Jesus. Canada's looking better all the time. I just wish there was a draft to dodge. WHAM! *grunt* Someone's apparently back from lunch.
I received a response from my request to move into the spare office: "I will see what I can do."
Funny, that's very similar to the last response I got about switching from Outlook. And, of course,
I'm still on Outlook.
For some reason, I called my mom. Perhaps not the wisest idea, for we both seemed a little snarky. I'm going into surgery and she's recovering, so that might have something to do with it. Seems I'm on even thinner ice with her than I expected; when we disagreed on something (as usual, something I remember her saying which she claims she didn't), she said, "You're capable of making mistakes, you know." I pointed out that I never claimed to be infallible. It's not like I'm the pope or anything. She didn't like that approach very well. She's definitely coming to Oakland for Thanksgiving. Whether or not she enters San Francisco is entirely dependent on my powers of persuasion. I know better than to not try my best, though, because it'll be held against me if I don't. As it is, she claims to be "hurt and insulted" by me referring to her as having a "pathological fear of San Francisco." Hey, if the neurosis fits.
In the plus column (I think), she attended a PFLAG meeting in Fresno. Ostensibly she went with a friend whose son is gay, but she really liked it
and has joined. If nothing else, she says, her story made the others feel a little better about their
situations. Of course. Yeah, my son may be a faggot, but at least he doesn't think he's a girl!
But if it helps her come to terms with me rather than making her feel like even more of a failure as
a parent, so much the better.
Oh, I need to get out of here in the worst way...
I have a hunch being alone is going to be the worst part. I don't want to be by myself tomorrow. But I really don't have much choice.
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