All stories are told, sooner or later.

Highs (well, "slight improvements") include getting a job interview next week with a local SEO firm. At the moment, it doesn't sound like they're doing much better for clients than my old employer, and it might be part rather than full time, but hey. Beats the alternative. I'm rather proud of the fact that it was a job listing I discovered through research, rather than on craigslist. Figures it would be among the few that actually respond. Most never do.

Mike Spiegelman has asked me to guest-host his sketch comedy/spoken word show in October. I'm both flabbergasted and honored that he would ask; it means he thinks I have a good sense of humor. It's a wonderful thing to be asked to read somewhere based on the strength of my writing, and I'll be very sad if that ever goes away, but it's also really swell to get a gig just based on being funny. It helps me to cut through the pain, to help me believe I have some worth.

I also just got confirmation for the next Lit at the Canvas, my regular hosting gig, on September 27. Vale from Re/Search (with whom I haven't had any contact in a long time) is one of the features, as is Jennifer Joseph from Manic D Press. Neat.

The rules I set for myself are always the first to go.

Turns out the lower end of Girl Army's sliding scale is in my price range, so I've registered. Three-hour self-defense classes on six consecutive Sundays, starting this weekend. Means I'll miss Folsom for the third year in a row, but that's okay. This is really very necessary. I shouldn't have waited so long. It may be just what I need in other ways, too. I wonder what I'll be like when I emerge from the other side.

The main thrust was the free job-hunting and training services offered by the EDD. The lecturer (for want of a better word) said that there's a big push to privatize the whole system, which would put an end to this communistic "free" stuff. Gah. That just figures, and I won't be at all surprised if it happens.

She also said that in the over thirty years she's worked for the EDD, this is the worst the job market has ever been. I believe that.

After the writing group meeting in the evening, Meliza and I accompanied Steven and Lori on an ice cream run to Mitchell's. How have I lived in this town a decade and never knew about the place? (I don't feel so bad about only having just heard about FloatNation, seeing as how it opened last December.) From there, Meliza and I went to Annie's for karaoke. Not surprisingly, Meliza can really belt out the KISS tunes. Also not suprising is the degree to which I slaughtered "Total Eclipse of the Heart," a song which exists on its own plane, separate from all critical thought. I mean, god, if I can't even sing it an eighth as well as Bonnie freakin' Tyler, I might as well just accept the fact that I should never again be allowed within ten feet of a song. (As if my painful warbling in Zippy wasn't proof enough.) This does not lessen my desire to play Sally Bowles in Cabaret, though it probably should.

For the third month in a row, no K'vetch for me last night; Dave McKew comped us for the late Uphill Both Ways gig in Union Square. The audience for the earlier show had been very quiet, so they were glad to have big fans (and compulsive laughers) such as Maddy and I there.

My EDD appointment is tomorrow. Wheee.

In the evening, we went to In Bed with Fairy Butch. It went about as well as that sort of thing ever does.

i just dreamed about the end of the world
little town in middle of nowhere, microcosm
bar representing - lex?
looking for place to do nitrous by myself, wanting to do it in alley, wind up on some shoals, ending up losing most of it
dave from ubw going to leather/bear bar
maddy saying she's going to find me someone tonight, period
chooses one particular girl walking by - nice enough, but why don't i get to pick?
we follow them in the sushi place
nick brendan working for fantomas, shooting documentaries
sitting in a sushi place eating someone else's leftovers when the news hits
nuclear war, i guess
rushing out, maddy not in so big of a hurry
me grabbing my boots and sandals on the way out, already in tennis shoes, not wanting to be barefoot
(wanting to die with boots on, but not wanting to take the time)
her just wanting to hole up in hotel room, crying, me wanting to see how the world ends
finally convincing her to go outside
line of cars, trying to evacuate
is there sound of alarms or not
a homeless (?) guy tried to glom onto us for a ride (where's my car, anyway?), having to be very rude and brusque
returning to the little street/mall thing (mini version of fremont street experience) where bar and sushi place/cafe, lex and bear bar were
the fags are still out there, singing, reveling - THIS is the place to be
getting married in the face of the apocalypse, the final act of beauty and defiance
starting to cry because it's so fucking beautiful
knowing the world can end in an instant, not minding that so much
waking up

My quasi-deadline was a reading at Femina Potens this evening, a kickoff for the San Francisco Zinefest. I'm not sure why I was asked to read, since I'm not all that much of zinester, but it was good incentive all the same to actually get it done. The offer also came at a good time, since my upcoming schedule is bare at best. Great lineup, too—(e), Wendy O-Matik and Andre the Urban Hermitt. Pretty heavy hitters, and I still don't feel like I'm on their level. I wonder if I ever will. (Be on their level, or feel like it.)

Aside from a fondness for that prefix, I call it a "quasi-deadline" because Tina from Femina Potens didn't ask me to have a new chapbook ready, or even remotely hint at it. All the same, I knew I'd be disappointed with myself if I didn't. It's been well over a year since I've made a new one, and that's just not right. Stagnation is bad. Worse yet, I haven't written enough useable material. Not that I haven't been keeping busy over the last year, but still, I suspect my priorities have been out of whack.

Acting and putting on events is fun, and I hope to continue to do both, but that shouldn't be my focus. (Do I say this now because I don't have any plays in the foreseeable future, and Wicked Messenger is feeling increasingly moribund?) For someone who likes to pretend to be a writer, I'm not doing a whole lot of writing these days. A thirty-one year-old who's known since they were a little kid that they wanted to do this should have more to show for it by now. For that matter, it shouldn't have taken until my mid-twenties to transition, either. Fucking lazy slacker.

On my way to the gig, oddly, I was downright happy. There must have been a serotonin surge in my brain, because I was feeling all kinds of content. This is what my life is about. This is fulfillment. This is why I'm here, what makes my life matter. (This is ignoring the practical realities of needing a job, etc. I'm painfully aware of those. Bear with me.) If the world were to end tonight, I'd at least know that I'd tried to be artistic and creative, that my time was not completely wasted. Mostly wasted, sure, largely wasted, the majority of it right down the drain, but not all. I have so much more potential than I actually use. Making super-8 movies in film school, I credited them as being by Wasted Potential Productions. That wasn't just me being clever. Barely qualifies as clever at all.

Featured reader Wendy-O Matik seemed happy I was also on the bill, which I found terribly flattering. We've corresponded now and again—her essay "On Being a Woman" really struck me, especially regarding the lack of support from her "community"—but she's never heard me read. Her and (e) sat in the front row, and I was conscious of their presence, trying to gauge their reactions without being too obvious. It reminded me of Anna Joy in San Diego, though Anna had made a point of being up right up front to hear me read. I'm still touched by that.

(e) has heard me read countless times (as I have her), but her reactions are still important to me. In spite of the uncomfortable distance which has developed between her and I this year, her approval, like that of a big sister, is still important to me. While I do have my own style, much of who I am as a performer comes from her.

I read the new chapbook cover to cover. It was like a proofreading, since there are inevitably typos and mistakes which escape notice until I'm in front of an audience, or even later. There weren't quite as many as I'd anticipated, thankfully.

Nobody bought one. Didn't expect to sell any. That's not really what it's about. I mean, it's nice when it happens, and I was pleased by how many I went through on tour, but in San Francisco nobody cares. And that's okay. Might as well be, because that's how things are. I've long since gotten past the idea that they'll pay the rent. Having actual real books published doesn't pay the rent.

One of the other readers asked why I haven't been at K'vetch the last couple months. It continues to amaze me that anybody notices. (This is not false modesty.) I mean, okay, Tara and Lynnee, sure, what with them being the hosts, but...

My tolerance for news fluctuates as much as my weight, so maybe the fact that I'm following politics much closer these days has something to do with having put on a few extra pounds. Or maybe it's just the Republican National Convention, I don't know. By the time election night rolled around in 2000, I simply didn't want to hear about it anymore, and after voting I disconnected myself from it all. I was confident that I could just sleep through the night and awaken the next morning to a new President. Yeah, that worked.

Air America is only available online in San Francisco, so when I'm out and about I go with my old standards, NPR and Pacifica. (Pirate Cat Radio has been rebroadcasting A-Noise's live coverage of the RNC protests, but that's only available online or within PCR's limited range in the City.) So, on my way to the Brain Wash (a laundromat-slash-coffeehouse deep inside trendiest SOMA) last night, I listened to Zell Miller's speech on Pacifica. Wow. "Kerry would let Paris decide when America needs defending." "George Bush wants to grab terrorists by the throat and not let them go to get a better grip. From John Kerry, they get a ``yes-no-maybe'' bowl of mush that can only encourage our enemies and confuse our friends." "I have knocked on the door of [George Bush]'s soul and found someone home, a God-fearing man with a good heart and a spine of tempered steel." Maybe if Bush loses the election, he can do Viagra commercials like Bob Dole. (Get it? Spine of tempered steel? I'm making an erection joke!) I'd say when Bush loses the election, but, while I'd like to think that I was witnessing the death knell for his presidency, I don't think that was it. He's too clever. His handlers are too clever, anyway. I had no idea what Miller looked like, and when I finally saw his face, it was pretty much what I expected—a very angry old white man. Good. The world needs more of those.

I didn't see or hear their quote-speech-unquote, but the script read by the Bush daughters speaks volumes about what Republican writers think young women sound like: bubbly airheads. "But, contrary to what you might read in the papers, our parents are actually kind of cool. They do know the difference between mono and Bono. When we tell them we're going to see Outkast, they know it's a band and not a bunch of misfits. And if we really beg them, they'll even shake it like a Polaroid picture." "We spent the last four years trying to stay out of the spotlight. Sometimes, we did a little better job than others. We kept trying to explain to my dad that when we are young and irresponsible, well, we're young and irresponsible." "Who is this man they call Dick Cheney?" I swear, they might as well have just gone all the way and pulled a Malibu Stacy: "Don't ask me! I'm just a girl! Hee hee hee! Hee hee hee!" Ugh. Surprise factor? Nil.

Franken's correct: there is a cross built into the podium, especially the gavel stand. Subtle, guys.

Anyway, I was on my way to Brain Wash for the weekly open mic. I've heard about it for a couple years now, ever since I started participating in this sort of thing, but never made it out there. Usually, I didn't even remember that it even existed. Not only have I not been to an open mic in a while, I haven't even read anywhere since Ladyfest on July 31. There were a couple weeks of Zippy, of course, so it's not as if I didn't do any performing at all, but going a month without speaking my own words feels weird.

Okay, I haven't gone the entire month, but it felt close, and the one exception hardly counts. At a Zippy cast barbecue on Sunday, Mikl-Em (Griffy) suggested we bring pieces of our own material to perform, a little cast talent show. A marvelous idea, and I fully anticipated indulging myself, getting ten to fifteen minutes of my rocks off. And I surely could have, except I took a couple hits from a joint which proved much stronger than I expected. Hell, the first hit didn't even count; it had mostly burnt out by the time I inhaled. That's surely for the best, since one full toke was enough to really nail me. I managed to read one piece, sitting, not taking my eyes off the page, and I put that off as long as I could. Feh. Oh well. That's what I get. On the plus side, my stoned driving is improving. Yes, it's dangerous and a colossally bad idea. Very aware of that, thanks.

Presently, I parked around the corner from Brain Wash. As I approached it, the extreme hipper-than-thouness struck me. The place's reputation was well-earned. No surprise there; I know it was once a favorite hangout of The Leader. It may still be.

I'd gotten as tarted up as I could get, and it still wasn't enough. (I've started wearing pigtails again, just like...oh, you know. Back then.) My ego was easily annihilated by a girl wearing no makeup and clothes she probably didn't give a second thought to that morning. I'll always have to try harder, and it will probably never really feel adequate. The struggle is what keeps it interesting, right? Right.

The regular host, San Francisco quasi-legend Diamond Dave, was nowhere to be seen. We've been in the same room at the same time, but I don't believe we've ever actually met proper. I approached a fellow I presumed to be his co-host and asked about the signup sheet. He said his name was Guy and that he recognized me from Poetry Mission, though he couldn't quite remember my name. That was okay, though. It still felt good, and made my surroundings feel a little less alien and scary.

Then again, the alienness and scariness was kinda the point. I haven't been to a new place in a long time—at least, not a place where I wasn't featuring—and tasting this particular flavor of anxiety took me back. I signed up to read first (after checking with Guy to make sure I wasn't taking anyone else favorite slot) (I wasn't—nobody but me ever signs up to read first if they can help it), and the crowd was a tad...anemic, if not downright nonexistent. It was eight, and what few people were present didn't pay much attention to me. Not that I actually read at many open mics where people didn't give a shit one way or the other, but still, it felt like a nostalgia trip, and—good lord, am I getting nostalgic for two years ago? Christ. Zappa was right. This is how the world will end.

I did notice that I had attention of the butch dyke behind the counter, and when I finally bought something, she told me she liked my story. Suddenly, I felt much more at home.

Turns out Diamond Dave was in New York, protesting the RNC. Duh. Of course he was. If he hadn't been there, he would have been in the desert. What a stroke of luck for the Republicans, huh? If not for Burning Man, there probably would have been twice as many protesters. It certainly helped explain the distinctive lack of an audience for the open mic, which, I've read, usually draws a considerable crowd.

Since there really wasn't anybody there, Guy suggested I sign up to read again later. Though I had somewhere else to be later in the evening, I agreed. After all, I'll never get invited to feature if I show up once, read, and split. Have to show up a few times, read, and split. There's a system. (I kid. I generally try to stay until the end; I find it terribly rude not to listen to the other people. So there.) In any event, Guy told me that Diamond Dave actually books the features. Makes sense.

By the time I went on again, a decent-sized audience had appeared and dispersed. Ah, irony.

I asked a girl with a clarinet if she would accompany me. She shrugged and said she would, asking what the story was about. I told her it was about drinking blood, she seemed to take it as a challenge. Cool. That's what it was for me, too. I've always wanted to have someone playing an instrument while I read, and a clarinet's as good as anything. (A violin or cello would be perfect.) It was a little disconcerting and threw my rhythm off, but, as I say, it was as much of a challenge for me as for her. That was the point, really, to see what it felt like. It felt good, I think.

The show was still rolling along by half past ten, so I slipped out as surreptitiously as possible. I even waited until the reader was looking away from the front door. As much as I wanted to stay through the whole show (it's simple courtesy), the art exhibit at Mikorp was going that very same evening, and was supposed to end at eleven. When it's one night only, does it qualify as an "opening?"

On my way back to the car, I got mildly harrassed by a guy who didn't want to take any variation of piss off for an answer (You Seem Very Upset, he said at one point. Gee, I wonder why.) I really need to find out what the lower end of Girl Army's sliding scale is. At the risk of sounding dark, my luck is bound to run out sooner or later. I wonder how many times my latent imposingness has kept me out of trouble.

The crowd of hipsters outside Mikorp (so that's where they were!) suggested that the exhibit, best described as a "party," was still a-ragin'. Either that, or the place had closed and the party had been kicked out. I made my way through the crowd and discovered that the gallery was still open, and quite packed inside. The picture of the other "dark / goth type" who responded to the Craiglist ad, Reginald from the band Mutilated Mannequins, was at least three square feet and hard to miss. (That picture I just linked to is not the one from the exhibit natch.)

The picture of me proved a bit easier to miss. In fact, it wasn't there at all. I'd already figured that out when the photographer approached me, all kinds of apologetic, saying they didn't get the print of me done because of a computer problem that afternoon. Fair enough. I was a little bummed, but nothing more. just as well, I said. now i don't feel so bad about forgetting to bring my camera along, since i'd wanted to get a picture of it up on the wall. Not to mention I probably would have found it cringeworthy anyway. I'm like that. Besides, I got paid, and I signed a contract saying that he could do whatever he wanted with the picture, so, like, whatever.

I considered going back to Brain Wash, but decided against it. That's for another time.

7:57pm

We're listening to Bush's speech, and running commentary thereof, on A-Noise via Pirate Cat. This is what freedom is all about.

Still nothing from Pirate Cat Radio. I know things are in flux, so I'm doing my best not to take it personally.

11:39pm

It's healthy to return to zero now and again. Keeps things in perspective.