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Which is to say, we were watching the "Goth Sex" episode of Sex 2k primarily to see Clint, and lo and behold, there was Mary, sleeping next to him on the arm of his couch. She looked far healthier than when she died practically in my arms that day in March of '98. Some would surely argue that being an ex-cat makes it all the more unlikely that she's currently alive and well and living in Los Angeles with Clint, but I rather think I'd know her when I saw her, and that was mostly certainly Mary. I should write him and demand an explanation. We went to the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art with Chupa today to see YES YOKO ONO. It was amazing and more than a little inspiring, as I suspected it would be. It was also a little frustrating, as some of the experimental films she made in the sixties featured music which is otherwise unreleased, and even if it hadn't sounded perfect for kittypr0n I would have wanted it anyway. Hi, my name is Sherilyn and I like Yoko Ono's music. (I also don't believe she broke up The Beatles, but there's no point in going into that again.) At least the soundtrack to Fly, which was twenty-five minutes of closeups of a fly on a woman's body (flypr0n!), was vocalizing by Yoko not dissimilar to Diamanda Galas's Schrei X. Somehow, though, I suspect many of the people who think it's brilliant when Diamanda does it would call it unlistenable caterwauling coming from Yoko. One of the films which didn't have music, and Chupa's favorite exhibit, was the rather harrowing Cut Piece. It was actually very simple, a sync-sound movie of a 1965 live performance wherein audience members came on stage and scissored off pieces of her clothing. Yoko remained impassive throughout, the look on her face as devoid of meaning and emotion as Jean Seberg's at the end of Godard À bout de souffle (translating to Breathless in English, not Regarding the Fluffy Casserole), until the very end. The last cutter was a man who made a smartass comment to the audience and proceeded to cut, among other things, the front of her slip and her bra straps. No doubt he wanted to see her tits—isn't that why women are on God's green earth? Perhaps I'm being unfair, but his actions spoke louder than the words which the mic didn't quite pick up. Indeed, he struck me as the kind of guy who gets drunk and watches the dyke march because of all the topless women. Now, it isn't specificed if the audience had been asked not to cut her underwear, but both the look on Yoko's face (a nervous glance at him as she realizes what he's going to do is the first time she averts her gaze at all) and the booing and hissing from the audience suggest that it was, in fact, very uncool of him. The piece required no small amount of courage out of Yoko, and she'd managed to keep it together quite well until that point. Even then, though she looked troubled, she didn't say a word nor stop the performance. Still, it goes to show that no matter where you draw the line, somebody is going to attempt to cross it. Most of the pieces were only to be seen or heard, but a few invited participation. For one of them, The Wish Tree, visitors wrote their wishes down on provided slips of paper and tied them to a tree. I didn't participate because I couldn't think of anything to wish for (at least nothing I could translate into words), but Chupa and Maddy both did. Reading the existing wishes were interesting, even if a few people took it as an opportunity to vent their anger, such as "I wish I hadn't paid money for this." Speaking of paying money: thank you, Chupa, for providing us with the free passes. That said, the $10 admission would have been a bargain. Also speaking of money: in the museum gift shop, we recognized a mobile which was once visible through our upstairs neighbors' front window. The price? $430. Y'know, even at the height of my corporate career, I never consumed that conspicuously. And then there was the Good Patriot who eschewed the whole "wish" concept for the more socially responsible "Remember 9-1-1," complete with a sketch of the flag and the WTC. Ugh. That's someone who really, really needs to learn to move on with their life. Either that, or a good kick square in the nuts. (Doesn't matter if they're male, female, or one of my people. A good kick square in the nuts transcends gender concepts.) And I know that sort of thing is only going to get worse in the month ahead...
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"I think we've met, but I'm not sure. You look very familiar." "Are you all right? You look sad." I get those a lot.
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The first thing you learn about computers is, if you try enough things, it's guaranteed disappointment. Thank you, Don Joyce. I had the Le Video dream again last night. It's been a while. This time the anxiety came from having accepted the job before my unemployment ran out (which it will in couple months), thus making considerably less than I do on unemployment. I don't know if this means my priorities are out of whack. Judging from the rhythm of the noise upstairs, I'd say they're actually doing some moving today. They're also dropping many heavy things above our bedroom, though I suspect it isn't entirely accidental. Not that they're intentionally trying to interrupt Maddy's sleep, but rather, they're the kind of people who can't be bothered to put things down gently. Naturally, it creates the conflicting feelings of wanting to be away from here and yet not wanting to step outside the door for fear of seeing them. We'll be leaving eventually, though, or at least I will. After five years I've finally paid off my car, and will be meeting up with The Ex at the Daly City DMV to get her name taken off the title. Couldn't do it while the Chrysler Financial Corporation owned my soul, and of course changing my name was very much out of the question. Hopefully we'll be able to do both today. It should eliminate a few of the more awkward questions the next time someone swerves into my car because they see brakelights and panic. For years, August 16 has been a peculiar sort of anniversary for me. On that day in 1994 I was still living in Fresno, Elvis had been dead for seventeen years, Neil Young's Sleeps With Angels was released (and I received some swell Neil boots in the mail), TV Nation Day was observed, and in general it was one of my last good days for a long while. The next week I was living on campus at San Francisco State University and was utterly miserable. And I hadn't even met The Other yet, so now it almost seems like innocence. 12:14pm Yeppers. There's a moving truck out front; they're most definitely going away. Who knows, we actually may get some quiet for the rest of the month. I just hope they don't cut the power, like the previous neighbors did when they moved. 5:41pm Mission accomplished. I should be getting the new registration (and title, presumably) in the mail soon. Yay. Once again, I'm glad that The Ex and I remained friends. It would have been painfully awkward otherwise, particularly considering the sniping that went on about it after we broke up. So much was bad then.
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I haven't been able to convince myself to go to the gym lately, scared off by the prospect of KFOG (or worse) blaring into my ear, but I got a week's worth of exercise dancing to Anastasia's DJ set at Sacrifice last night. Sweated more than I usually do after an hour on the crosstrainer, even, which I guess is a good thing. Anastasia didn't go on until midnight, but around half past nine she was feeling nervous and restless. She decided to go back to home for a while, and invited me to come along. Since I didn't feel right letting her walk (or even take the bus) the several blocks to the house she shares with Michelle and Rocco by herself, I agreed. We'd barely gone half a block before I realized that, y'know, I did drive. Mind you, I'd gotten a totally cherry parking spot right outside the bar which would surely be gone when we got back, but that didn't seem like a good reason to walk through some hairy parts of the Mission at night. Daytime, maybe, but not night. My real concern was walking in on Michelle and Rocco unannounced. Anastasia assured me it would be all right, but since they weren't expecting her back home until after the bar closed, there was the possiblity of finding them...um...in flagrante delicto, as it were. Fortunately, they were in engaged in more mundane forms of domesticity. And I finally got to meet future kittypr0n star Petunia, who looks and acts like Mina's tough older sister. (I have the scratches on the back of my hand to my prove it.) She's namechecked in the Acknowledgements of Michelle's new book The Chelsea Whistle: "To Petunia for sitting on my lap while I edited." That may, in fact, be the cutest thing ever.
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Watching Chupa expertly debone the dead baby seal yesterday afternoon, I was strongly reminded of Lee: he's the only other person I can imagine doing something so icky while looking so stylish. In addition to the seal bones, she also collected a couple dead birds and a large fish we'd found the day before. (For the record, I'm well aware of the potential ethical and certain legal issues involved with this sort of thing. I also take premarin twice daily, and I know what's wrong with that, too.) She said it was one of her best hauls, and would make for some great sculpture. I don't doubt it. Afterwards, we went back to the apartment and relaxed. As usual, Oscar was all about having a new set of hands to pet him, but the real shock came when Mina ventured out, not only braving being in the same room with this stranger but allowing herself to be touched by them. For Chupa, at whose bar kittypr0n is regular viewing, it was like meeting the stars of a favorite show. We ordered Chinese food—I decided not to point out to Maddy that in spite of her earlier statement upon seeing maggots feasting upon the seal, she did eat rice that night—listened to all manner of rumbly ambient music (including turning Chupa on to The Conet Project, which she hadn't yet heard because she's never actually watched the show with the sound up) and talked until three in the morning. Not a bad way to spend a Tuesday night. sometime after midnight Sunset to Sloat, Sloat to Portola, Portola to Clipper (aka The Wormhole, TM Embeth), Clipper to Church, Church to 25th, 25th to Valencia. Wash, rinse, repeat.
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There's a seal corpse out on the beach. We notice this sort of thing now.
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11:23pm Home tonight, for the first time since last Tuesday. Quite a run I had going there. It's nice to more or less relax, though it isn't made any easier by the fact that I burned my fingers this afternoon. Long story involving me doing something really stupid—I realized when I was a teenager that wisdom is knowing that no matter how old you get you will always do stupid things—the result being a lot of pain at the time and blisters on my fingers now. Whoops. I'm sure it has some deeper meaning, but I'm not sure what it might be. At least the bulgur turned out well.
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I'm usually pretty Zen about it all. But it still hurts sometimes.
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