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There. My essay "The Definition of Unwarranted: Appreciating the Slow, Boring Star Trek Movie" is live on Medialoper. It's just shy of five thousand words, and not a single one is unnecessary. I swear.
6:31pm And then there are times like right now, when there are very small children yelling and screaming at the top of their lungs right outside my window, and all I can do is cover my ears and get the hell away from here and desperately hope that those awful people move away and are replaced by a childless couple so I can get my blessed peace and quiet back—
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I stayed after work at NakedSword until seven, working on the Medialoper article. I drove to work today, so from there I went directly to The Dark Room for Spacedisco One at KrOB's Film Farm. Much fun was had. (As was there at Bad Movie Night on Sunday, even if after the movie (Electric Boogaloo: Breakin' II) someone complained that they miss the banjo. See, when Jim hosts, he plays the banjo. When I host, I do not. Ergo, no banjo. Can't please everyone.) Afterwards, I came straight back home to continue work on the Medialoper article, which is due tomorrow. At this rate, it's already longer than my Twin Peaks essay, and that's saying a lot.
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The experiment begins. I've cleared off space on the desk in my bedroom—which has been sitting in the exact place that The Ex's father put it when we moved in in '95, and has gone largely unused since '99—and am actually attempting to use it as something other than a place to pile clothes and old calendars. The monitor which I bought in October '99 and the large padded chair Maddy and I bought a few years later have been moved to the entryway, and I'm now using the wooden chair which is probably of Fresno vintage. (The desk, for that matter, dates back to the mid-eighties.) It's not as inherently comfortable as the other one, but I've finally realized how important back support is when I'm working; if I can slouch backwards, I'm not as compelled to write. I don't understand the physics, but there you go. The bottom line is, I need to not have to leave the house to be productive. This is my home, and I should have the right to use it as my office as well. The desktop PC stays in the living room, and the laptop comes in here. I can't compose for shit on the desktop anyway. The fatal flaw in this plan, of course, is that I'm directly under Giraffe Ground Zero. Between the big fancy headphones I recently acquired and the Buddha Machine and earplugs and a determination not to let those people drive me away from my home of twelve years. Speaking of such things—when it started to rampage on Saturday morning and Ennui stirred, I said, i'm sorry about the giraffe. it's starting early this morning. She smiled and went back to sleep, an ability I admire. (I can sleep on a noisy, crowded bus, so why I can't I sleep in my own bed? Answer: I've never been able to sleep in my own bed.) Later, she told me that she'd been half asleep when I inexplicably mentioned a giraffe to her, and it affected her dreams. Not in a bad way, but there definitely hadn't been a giraffe element before. Seems I'd forgotten to tell her about the term's origin story.
10:20pm Pounding out several hundred words of what's shaping into yet another pointlessly massive Medialoper article. The experiment seems to be working.
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Note to self: when someone asks if they can share my table at Java Beach, ask them if they plan to set up a frackin' lamp and monopolize the majority of the space—and remain there until closing, even if other tables near outlets open up. It's classic, really. Kinda like being on the bus, and as the crowd thins out, the person sitting next to me on the aisle doesn't move to an empty row, even if we're the only ones left. Whee. I'm just that magnetic, I guess. Or gravitational.
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Ugh. Not as productive a night as I was hoping. After running errands I ended up at the Marsh Cafe, where I was unable to concentrate on the writing I need to do. (Medialoper article for this Friday.) So I went to Sadie's, where I've historically been productive. Still, nothing. Distracted by a lot of things, internal and otherwise. Nowhere is ever home, not really.
10:15pm This is the comedown, I think.
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I'm now one degree of separation from Simon Le Bon. And, more importantly, two degrees from Yasmin Le Bon.
4:40pm Friday's Queer Open Mic was a lot of fun. There were some people in attendance who have been playing the Sherilyn Doesn't Exist game for a couple of years now, holding grudges because of (I assume) alleged wrongs I visited upon other people entirely, and that's cool. That's their trip, not mine. The people who love me do me more good than the people who don't love me do me harm. Vash and I went to Wonderland afterward, then returned to San Francisco on Saturday morning. She dropped me off at the Embarcadero Station (don't know when I'll be seeing her again before her art opening next Sunday), and when I got home I spent the next few hours continuing with the much-needed apartment cleaning I began on Monday afternoon. From there it was to the Sunset Cafe to write, with a swing by Walgreens to get a thermometer for the ailing Johanna, and finally to pick up Ennui. We had dinner at Cajun Pacific, then went to the Fireside Bar in the hopes that it would have bricks. It didn't, and I didn't much care for the looks of the crowd, so we visited my favorite tranny/sleaze joints, neither of which Ennui had been to. First was Divas, which was remarkably slow for a Friday night, and then (naturally) to the Power Exchange. We got there around ten, and while it hadn't really picked up yet, the wankers were more forward than usual. We were followed around as I gave her the tour, which is nothing out of the ordinary; when we were only in the Undersea Room for a half a minute, one of them asked: you're not going to put a show on for us? I took it in stride, though I think it spooked Ennui a little. We decided to explore Level 3, the Couples and Single Women Only floor. I haven't seen it since the last time I attended an all-building Fetish Ball in October, and on the few occasions I've been there with a genetic girl, it usually hasn't crossed my mind. It felt verboten to even try, and I had Ennui do the talking. There was no problem; we'd arrived as a couple, and though they knew I wasn't a genetic girl it was fairly obvious she was, even though she's nearly six feet tall, the average height of the tranny clientele. It was more to her liking, the relative privacy of only other couples (and not that many, given the time), though around half past eleven we decided to return to the Black Light District. We were up until nearly three, finishing what we'd so tentatively started back in Cinco De Mayo, waiting for the time to be right. (remember, you only pass this way once) Much like her kittymom, Perdita gets super-excited and affectionate when someone else is around. Thankfully Ennui is both a cat person (I've decided her cat is Perdita's older brother) and a heavy sleeper, and was not stirred by Perdita purring loudly in her face and claw-kneading her through the blankets. She continued to sleep soundly as the giraffe began its rampage at eight in the morning. There isn't much I can do about either the giraffe or Perdita's spazziness—and shutting Perdita out of the room does not make her any quieter, as she cries and scratches and attempts to tunnel under the door—but I would have felt terribly inhospitable if Ennui couldn't sleep. We had a late breakfast at the Sea Biscuit, and I took her home. Bounced around the various wifi cafes until I found a table with a table and an outlet at the Mission Creek Cafe. Finished and sent off the Paul Reubens Day article for Other. Next in the queue is a That's What I Like column for Medialoper, not to mention I'm a month late on the story for Leyba's book. It's all about momentum.
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The Dark Room's big project for weekends in October is Creepshow Live. It's being done like The Twilight Zone, individual directors doing short plays based on that particular movie as well as Tales from the Crypt, EC Horror Comics and the like. I was sorely tempted to do "The Lonesome Death of Jordy Verrill" from the Creepshow movie, writing and directing with Sid from Night of the Living Dead as the star, but decided I should focus on my own work instead. So, my solo show Exchange and Descent, written and performed by me and directed by Jim Fourniadis, is now scheduled for Saturdays at 10pm in October at the Dark Room, following Creepshow. Meep.
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It was true the last time I said it, and it's no less true now: deep within my peeve menagerie, you'll find straight guys who call themselves perverts in order to make themselves seem more "edgy" or interesting. I've encountered more than a few over the years, though one fellow I knew in Fresno was especially bad: "I like girls with big tits—I'm just a pervert that way!" "Call me a pervert, but I'd love to fuck that girl!" And so on. It makes me want to tie them up, put a ball gag in their mouth, attach clamps to their nipples and stick a vibrating dildo (with a flared base, of course—safety first!) up their ass. Maybe they can earn the label they're so eager to claim.
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Previewed this Sunday's Bad Movie Night feature, Electric Boogaloo: Breakin' 2, with Rimma this evening. Whooboy, this one hurts. I should have left when it was over to find a place to work, what with having an article on Paul Reubens Day for Other Magazine due this Sunday, but instead I hung out and had dinner with her and her boyfriend. Company trumps productivity.
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There are new signs in my neighborhood (like this one at Noriega and Great Highway) which say "Tsunami Evacuation Route." Of course, they're pointing away from the ocean, which you'd think would be self-evident, but I guess you can't be too careful. Still, it makes me wonder what the State of California knows that the rest of us don't.
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