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Saturday, 19 June 1999 ( to ramona) 10:30am "I'm stronger?" "I've learned?" Where the fuck did that nonsense come from? Got to bed at 5am, was awake again at 9:30. Today already feels like Sunday. I can't stay here. Summer and I still have plans to meet in Berkeley, but I shouldn't count on that. I don't have the car today. The Ex has it. Her and her boyfriend are going to see Dylan tonight. We always wanted to but were never able for financial reasons. Now apparently she can afford it, though she hasn't paid me back in the last month or so. thank you for being there for me. thank you for listening. goodbye. It was fascinating seeing how familiar Fernando is with Sara; they kissed at least twice that I noticed. That's twice more than her and I have in three and a half months I've known her. Sometimes I see things that aren't there. We all do, but I find myself wondering if I'm not worse about it than most. How do you know if what you think you saw really existed or not? Met a friend of Dana's last night, Brooke. Very pretty grrl. I could be wrong about this, it could have simply been my imagination, but it seemed as though every time she looked at me (frequently, based on the number of glances I stole in her direction), she would practically beam. That's how it seemed to me, anyway. We did hit it off very well, that much I know for certain, and she did gush at one point about how much she loved my hair. I also know for certain that she was there with her fiancee. Dana insists that there are a good number of female trannychasers out there. The unattached ones are hanging out with the unicorns, no doubt.
Considering that this is a species whose dominant cultural rituals seem ultimately
geared towards the pursuit of sex, I simply refuse to feel guilty about being
disappointed when someone I find attractive turns out to be involved. Then
again, maybe from a cultural standpoint I would be less pathetic if all I
wanted to do was fuck them. That seems considered a comparatively noble goal.
Returned home to a message from Sara, cancelling on G-Spot tonight. So I ate the 'shrooms I got for my birthday (and I'm wearing the Hole t-shirt Madeline sent me, it's a regular party). Oh, I've missed this. The Ex is seeing Dylan, Madeline's in the heartland, Sara and Summer and Tiff and whoever else are wherever they are.
But everything's okay.
So what did I just do? I stood in the bathroom staring in the mirror. Then, as if that weren't bad enough, I got made up. I'd taken most of it off when I got home, since I reckoned I'd be staying in and wouldn't want to have to deal with taking it off while tripping, or afterwards, when I'd surely want nothing more than to crash. Solid logic. But looking at myself I realized I wasn't quite seeing the whole picture, the image that I project to my adoring masses on a daily basis. So...you see, naturally, how that could lead... Besides, I wanted to see if I could do it while tripping. Look, maybe someday schizophrenia will set in, and this is the way the world will always seem. Best to be prepared now, that's all. And what did I see? A fairly anonymous goth...well, okay, let's be generous and say a fairly anonymous goth grrl, one with frizzy but still beautiful hair, and one who if she could learn to smile on more of a regular basis without it being induced by illegal and mind-altering chemicals, would be much prettier than she can really give herself credit for. There are worse things to have staring back at you in the mirror. Trust me, I've seen them.
a pill to make you numb, a pill to make you dumb
a pill to make you anybody else
but all the drugs in this world
won't save her from herself
mechanical animals is great trip music. Who would have guessed?
I've come down, and my body is demanding sleep. I'm tempted to just go in and lie down as is, though I know I should undress, clean my face, etc. Maybe I'll sleep better, or at least longer, if I don't go through all those little rituals. I don't relish the thought of managing four hours of sleep, then having to deal with the world again. In any event, I know what I have to do.
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Friday, 18 June 1999 (habeus corpus) 8:02am Yikes. Last night's entries were incoherent even by my standards. 10:44am RealAudio, when properly used, might be humankind's greatest achievement. If you don't believe me (what, you don't trust me by now?), check out Harry Shearer's Le Show. When I reach a certain level of depression I can't listen to it, but when I'm in the proper mood—as I seem to be right now—it's just about the funniest goddamn thing ever, and it constantly makes me laugh out loud. Not too many things can do that. Harry Shearer does several voices on The Simpsons, including but not limited to Mr. Burns, Smithers, Ned Flanders, Kent Brockman and Reverend Lovejoy. For starters. He also played Derek Smalls in This Is Spinal Tap. (Is the link truly necessary? Not really. Hell, are any of them? Oh, let's just drop it.)
Le Show is broadcast Sundays on NPR, but the site has every edition dating back to October
1995. And once you start...
I've also installed a second blacklight for my other computer, Shulgin. (The previous owner confirmed that yes, it's in honor of Alexander Shulgin.) It's the machine running the semi-private server on which I do much of my work. I inherited the computer itself when we moved into the new building; before, I wasn't even sure where it was located. But since I'm the only one who gets any use out of it, I get to keep it. The space it takes up would just be empty (I have a lot of desk space), and there's something cool about having two computers. Cool in a very geeky way, yes, but I've never denied my geekiness. Shulgin doesn't much but run the server anyway, though a poke through the hard drive revealed a ton of leftover stuff from previous users, and when I cleaned out all the cobwebs—well, I'll be damned if I didn't suddenly have a lot more space for my MP3's.
The intern is allegedly going to be taking over that aspect of my job, though. I'm not so sure I want
someone else on Shulgin. Gonna hafta keep a close eye on him.
I started out on the main dance floor towards the back of the club, but after a while there it began to feel more like the Muni heading towards the Casto on Halloween. Very, very crowded is what I'm saying. I danced a little (when "The Beautiful People" came on I felt obligated) until the flying limbs got to be a bit much, particularly because I can't help feeling like it's my fault when someone else jabs me. The source of that neurosis is no great mystery; I've always been extremely self-conscious about my circumference. Mine used to be much bigger than it is now, and this is probably the thinnest I've ever been, yet the fear still lingers. Regardless of how much I come to terms with my body and the way it is now (and I like it a lot), it was the way it was before for a very long time, and that shaped much of my personality. So I migrated from the main dance floor to the smaller one at the front of the club, which most people probably don't even consider to be for dancing. It has its own DJ, however, and by a stroke of luck Fernando was doing the honors after the contest. So I hung out with him and Michelle quite a bit. Fernando was play stuff he couldn't easily get away with at Shrine, and it was neat to have the opportunity to dance to Ozzy's "Crazy Train." In a reaction so predictable it could be taught in high school chemistry classes, what few other Shrine regulars were present came together by Fernando. Terminal was there (doing the Centrifugal Roach-Stomp as always), as well as a grrl I've seen everywhere but had never properly met, Gish—and she's always dancing. So I introduced myself to her. I also admitted that I was incredibly jealous of her hair; she has the same cut as me (yeah, yeah, I know, huge shock), but I swear, she never has the slightest frizz or a single bang out of place. Hell, if someone breathes in my general direction my hair goes flying, never mind the oft-bitched about wind native to my neighborhood. She said—claimed—that she hadn't noticed that about her hair. *cough* Suuuure. I've never once seen her arrive or leave with anyone. Then again, that's not the sort of thing I should be noticing since it's none of my business and the information couldn't possibly be relevant. Around 2am I decided to leave. Besides the fact that I still had to work in the morning, the milk had spoiled ever so slightly: The Poser had joined in. Please note that I'm not saying "Poseur," that catch-all elitist insult which I loathe and has as much practical meaning as "Yuppie." Surely, whatever this guy is, he's very genuine. Sara and I first noticed him at Masquerade back in April, then at Bound the following week. I wouldn't say what he does isn't dancing (that would be an unfair judgement call, if nothing else); it's more like, well, posing. Similar to voguing, perhaps, but very very very slow and deliberate. Consider the most leisurely goth swoop (and he's not goth, I should point out); if that's at 78rpm, he's at 33rpm. He's usually under the most direct (read: spot) light available. And the look on his face...this guy is just so waiting to be discovered. He knows he's the shit, and he intends to get well compensated.
Which is all fine and good, but a little unnerving to have in close proximity. Earlier he'd been on the main
dance floor, but apparently he decided to share his gorgeousity with the rabble. Seemed like a perfect time
to jet.
I suppose it's possible that Sara might there. Then again, maybe not. Never can tell. On the way home from work, I rescued my birthday present from Madeline from postal limbo. I was right.
Heading out.
I'm much stronger now than I used to be.
That doesn't mean I can't still get hurt, but it does mean I'm
more prepared for it. I have learned.
I'm back home now. Sara just dropped me off. Obviously, despite the original plans, I'm not spending the night at Summer's place. The primary reason is that Terminal's going to be there as well (the sun's also going to rise in the East), and he has one of the most noxious, ear-shattering snores of any respiratory mammal on this green Earth. I've had the misfortune of having to sleeping in the same room as him before, and it's not an experience I recommend. Besides, I'd just be a third wheel. This is Terminal's territory; in addition to being Summer's best friend this side of Velvet, he's still madly in love with her. I don't pretend to understand the exact dynamics of their relationship (probably just as well), but it precludes the need of my presence. And I still find being around him somewhat unsettling. If she genuinely wanted me there, Terminal's snoring or not, she would have made it clear. In any event, I may or may not be BARTing into Berkeley to join her shopping. Something tells me it's going to be "not." Did I say Sara dropped me off? It's true, she was actually there. The months-old plan of going to the G-Spot has been resurrected. I guess we'll see. This is definitely not how I foresaw the evening ending. How does it happen that the person I feel closest to lives almost 1,800 miles away? I just don't understand sometimes...
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Thursday, 17 June 1999 (spark) 10:55am Got to bed around 3am, woke up at 7, and was at work by 10am. Ain't it the life, though?
So I survived my 26th birthday with my sanity more or less intact. Got into Bondage A Go Go
for free, at least. More on that later.
I prefer Love Spit Love's cover of "How Soon is Now?" on the soundtrack of The Craft to the original.
I've listened to it several times, but I just can't get into Wilco's new album. Being There keeps getting
more brilliant, however.
The Ex will be there tonight, for the first time in forever.
Having another body in the bed, even if we're not touching, sounds quite wonderful right now. It would even better if we were able to be close. Fortunately, I seem to have disconnected my sense of expectation, so I won't be quite so disappointed when it becomes obvious that it'll never happen again. She was only here for about an hour or so, mainly taking care of laundry and going through some stuff. As she was looking at the rental agreement, I mentioned I talked to the landlords, and they were cool with me staying here by myself--though they wanted me to tell her that they would miss her, and to wish her well. The Ex got a little teary at that. It occured to me that for as many messages like that I've carried for her, I've never once had that message given to me, or even something more neutral like "So-and-so says they hope you're holding up okay." I guess most of her family and friends aren't anywhere near as concerned for me as mine are for her. But I've always known that. We smoked a bowl before she left. Just to make her jealous, I showed her the small bag of 'shrooms which constituted my best present so far (though that may well change when I'm able to pick up Madeline's package from the post office). It worked, though she commented that her boyfriend was on the verge of scoring liquid acid. I didn't particuarly want to think of him just then, but his name always comes up. Remarkably, even though she left a little while ago and I'm stoned, my eyes are completely dry. So we had a departmental meeting this afternoon in the old building. Yes, we walked en masse to the old building to sit down and talk to each other. I don't get it, either. It started with the Big Boss apolgizing for the events of Fun Day, and to tell us about an upcoming mandatory meeting with the headest of all HR honchos next Tuesday. He said it would bring "closure." I just want it to be over. Ironically enough, Summer missed the meeting. It was so sad to go by my old desk and see it reduced to just another mundane workspace. Some other kid's moved into my bedroom. No fair. Saw my old supervisor, who had transferred out of the department long before we switched buildings. This was the first time he'd seen me made up, and as he put it, "You're coming along nicely."
Still blows my mind to think that the three other people in my corner of
the department have all moved away, and were never adequately replaced.
The intern is starting very soon (I saw some paperwork on my boss's desk
which I probably wasn't so supposed to see), though I'm not sure what
the hell I'm going to do with him. It would almost certainly take longer
to train him to do my job than for me to just do it myself, and I have a
fairly heavy backlog right now. Oh well.
and i was a hand grenade that never stopped exploding
you were automatic and as hollow as the "o" in god
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Wednesday, 16 June 1999 (nadir) 7:38am I crashed around around 11 last night. It was from being stoned as much as anything else, and that's a nice way to drift into unconsciousness. The midst of depression is not usually the best time for me to smoke lest my mood get even worse, but for some reason last night it worked. I'm heading to the old building later this morning to talk to HR. Yay.
And lest I should seem like I'm deliberately avoiding the subject, today is my 26th birthday.
I'm still not certain what I'm going to do with myself tonight, though I'm beginning to wish I'd driven here. Parking sucks, but there are a few garages nearby, and the $9 or whatever they cost doesn't sound so bad compared to taking the train home. Particularly considering I'll be lucky to get out of here before 7pm. Alas.
This is all based on the assumption that The Ex won't be taking the car back tonight;
she said before that she probably won't need it again until Thursday, so I might get
lucky. Anyway, I'm actually beginning to consider Bondage A Go Go. I haven't been
since that night with Tiff and Gahan way back when, nor have I had any particular desire to.
So why right now? I honestly can't say for sure. Maybe because it's dumb and sordid
and raunchy and I'm hoping some of it'll rub off on me and I'll fookin' do something with
myself for a change. Or maybe not.
She asked me what my plans were for the evening, and I answered honestly that I really wasn't sure. Because I knew I'd never forgive myself if I didn't, I asked what she was doing tonight, and she said she was probably just going back to her boyfriend's house. I can only guess if it was going through her mind as well, but it it was, neither of us suggested it.
Of course not. She's my Ex and I'm hers. It's not the same as being friends, not yet.
Chinese food! Don't get me wrong, some of the best Chinese food in town (I say this based on having sampled maybe .5% of the Chinese restaurants in San Francisco), and plenty of it. Yep. A wild-eyed rebel, I am. My mood must be improving, though. At least, that's the conclusion I draw based on the fact that when I was reading the menu, the words "Fish Balls with Saday Sauce" made me start giggling like mad. Well, either my mood's improving or I'm finally beginning to crack. One of the two, possibly both.
you say you don't want it again and again
but you don't, don't really mean it
you say you don't want it this circus we're in
but you don't, don't really mean it
you don't, don't really mean it
Bondage A Go Go, then. Why the hell not? Can't think of a good reason. And I can sleep a little later tomorrow morning to compensate.
It's tempting not to shave—we're talking BAGG, after all—but
my shadow's showing through juuuust enough to be really annoying. Oh,
I'm still damned beautiful, no question there. Can you be too beautiful?
Nope. So I clean off my makeup, shave, reapply and get the hell out of here.
It'll be a miracle if I get to work before 9am. In the equally unlikely event that the second site is actually ready to launch, well, they're just going to have to wait for me to haul my ass in, now aren't they?
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Tuesday, 15 June 1999 (derivation) 3:45pm The terraforming of my cubicle continues. It's a Newtonian truism that you can't go wrong with xmas lights, and they're certainly a tradition in my family. So I'm using the tiny red kind, under my desk. Provides a neat fires-from-the-depths-of-Hell glow which is all too appropriate to this place. The problem is getting them to stay in place, as scotch tape isn't quite doing the trick. Time to get creative, I guess. Been one of those incredibly frustrating days at work, wherein we have a big scary deadline coming up this afternoon (in about an hour, to be precise), and yet the eighteen zillion different producers keep demanding I make silly little changes. If this thing gets launched late, it's their fault, not mine. My teeth have been relatively okay, which is a very good thing becuase I still haven't heard back about my insurance. Frankly, I don't know how I could possibly afford the copay, let alone the procedure itself without insurance. If I wake up tomorrow morning in deep pain, however, money will be the least of my concerns.
My first impulse is to not go to Roderick's tonight, but the more that I think about it
the better it sounds. Particularly if I'm likely to be out of commission for Shrine
on Friday. (Goddamnit! The grrl who offered me the boots! What the hell was her name?
I need to write her...) And it seems as good a place as any to be when the clock strikes
midnight. Yeah, I'm being melodramatic. Fookin' sue me.
I'm playing Patti Smith's Gone Again louder than I really should be. Whoops.
This environment is so very wrong. I'm doing an okay job modifying my immediate surroundings,
but the reverberations (literally, more on that later) from beyond the walls are really getting to
me.
Now to get the hell out of here, and...I don't know what. Roderick's, maybe. Then again, as long as I have the car (well, I'll have it once I get home on the train—trust me, parking around here is NOT worth the effort), there are other things I can do. Like...er...well, shit, I don't know, maybe go to a movie, in the unlikely event that there's anything I genuinely want to see playing. Or maybe I'll just go to bed early. Woohoo. Trannyshack's tonight, but I think I've had my fill of that place. My ego has yet to erode to the point where the attentions of sweaty middle-aged men sounds appealing, thank you very much. I could get really adventurous and go to The Motherlode (or "Divas," as I think it's now called) and hang out in the meat market. Naah. Not much point in that. Maybe The Power Exchange is open tonight. More visual stimulation, at least. Nope. Call someone? Tiff? Orky? Maybe Madeline will get on ICQ before I leave (any minute now, I swear) and I'll be content to while away the evening in this evil place?
Nope, apparently not. Like Kohoutek, I am gone.
Just got back from a munchie run. A pre-emptive munchie run, anyway. Half-gallon of Dreyer's Grand Light Mocha Almond Fudge—by my standards a heavy indulgence. I'd already left the supermarket when I realized that I'd forgotten to get whipped cream. Rather than go back in (my sense of pride is very odd) I instead drove to the 7-11 on Taraval and 32nd. If there's a seedy area to the Sunset District, that must be it. I pulled up next to the fenced-in dumpster, and as I got out of the car I was assaulted by pot smoke from just inside the gate. How metaphoric was that? The same thing I'd be doing a little while later, just from the comfort of my own home. So I'm going to get stoned and eat ice cream. Sure, why not? That's as close to a sensual indulgence I seem to be able to get. Maybe I should have taken up that offer on Saturday night. Maybe these things are own my damn fault. Maybe the only thing The Ex knows how to do that I don't is to say yes, and that's her advantage.
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Monday, 14 June 1999 (slide) 8:38am My dentist's office allegedly still has my records (I don't think they actually checked, the person on the phone was utterly certain they did), so now it's just a matter of getting my insurance squared away. Of course, it was supposed to have been done when I was first hired. Or, more specifically, I was supposed to have taken care of it at the time. So they tell me now, anyway. *sigh* One way or the other, I can theoretically get in later this week. If I can hold out that long, maybe Thursday or Friday. I suppose I'll just bloody well have to, now won't I?
I'd been dancing for a while, and was off to the side relaxing. For the most part, the music had been atrocious, but I was giving it my best shot. 6:31pm I just talked to Brian and Patti about my tooth situation. In spite of the huge crush of work coming down on us this week, and the fact that I'm the sum total of the eggs in their programming basket, both are completely sympathetic towards my situation. Neither gave me any grief about the possibility that I may end up being gone for the better part of this week, if not well into next week depending on how things go. Brian even hinted that he wouldn't blame me one bit if this was just a ploy to take my birthday off after all. Oh, were but I that clever. I reckon I should contact The Ex; if nothing else, this is the sort of thing she should know about if only because it affects the usage of the car. Having no choice at this moment but to listen to TFQ on the phone (it must be a day of the week that ends in "y") I've come to a realization: his hand is permanently stapled to his forehead. Big huge fookin' staple gun, from the looks of things. Yeah, I'm the first to admit that I do more than my fair share of whining, no argument there, but I've never encountered anyone as relentless gloomy and "woe is me"-ish as him. Even the uber of the mopeygoffs is able to take some pleasure from life, but to listen to him his life is one horrible burden after another. Good things do happen to me. I do enjoy life frequently. In the final analysis, I'm pretty happy, and I know I can always slip on an episode of NewsRadio when I need a laugh. All his teletubbies and furbies an oddly eroticized infant pictures don't outwardly appear to do him a damn bit of good.
But, as always, I digress. Must leave here.
He really did get the lion's share of musical talent amongst the four children. Unfortunately, it also came with an almost fatally addictive personality. And, unlike the rest of us, he's small. Oh, what I wouldn't give to have been born with his body, provided it didn't come with aforementioned tendency for addiction built in. Indeed, I haven't compared lately, but at this point I think I'm probably the tallest. Okay, yeah, I'm finally learning to use it to my advantage (apparently being tall with beautiful hair is considered a good combination) but it put such a zap on my head when I was younger... *ahem* Sorry about that. Anyway, he seems genuinely curious to learn what this "transgendered" stuff is all about. When I talked about him with our mother the last time I was in Fresno, she seemed extremely skeptical that he'd be tolerant. She raised a perfectly valid point: he's involved with the Assemblies of God, not the most open-minded of conservative Christian organizations. Clearly, she does not approve of his association with them. It's hard not to feel sorry for my mom in that respect; The extent to which she forced religion on us was church every Sunday, catechism—at our church it was called CCD, and to this day I don't have the first clue what the hell that stood for—and youth group. She never quoted the Bible or, really, tried to involve religion in our everyday lives beyond the standard church rituals. (I'm happy to say I was never "confirmed," whatever that meant, and I completely bullshitted my first and last confession. Apparently, opening up wasn't something I would be comfortable with until the internet came along.) Indeed, she was breaking any of a number of commandments while I was a growing up, so I suppose she didn't want to be a hypocrite. How awful it must be, though, to have ended up with three atheists and one who thinks that SHE's facing eternal damnation. 4-0 on the religious upbringing. Anyway, I'm going to give Tom the benefit of the doubt and help him understand as best I can. It seems the least I can do. He and I have always been close. Okay, maybe not "always," but certainly during some rough periods in both our lives. When The Ex dumped me in 1990 (Sunday, July 22, after we'd been together for just over a month, but who's counting?), Tom and I spent a lot of time together, mostly drunk, stoned or frying. As you can see, I dealt with grief very differently in those days. AOG is heavy into "Homosexual Recovery," the theory being that most gays are desperately unhappy with their lifestyle and would change it if they could. (I have yet to meet any queers matching that description, The Fidget Queen notwithstanding. Statistically, I suppose some must exist. I've known miserable closet cases, but that isn't quite the same.) And who can help them escape and cure them of their homosexuality? The J-man, of course! Maybe he'll pull that on me, maybe he won't. I think he knows better than to try to convert me. As it happens, he's getting married in September (which, again, my mother is not happy about whatsoever), so we'll be seeing each other then. Who knows, maybe my father will be there and I can finally come out to him. (Seem to keep forgetting about him.) Okay, I have to get this out of my system: Tom's an ex-crack addict with a failed marriage, a criminal record, two daughters who call another man "daddy" and a history of recidivism, and he's getting married for a second time. Me? Well, you know about me, and I can't even get a date. This may be proof that there is a God, and He watches after His own.
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Sunday, 13 June 1999 (stems) 8:38am What am I not getting here? How does it happen that I have to dream about the people I spent the evening with? Discussing with Perki the odds of The Matrix being made into a series on the USA Network with a cast of third-tier actors? That, I should point out, was in my dream. The rest of it was even more mundane, if continuing a currently popular emotional theme with me, one left over from the waking world: the vast amount of history extant in this little goff community, and how on occasion I feel guilty for insinuating myself. (A very strong argument, based mostly on facts and the events as they actually happened, could be made that Summer originally brought me in. Funny how it never seems to occur to me at those times.) The body has not rejected this superfluous new organ, but its health does not seem noticeably improved, either. For all its self-conscious quirkiness, Twin Peaks may well have been one of the most realistic TV shows ever in how it depicted the subtle and not so subtle interconnections of the characters. (Heaven only knows what my name would be if it hadn't introduced Sherilyn Fenn to the world.) Everyone, in some manner, is tied to everyone else. The fact that Lynch was blithely making it up as he went along is all the more perfect, since real life often seems just as random. So Perki, Suspiria and I were standing outside discussing eyeliner, a subject near and dear to my heart. I commented that when Revlon stops making Street Wear "Tar" (and the flat side, not frosty), I'm royally screwed. "Oh, come on," Perki replied. "You always look flawless."
...I'll just leave it at that, I think.
Most of the afternoon was spent in the North Bay, running various errands and seeing friends. Seeing as how I can't seem to leave the apartment without being goffed out anymore, I got to interact with and generally confuse middle America a little more than usual. I hadn't realized that the farther north you go, the more like Fresno it gets. Novato in particular, where I stopped at both Costco and Target, in the fashionable new Mega-Strip-Malls which I'd first observed in Fresno. It was nice just to get out and drive, though having somewhere to go helped. My family used to drive up to Washington every summer to visit relatives, until I was 13 or so (by which point the immediate family had splintered and the older relatives were passing on). One of the things I liked about it—or at least made the drive tolerable—was seeing, well, DIFFERENT stuff, y'know? I wonder if kids today realize that there was a time when the chains hadn't completely taken over the landscape. Probably they find it comforting to know that wherever they end up there'll be a Borders or a Lucky's or Blockbuster. To them, it's not homogenization and the death of choice, it's reliability and consistency. I suppose Christian Slater's line in Heathers about convenience stores best sums it up; for the life of me I can't remember exactly how it goes, but you know the one I mean. Saw Sara for the first time in a couple months. Hung out, ate, got caught up. She's doing well. First thing tomorrow morning I'm calling the dentist.
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Saturday, 12 June 1999 (roots) 7:22pm 10am appointment with Miguel this morning to get my hair recolored and trimmed. Got there on time in spite of having gotten to bed at 4am, since I was up and awake at 7:45am. I was just glad I actually had somewhere to go, because I would have been awake no matter what. When I told Miguel that I didn't want him to put my hair in braids this time, he leapt upon the opportunity to get creative—sort of. He's been dying to *something* with my hair for quite some time now, but I've always declined. Him spending a lot of time putting it in rollers and making it all elaborate just doesn't seem logical when the moment I step outside his salon (in Glen Park, just above 280 in SF) the wind is going to destroy whatever he's done. Besides, I seldom feel that glammy these days. Today he just made it as straight as possible, seemingly blow-drying and brushing every strand individually three or four times. I suspect that's the part of the job he enjoys the most, when he can really indulge himself artistically. Earlier, when I was waiting for the color (still just black, natch) to set, one of his coworkers was discussing the different styles of bangs with her customer, but was having a hard time remembering Betty Page's last name. "Boop" was as close as she could get. I kindly corrected her, though at that moment my hair more resembled Siouxise's on a really REALLY big and bad hair day. As I was on my out I stopped by her station and asked her if this was the sort of cut she'd been referring to. She said it was—and that I looked more like Betty than anyone else she'd seen with that style. Considering that I voluntarily exist in a subculture wherein black hair with bangs is as unique as a buzzcut in the army, I still get the Betty comments quite a bit. Someday I may really begin to believe I resemble her. If I learned to smile (for that was ultimately her greatest strength), I may be quite dangerous. Afterwards I ran some of my standard Saturday-with-the-car errands, including a stop by the Serramonte Mall. The Hot Topic there is still out of the white powder, and one of the grrls commented that they haven't carried it for at least a month. Her theory was that this particular location was moving away from the more goffy items, a theory borne out by the abundance of 70s' kitsch, or as she called it, "club stuff." She strongly recommended that the next time I'm at the Berkeley location, I should stock up just in case. Definitely a wise precaution, as I seem to be going through the stuff pretty quick. The compact which Madeline sent me as a suprise has turned out to be quite a lifesaver. On the way home I indulged one of my more shameful vices and stopped at the the Taco Bell drive-through. If every other fast food chain disappeared, I wouldn't miss them. Indeed, I'd consider it a step forward for our culture. Taco Bell, though, is very much a guilty pleasure. Me? A hypocrite? Why do you ask? And at least it's soft food. *sigh* Judging from the ache, I believe my wisdom teeth are finally breaking through. My dentist first told me they needed to come out in August '97, and he showed me the X-rays. Ever seen X-rays of impacted, or at least soon to impact wisdom teeth before? Scary stuff. One tooth pointing towards another at a 45 degree angle. I wince just thinking about it. Anyway, I had an appointment scheduled and everything when I lost my job. More specifically, my temp contract at BofA (my first and last non-internet related office job, thank god) was ended early. No explanation was offered, but I had to cancel the surgery. To a degree it seemed just as well, since I wasn't at all certain how I was going to pay for it. Now, at least, I have insurance. So first thing Monday morning I'm going to call the dentist's office and reschedule, never mind the two years which have passed. With any luck they won't have to retake the X-rays and I won't have to go through that entire process again. I know my luck better than that, however—more likely I'll have to have it done on my birthday. Just so long as they use nitrous. That's all I ask. For all the dental work I've had done in my life (and I confess, I don't have the best habits in that respect—but I don't eat a lot of sugar or decay-promoting foods, at least), never once has nitrous been used. That's simply not right. Brigid recently had hers pulled, and between novocaine, nitrous and vicodin, she says she didn't notice a thing. I probably face reality head-on on more of a regular basis than most people (since I don't drink), so goddamnit, when I want to hide behind drugs, I wanna be obliterated. Like, I heard that if you mix two vicodin with a full dose of robitussin, it produces an effect very much like ecstasy. Sounds to be a worthy experiment.
Right now, though, I need to eat, get dressed and head to Bound. Between
the orajel and my sorely taxed but still functioning stoicism, I'm definitely
up for it. Crashing for three hours when I got home this afternoon
helped, too, even though I had my typically fucked-up dreams. My subconscious
hates me, but you can't expect everyone to be your friend, now can you?
I am doll eyes
Doll mouth, doll legs
I am doll arms, big veins, dog bait
Yeah, they really want you, they really want you, they really do
Yeah, they really want you, they really want you, but I do too
I want to be the girl with the most cake
I love him so much it just turns to hate
I fake it so real, I am beyond fake
And someday, you will ache like I ache
Someday, you will ache like I ache
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Friday, 11 June 1999 (the minute of decay) 2:20pm My 25th birthday, June 16, 1998, went something like this: I worked, as usual. I'd had the day before off. After work I took the bus from Autodesk into Central San Rafael and had my first session with my shrink. As strange as it sounds, between her schedule and mine it just made sense to do it on my birthday. Besides, I loved the corny symbolism. You know, starting a rebirth on my birthday, particularly one as significant as 25, etc. Afterwards, The Ex picked me up and went for dinner at a restaurant in Sausalito called Horizons, and for good reason. It's located right on the bay, and we had a perfect view of the San Francisco skyline as the sun went down and the city's lights came on. Absolutely gorgeous, and by our standards, very romantic. Overall, it was a perfect day. (And I say this even though we got home and discovered my computer had mysteriously crashed. Doesn't change the tenor my memories at all.) My 26th birthday, next Wednesday, isn't likely to go quite the same. Nothing planned after work, no commemoration. This will, of course, be my first birthday spent without the Ex since my 17th. Ironically, I do have another important meeting that day: I'm finally going to be talking with HR about...well, about me, I guess. It's their idea, and Trevor says they're prepared to bend over backwards to help out the company's tiny transgendered population as much as possible. In all honesty, I don't have any complaints or requests right now. They'll probably be all but ready to start changing the paperwork, but I'm not sure the time's quite right. I'm still fairly hung up about the facial hair, in case you hadn't guessed. Significant events often happen on my birthday, and me turning a year older is seldom one of them. Though I got Mary on my 11th birthday, there was never any attempt to make her seem like a birthday present. I'd already picked her out, and that just happened to be the day she was brought over. The memory is still quite vivid; my older brother and I went to see Star Trek III, and when we got back, there she was. And there she was for almost fourteen years. Everything goes away. The Ex and I spent my 17th birthday together. On her 16th that April, though we'd been hanging out together quite a bit but she spent the day with her recent ex-boyfriend. Much of the reason being, he could actually drive the car her parents had bought her. She obviously didn't have a license yet, and I didn't get one until I was 20. By the time my of my birthday in June, she was completely through with him (or so we thought) and we were inseparable (or so we thought). We spent the day at my father's condo, of all places. He was out of town, and it seemed to make sense. Oddly, my mother drove us there. Our options were limited and she was very gracious to do so, but in retropsect it seems kinda weird. She may have just been thrilled that I was actually showing an interest in girls. The previous summer she'd asked me if perhaps one of my friends was gay, a fellow six or seven years older than myself with whom I was very close. (When he was born again a few years later it seriously damaged our relationship. His attempts to convert me were not appreciated.) The question was raised because I'd spent the night at his apartment to do 'shrooms. The cover story was that we were having a Star Trek marathon. Perfectly plausible considering what a pair of total geeks we were, but she still had her doubts. She never suspected the truth. Sadly, he's now on my relatively short list of people whom I suspect will never accept what I'm doing. If I never see him again, it'd probably be for the best. We mostly watched Twin Peaks and fooled around. More like, she taught me how to fool around, since I didn't have the first clue. Not sex, just very heavy petting. It was all good, though. The next day, we were lying on my bed, and...y'know, I'd never given this much thought before, but my mother granted me an astonishing amount of privacy; most parents wouldn't allow two teenagers to be alone behind closed doors as much as she did. Anyway, we were making out, and I guess I overstepped my bounds (story of my life, folks) because she stopped me and said that she couldn't do that with someone with whom she wasn't official. I wasn't trying to actually have sex with her, and I don't remember exactly what it was. Just something too intimate. She waited for what she was so strongly implying to sink in. Nope, just bounced off the first seven layers of skull as most things do. Finally, she spelled it out: she wanted us to be official, and that required me asking her. I did, she said yes, and we were.
That was June 17, 1990. Our "official" anniversary, however, is August 13. Everything goes away.
Briefly, it was a good night. Summer didn't show up, and it looks like no shopping tomorrow, but Magenta did. I came to realize that I have a slight crush on Anodyne, who's quite beautiful and very attached. Feeling a need to confess, I told Suspiria, who was in the middle of some unrequited pining of her own. She didn't seem at all surprised, saying that Anodyne was very old school. Which, knowing me, makes perfect sense. Oh well, it'll pass. I was graciously offered a pair of used over-the-knee boots, which will be brought to Shrine next week. They're size 11 and I'm *monumental sigh* size 13, but I'm gonna give them a try anyway. REM's "Find the River," of all things, got stuck in my head. Obviously there wasn't much I could do about it, though stumbling across Neil's "Hey Hey My My (Into the Black)" on the radio when drove home worked too. Twice, people I didn't recognize knew who I was. I still haven't gotten used to that. Other, significant things happened, and yet... Bound is tomorrow night, Free admission for Geminis. So I'm going.
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Thursday, 10 June 1999 (promises) 2:28pm My erstwhile ISP hooked.net (I don't know what makes them erstwhile, it just sounds good) has apparently gone down, so there's no telling when this'll go live. I've been seriously considering moving this page to my sfgoth.com account anyway. If this continues... Work has been picking up. The fresh-faced young kid I met the other day is in fact going to be hired as a summer intern. My intern, of all thing. This isn't the same person I'd met a month or so back; that was the son of a friend of my boss at the time, and the this is the son of a friend of my current boss. Considering that a form of nepotism is how I got certain crucial jobs in my lifetime, I'm certainly not criticizing the system.
In spite of the fact that he's a summer intern (which is to say, he'll be gone in a few months), my responsibilities
are changing. Getting more power, which I guess is good, though I've yet to manage to successfully levy that into
a raise. (But, as Summer points out, it's not about how hard you work, it's about how little they think
they can get away with paying you.) It also means more meetings, blech.
There's one coming up later this afternoon, and thankfully I have a can of Red Bull in the fridge. Yeah,
I know, but my options are limited, and the stuff isn't so bad, really. And considering how much I'm dozing
as it is (didn't sleep very well last night), I need something.
Just got out of the meeting. The Fidget Queen was there, since he's working on some of the graphics.
Though I don't care to be around him, his presence was strangely galvanizing. The more he sat there looking
vacant and uncomprehending (remember Uhura in the briefing room scene of "The Corbomite Manuver?" Worse),
the more I threw myself into the proceedings. If he's not even going to pretend to care, then I'm going
to make myself invaluable. I did finally get that compliment my e'er-so-needy ego has been clearly demanding. Trying for a more natural look, I wore Revlon Street Wear "Dirt" (still the greatest name ever) lipstick today rather than the nameless dark purple shade from Wet 'n' Wild I've been using lately. Which I like a lot, don't get me wrong, but it's all about trying every possible combination. Anyway, one of the graphics producers, Patti, said she really liked the shade and that it worked well on me. Dethorned my paw probably more than she realizes. This was in the office of my direct boss, Brian—and since I know I should never pass up an opportunity to be completely casual about these things, I took the lipstick out of my jacket pocket and showed it to her. Yep, kids, I keep the stuff on my person, and I'm the only person in the department with the permissions or who even knows how to push stuff to the live server. Of course most anyone can get access and learn how, but they're satisfied with just me doing it. Not a bad position to be in.
Either I'm causing more of a stir than I realize, or not at all. Both are possible, the latter is far
more likely. Whatever the case may be, just doing whatever comes naturally is the best way to proceed, and
that's what I'm doing.
Theoretically, I could respond in kind—I have plenty of stuff which would no doubt drive him up the walls—but
I won't. This sort of one-sided battle of wits thing requires stealth and tact. The less obvious, the more fun, not
to mention the better part of valor. So on go the headphones...and the new Cranberries disc really loud...
Starting around 5:52pm, the lights automatically shut off and half to be turned back on manually. This happens every half hour or so. And the controls...oh, let's just say that if the word "counterintuitive" hadn't already existed, it would be necessary to invent it to describe them. Switches? Who needs 'em? An unmarked grid of buttons which apparently control all the other offices on this floor as well (maybe that's why news.com hates us?), so when randomly pushing buttons you can hear lights switching on and off elsewhere. At it's practically random, since different buttons operate our lights at different times. The Ex is pick me up sometime soon; I'll drop her off in the East Bay then drive home. Going to be a late night, no question. But I can handle it. And for as long as I'm here, I'm not going to let this place beat me. Have I ever mentioned that all work and no play make sherilyn a dull grrl? It's true, y'know. Bears repeating, even.
all work and no play make sherilyn a dull grrl all work and no play make sherilyn a dull grrl all work and no play make sherilyn a dull grrl all work and no play make sherilyn a dull grrl all work and no play make sherilyn a dull grrl all work and no play make sherilyn a dull grrl all work and no play make sherilyn a dull grrl all work and no play make sherilyn a dull grrl all work and no play make sherilyn a dull grrl all work and no play make sherilyn a dull grrl
Ah, much better. I'm so glad I got that off my chest.
That said... FUCK YOU, UNIVERSE!!! Is that the best you can do? Huh? I can fuckin' take anything you can fuckin' dish out! Just fuckin' try me! In truth, the glow has died down quite a bit, and I genuinely don't want to see what else the universe can dish out, because it's kicked my ass before and it'll kick my ass again. But that's essentially how I felt earlier this evening after I dropped The Ex off at her boyfriend's house. If I can handle that, I can handle anything. Quite an improvement from the last time I dropped her off, as I had been in tears before I hit the freeway. As we pulled up, she asked if I could help her bring her stuff in. One of his roommates was on the front porch smoking a cigarette; judging from the number of cars in the driveway, I guessed everyone was home. I was fully goffed out, with hair tied on the top of my head, so much the better to see the hint of shadow which was bravely struggling to make its presence known from under the powder. Her boyfriend had seen me in full grrl mode before, complete with skirt and pigtails, but of course his roommates hadn't and I had no way of knowing how much they knew about me. In all likelihood The Ex had told them on at least one occasion while passing the bong around. Perhaps she had been sad and remorseful, crying into her boyfriend's thick bushy beard; perhaps she had been mean and spiteful, venting her anger and frustration towards me and what I'd done to so many of her dreams...like marrying and spending the rest of her life with me. For many years was the only thing she knew that she wanted. I will never know what she said. In any event, this wasn't exactly grrl mode. It was more like a blurring of the division between boi and grrl mode, hopefully leading the eventual disintegration of such distinctions. Ultimately it'd just be me. I knew this to be true, but they did not. To them, it may look like just a few notches below clown makeup. It was not a place for me. It was the home and the world of the man who was fucking the woman who had once been my soulmate. I'd been to a few parties here, in the past. In the present, I did not belong here, even for a short time. So how could I possibly say no? I grabbed a couple of her bags and walked towards the house. She introduced me to the roommate on the porch, whom I'd actually met before. He looked at me and laughed, nodding his head. "All right!" he said, grinning widely. We enter, and she introduced me to another of the roommates, a rather cute grrl sitting at the computer. I pointed out that I had in fact been here many times before (though not once in 1999, it's true), and had already met all of them. The Ex looked puzzled for a moment, then realized I was completely correct. Maybe she had just come to identify this place with her new life, the one where I'm just the person who occasionally borrows the car. I set the bags down, careful to make sure they wouldn't fall and knock over the large glass bong on the floor. I knew there were many more where that came from, but it's the principle of the matter. I said hello to her boyfriend and we walked back outside. I could feel the assorted sets of eyes on me. I'd wanted attention? Well, here it was. As I drove off, that sense of mild exhilaration came over me. I'd made it into enemy territory and out again, alive. He's come into the apartment and made himself comfortable on more than one occasion at The Ex's invitation; this was as close as I cared to come to returning the gesture. I intersected his world on my own terms. I didn't hide or deny myself. Someday it probably will kill me, but not tonight.
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