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Tuesday, 20 March 2001 (with murderous passion (homage to de sade)) 6:31am Blackouts have returned; sfgoth was down for the latter half of yesterday, and we returned home to find our clocks reset. Annoying, but it's the world we live in now. I have an easier time dealing with that than I do the fact that we also live in a world in which Taco Bell offers a free taco to everyone in America if Mir hits a floating 40' x 40' target in the South Pacific. Sometimes it's extremely degrading to be a human.
At least it's not my company's logo, though I can just imagine the The Den Mother slapping her forehead in frustration
for not having thought of it first.
Maddy and I have started taking public transportation to work again, the theory being that $2/day (or $35/month if we get passes) round trip is wiser financially than $10/day for parking. It involves getting up earlier, the stress and unpredictability of the Muni, etc, but it seems the right thing to do.
So this morning on the F-line a woman sitting across from us wearing a t-shirt which I found fascinating. It
was a colorful picture of parrots, with smallish print in the upper right corner reading PARROTS
NEED HELP. Underneath that was type so small that anyone who got close enough to read it would probably
get brought up on rape charges. (She had that look in her eyes, the one that suggests she isn't the most
trusting soul.) I guess she figures that if people just get the idea that PARROTS NEED HELP, then, well,
she's doing her part. I wonder if people ever walk up and ask how they can help the parrots, or at least
how they can get the cool t-shirt. Maybe she has a different
shirt for every day of the week featuring animals which need help. These are the kinds of things you
just don't see when driving.
The tough part will be figuring out when. I want to give myself a bare minimum healing time of two weeks before the trip, which means it has to be within the next three weeks. At the same time, I'd like to give him at least a week's growth to work with, although I can probably squeak by with three or four days. The Ex's party is this Sunday, so I'll definitely be shaving. The following weekend we were planning on getting together with Orky for a photo shoot, but I may have to postpone it; his style involves bright light and little left to the imagination facially, and there's a distinct possibility I won't quite be up to it, if I'm in growing-out mode. A few days after that is the appointment with the speech therapist. There's a part of me which is afraid to show up with hair growing out or recovering from electro, as if I'd be misobeying her instructions. I'm reminded of my first round of therapy with psyche student at the Pacific Center in Berkeley. This was before I started seeing a real therapist, since it was before I could afford to see a real therapist. For the most part it went quite well, and though she had little or no knowledge of gender issues, she handled herself admirably. It was as much a learning experience for her as for me. One session, though, she tore into me. I've always wondered if it was an approach she'd read about the night before or something. For all intents and purposes she was calling me a faker, since I wasn't making any real attempt to look like a girl, so how the hell did I expect anybody to believe I wanted to be one? I explained that I was nowhere near ready for that yet (this was '98, so the excuse wasn't as weak as it is now), that I was still trying to figure out exactly what I wanted to do with myself. She seemed satisfied with that, but was skeptical for the rest of the session. It was quite surreal. The next session she was back to her usual supportive, more gently inquisitive self. Anyway, that irrational part of me is convinced that if I don't show up at the appointment looking my absolute best, including but not limited to clean-shaven and non-scarred skin, she'll take one look and say, "You're fucking kidding me, right? And you think your voice is preventing you from passing?" There is, of course, a distinct possiblity that I'm being paranoid.
So, sometime soon...
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Monday, 19 March 2001 (with control (message to the mother)) 7:31am Madeline made lasagna last night, partially to test a recipe for making it for a dinner date with The Ex and her boyfriend next month (what a difference a year makes, huh?) and partially because she'd cooked so seldom since she's come up here. As has been observed in the past I'm not the easiest person to cook for, not so much because I'm picky but because I'm perfectly content to fend for myself. Just a habit I developed growing up, I guess; for assorted reasons my mom wasn't always able to make food for me, so I did it myself, and it stuck. Of course, it wasn't until recently that I started being reponsible in what I ate, but hey, better late than never.
Anyway, it was good. Damn good. So good that it's probably for the best that she doesn't get
back into the habit of cooking; neither of our waistlines or self-images could handle it. But
I'm definitely looking forward to that dinner next month...
I've decided not to ask The Ex if Maggie's been invited, since I'm afraid it'll put the idea into The Ex's head of me giving the autoless Maggie a lift to the party. Under normal circumstances I'm all about that sort of thing; as a non-drinking driver in the Bay Area, I consider it to be an obligation. For much of '99 when I would go to Shrine or Roderick's, I wouldn't feel right if I didn't end up giving someone (typically Tiff or Imani) a ride home. Call it a manifestation of liberal guilt, I don't know.
Anyway, in this case, I'm not sure I could handle it. If The Ex does ask I'll probably
say yes, not having a good reason to say no, although she probably won't—she knows how
I feel, and to an extent shares my feelings. Oh well. Whatever will happen, will happen.
I guess it's just that I don't feel there are times when I'm in "Jeff" mode and times when I'm in "Sherilyn" mode, like an alter ego thing, which is what her request implies. Mind you, the request is perfectly reasonable and didn't offend me; it just got me thinking, is all. I'm both, I'm neither. A name is an arbitrary construct. Everyone has their own learning curve for these things. (I guess it got me thinking in fragments.) How I'm presenting is not necessarily relevant to what I'd like to be called, and it depends on the situation. Pike knows me as Sherilyn but in a professional context refers to me as Jeff, which is perfectly fine since I'm not officially out at work. It's hardly a secret, but the switch, so to speak, has not been pulled. When I'm, say, over at Dana's place but not especially femmed out, she doesn't start referring to me as Jeff just because I'm not actively presenting otherwise. And certainly there's no difference in my behavior, personality, anything like that. No acting is involved. For better or worse, I'm pretty much the same all the time.
In any event, it'll be nice to get started on this.
In other words, I'm off the hook before I was really on it—or, at the very least, I've been given the out I was hoping for. It's very wrong of me, but I can live with that. I already know I'm a bad person.
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Sunday, 18 March 2001 (with brutal force (my pleasure your pain)) 8:24am We watched Book of Shadows: Blair Witch 2 again last night. When I first saw it I knew it had received some bad reviews but I didn't realize it was the worst movie of the year this side of Battlefield Earth, and quite possibly the worst movie ever. This just goes to show how ign'nt I am, I suppose, but I still don't think it's so bad. Yes, it's flawed, but to me it has a lot of potential—a potential which is never quite reached, but I sense an effort, and sometimes that's all I can ask of a movie. Of course, when people bash on the movie, I let them. No point in trying to argue. Besides, the burden of proof would be on me to show that it doesn't suck as much as they say it does, and from experience I know better. As a general rule I never ask someone to defend why they do or don't like something, although I'm frequently requested to do just that. Kinda like when Tom stated that because I "reject the christian faith," it meant that I thought he was in error for embracing the bible. In painting it in such black and white terms, he neglected the possibility that ultimately I don't give a flying fuck what he or anyone else believes. There just aren't enough hours in the day to get worked up about whether or not someone else thinks or has the same tastes I do. Something else that came as a surprise on Friday night was Miguel's announcement that he has a girlfriend. He's never entirely ruled out the possibility, but I didn't really expect it to happen, either. And though he and this woman clicked in a big way, he hasn't entirely given up on boys. Anyway, she sounds quite goth, down to the requisite Betty bangs, and a more than passing interest in the occult and vampirism. (Which I guess makes her kinda old school, and the latter makes me think that her and Maddy would get along splendidly.) She also pointed out to Miguel that he bares a certain resemblence to Anton LaVey; I hadn't noticed before, but she's right, especially what with his current shaved head/goatee look. He asked me for the names of some clubs in town and suggested that the four of us go out sometime. Sounds good to me, although I suppose it require us actually going out, an increasingly rare event these days.
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Saturday, 17 March 2001 (with knife (left to die with many cuts)) 2:58pm "Can you not take a compliment?" I was a little surprised that after all these years (we've known each other since '97, which is something of an eternity) Miguel still hadn't figured out that no, I can't take a compliment—at least, not very well. He told me that I looked like I'd lost weight, especially in my face, and I argued the point a little. He always tells me I look like I've lost weight, to the point that I'm very surprised when he doesn't say it, although specifically mentioning my face was interesting because Summer had done ths same thing the day before. I suppose it's not outside the realm of possibility that both of them are telling the truth. The hell of it is, I may never really know. I certainly don't feel like I've lost weight, although he also commented that my shape of my face has changed overall, and maybe in fact it looks a little slimmer than before. I don't know if that's likely or not, but it's a nice thought.
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Friday, 16 March 2001 (when pornography is no longer enough) 9:24am Just when I thought I was reaching some kind of height of self-conscious fashion victimization, I shared the elevator this morning with a fellow who looked like a Tyler Durden impersonator. I kept expecting him to sell me soap. He was going to the floor above mine, an ad agency—which, I suppose, makes sense. 10:09am I've come to realize that this page really isn't so much a diary as a weblog. And, of course, there are others doing a better job of it, and with much better hair. 12:01pm Willard Scott as Ronald McDonald. Lest we forget. 5:03pm I'd like to think that somewhere a diehard Star Wars fan (you know, the kind who thinks that midichlorians are real) (if you don't know what that word means, I envy you) is working themselves into a self-righteous tizzy over the blasphemy of Park Wars. 11:09pm All black, straight bangs. I've missed it.
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Thursday, 15 March 2001 (caesar had it coming) 6:54am Someday I'd like to make a bumper sticker that reads MY NIGHTMARES CAN BEAT UP YOUR NIGHTMARES.
I've also tossed around JESUS KNEW HOW TO USE A COATHANGER, but for reasons of
personal safety it's best that I don't.
Admittedly, I did bit of web research first to decide which I'd call. One of them has a very slick website, with pointless rollovers (yeah, I know, I'm one to talk), audio clips and even pictures of herself at a City Hall party that happened to be published on sfgate.com. Obviously, she's pretty damned important, and the main thrust of her site is business speaking. Significantly, I couldn't find the word "gender" anywhere on her site. In the plus column, her office is in downtown San Francisco, meaning it can't be too far from mine. That's an important detail, since I don't like missing more work than is absolutely necessary.
The other one doesn't have seem to have a web presence at all. In fact,
I could only find one reference to her anywhere, as a speaker at a
Voice and Speech Trainers Association conference,
her topic being "Vocalizing Gender." That's a little more like it.
I called and left a message on her voicemail, and am now attempting
the trick of waiting by the phone without, y'know, actually waiting
by the phone.
Three years later, they're hurting, bad. No,
I'm not suggesting they're getting what they deserve, because some people that I like work
there (in addition to some people I don't). Just one of those things,
is all.
She offered to pay me for them, but I declined. I don't feel comfortable accepting money for any of a number of reasons, not the least of which being it doesn't cost me much to begin with. Plus there's the fact that it's become popular as a recreational drug, a concept which flabbergasts me. Taking vicodin for fun? Okay, I'll admit that when I'm getting zapped I probably take a little more than I should partially because I like to see just how doped up I can get—try facial electro for three hours at a stretch and see if you don't do the same—but it's never really crossed my mind to take it when pain isn't involved. Despite my fondness for certain of the higher-end hallucinogens, as a rule I'm quite cautious with drugs; the day of her wedding Dana offered me valium to calm my screaming nerves, but I declined, mainly because I'd never taken it before and didn't want to increase the chances of stumbling down those damn stairs. Of course, it's usually taken in tandem with methadone, speed and alcohol—well, heck, you can add just about anything to that mix and still get knocked on your ass. Add Certs, and suddenly retsyn will be the new scourge. Tell your children!
She gave me a lift back to my building, actually giving us a chance to talk. I honestly don't know
how long it's been since we've seen each other, certainly not since last year; she commented on the
soon-to-be-covered streaks in my hair, so it's possible it's been well over six months. Well,
I'm the first to admit, I've turned down the occasional lunch offer for various reasons ranging from
bad skin to hibernation to a distaste for Burger King. Anyway, it was nice to see her again. She
insisted that I've lost weight and in general am looking good. She always did know just what
to say.
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Wednesday, 14 March 2001 (60 second wipe out) 8:49am Almost six years in my neighborhood, and I only just noticed the air raid siren a few blocks away. How embarrassing.
On a slighly smaller scale, after a week and a half of playing
phone tag, I finally spoke to Miguel. I have an appointment
this Friday night, returning to all black. I suppose there's
a part of me that thinks it'll make a difference.
i made my bed i'll lie in it
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Tuesday, 13 March 2001 (low life form) 4:58pm The answer turns out to be "no," since you can't be hustled if you don't actually but anything. Put another way, I've decided I'm not getting it. It isn't that it isn't a good deal—it is, damn good—but I simply can't justify it, not right now. I'd rather let a bargain pass (which I've found I can live with) than be irresonsible with my money (which is a bit more difficult on my conscience). Rent is due next week, Oscar's getting his teeth cleaned this weekend, there's no telling how much the speech therapy will cost, that whole plunging stock market thing, I'm spending a week in the Midwest next month, and so on and so forth. My responsibilities have to come before my indulgences; or, at least, I have to restrict myself to little indulgences. Oddly enough, Oscar's impending dental work was a strong motivating factor. For the last few years of Mary's life, she needed to have her teeth cleaned. The vet reminded us every so often (towards the end the frequency of the visits increased, natch), but the money was simply never there. My Le Video gig helped to pay the rent and not much else, and The Ex worked in the billing department of a local ISP which was just waiting to get snatched up by a national company—which is to say it paid the rent and not much else. On the day of Mary's departure, an inordinate amount of time at the vet's was spent arranging the finances. I had to fill out a credit request form while she lay on the table, sedated but still not long for the world. The request was denied, and we determined that between the two of us we'd be able to write a check that wouldn't bounce, thus putting her out of her all-too-obvious misery. After that was cleared up, the needle was brought forth. (Insult, injury. Injury, insult. You two'll get along just fine, I'm sure.) That earlier the same day I scored my first decent-paying job is an irony which is not lost on me.
Anyway, I've always felt guilty for not having gotten Mary's teeth cleaned, that she
shuffled off this mortal coil with a nasty case of yuckmouth. Oscar's got a long
life ahead of him, so that's not the issue, but all the same I feel like it'll
help make up for what I didn't get to do for Mary. If I'd gotten the laptop
Oscar still would have gotten his teeth cleaned, although things certainly would
have been much tighter financially in the next couple months, plus there's always
those unforseen circumstances which you can never quite bar. But I did it for
Oscar, damnit.
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Monday, 12 March 2001 (diamonds and pollen) 8:40am Towards the end of our couples' counseling session on Saturday, apparently having exhausted the rather fertile subject of Maddy's problems at work, the therapist switched gears and asked how I'm doing. I wasn't expecting the question and didn't know what to say. Okay, I guess. She asked more specific questions, like about hormones and electro. Oh. That. I mentioned that I'd finally decided to get off my ass and see a speech therapist, since I still get called "sir" on the phone without fail and that's unlikely to change anytime soon. She gave me the names of a couple therapists in town, so I guess now it's up to me to contact them. I hate this part. 1:02pm Later on we headed into the Great Unwashed East Bay, first visiting Burnout and then having dinner with barefoot and Rox. Since I was going to be driving afterwards, I took only a small hit off the joint Burnout offered, and yet it still hit much harder than it ever does at home. It might be because he rolls, or perhaps it's a truism that the drugs are always better at the dealer's place than when you get them home. Hafta ask Tom one of these days. With barefoot we went to a chinese restaurant in Oakland called King Yen, a regular habit from the Before Times which we're resurrecting. (Although it certainly fit well with the munchies.) Among other things, King Yen has Hot and Sour soup with a pleasure factor not entirely dissimilar to heroin, but without the nasty addiction/withdrawal business. (I try not to think about the fat content too much.) The rest of the food ain't too shabby, either. He cleared up a bit of family legend which I'd always suspected might be apocryphal: yes, at one point in the early eighties after my parents split up, my mother asked the then-teenaged barefoot if her could get her some grass. ("Grass" was specifically the word she used.) He declined, because A) he'd never actually bought it before, and B) even if he had, scoring for his mother was just too weird. Too bad for her that Tom was living in Washington at the time. Afterwards we went back to their place and watched one of my favorite Hitchcock movies, North by Northwest, on DVD. For as many times as I've hung out with them, it's the first time watching a movie has been suggested, probably because up until recently they hadn't spent a lot of money on a DVD player and 5.1 Surround. But, hey, if he wants to show off his toys, I'm more than fine with that. Between barefoot and Howard, it's nice to know there's somewhere I can go to watch movies in style. Speaking of Hitchcock, back at our place on Sunday we watched Gus Van Sant's remake of Psycho. A lot of people were up in arms about it when it came out, and probably still are, screaming blasphemy. I don't know, I liked it. (As always, the disclaimer must be made that I liked Book of Shadows, ergo I wouldn't know a good movie if it bit me on the sacrum.) The question most often raised about it is, "Why?" As far as I'm concerned, the answer is, "Why not?"
We rented it from neither Le Video (too far away) nor Blockbuster (the very embodiment of evil
in the video industry, not to mention we've run out of the free rental coupons that came with
the machine), but rather
a mom-and-pop store on a few blocks away that carries DVDs. I'm always happy to support
indie stores whenever possible, and for mainstream stuff it does the job nicely. So I called
them on Sunday morning to find out if they carried it. They told me they didn't. Okay,
fair enough. A minute later they *69'd to say that yes, they do carry it—they'd simply
misunderstood my question at first and thought I was asking about the original. I can't
imagine a chain store doing something like that, and I was duly impressed. When we went
and picked it up, I asked if they carried Battlefield Earth—though I'm sure it'll
be an extremely painful experience, the suspense is killing me—they said that no, they
didn't carry it and probably never would. Now that's a business with principles.
Anyway, the two main obstacles are price and my lack of knowledge about them. I have a pretty good sense about desktop systems, especially what's fair for what price, but the specifics of laptops are quite mysterious to me. All I know is how much I can justify spending, which some preliminary research has revealed to be not completely unrealistic. Close, damn close, but not completely. Of course, it goes without saying that I'll be buying a used one, 'cuz I'm nowhere near the four-digit range. So I mentioned to Leigh this morning that I'm shopping around, and she told me that the janitor is has one that he's selling for right around my price range. (How that came up in conversation between them, I can't say, and I don't really care.) Considering that I've actually considered buying one off eBay, I like the idea of getting one from him a heck of a lot better.
He just came by, in fact, confirmed that I was interested, and left to go actually get it.
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Sunday, 11 March 2001 (river of pride) 9:23am Sometimes the most you can hope for is that the world you're entering when you open your eyes is more tolerable than the one you're leaving behind.
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