It'll be over soon.

9:39am

Guns!

4:16pm

So it would be just my luck that the appointment ran for two hours rather than the single one I was expecting (enough time to get through The Cure's Bloodflowers and Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot), bringing me to 216 hours. It took longer because he more thorough than usual, which is certainly a good thing, though the net result was the vicodin was pretty much out of my system for the second half. What's left of the hair on my face is so weak he didn't need to have the current up very high, so it wasn't as painful as it would have been otherwise. The last half-hour was spent on my chest, though, and while he sprayed it with the local painkiller first, it was hard at times not to imagine the stories I've read (mostly true) about anesthesized patients actually being awake and aware during surgery. (These are not to be confused with the urban legends about, you know, the tranny who as they were losing consciousness on the operating table suddenly changed their mind but it was too late, and afterwards was so despondent he killed himself. These are always told as well-meaning cautionary tales by people who heard them from a friend of a friend of someone they don't like much to begin with.) Or bloodletting, which was a bit more pleasant to think about.

Anyway, the reading is tonight, we're probably having dinner with Dax and a few other people tomorrow night, and K'vetch is Sunday. No hiding.

I've never watched The Osbournes, and don't want to; however, I've read that one of his kids refuses to be on the show. That kid's my new hero. They're like the Barbara Lee of "reality" television.

10:51am

For xmas 2000 Pike got me a gift certificate to Sephora, which I finally used yesterday. In spite of many attempts in the past, I'd just never gotten my act together sufficiently to actually have it on my person when I could actually go there. Usually I'd find myself in the area and think to myself, "Darn! I should have brought the gift certificate!" Not unlike every time I'm at the Safeway on Noriega without my camera, which thus far has been every time I'm at that Safeway. There's a shelf labeled "Breakfast Center" which is filled the worst kinds of sugary junk food imaginable: Twinkies, Ho-Hos, Sno-Balls, fruit pies, et cetera. This, I reiterate, is their "Breakfast Center." So you see why I need to bring my camera, for this sort of thing needs to be documented. It'll aid future historians in figuring out what the hell happened to us.

8:18pm

Urban Decay Apparition foundation, by the way. I panicked (dark hair on my upper lip, clearly visible if you're in a well-lit room and look really close) and made an appointment to get zapped tomorrow, though, so I won't be wearing it in the immediate future.

8:38pm

We were at Sephora to kill time before heading to Herbivore for dinner with Michelle and Rocco. Remarkably for a group of our demographic, we were all on time. It went well. Maddy was very nervous, but I wasn't; we've survived meals with The Ex, at both her home and ours, even enjoying ourselves at times. This, comparatively, was going to be a breeze, even if Maddy is still in awe of Michelle.

Rocco and I talked quite a bit about transitioning, hormones, and so forth. Although being 22 (22! a mere pup!) probably has something to do with it, I got the impression he hasn't met too many M2Fs, which is reasonable enough given that like many F2Ms he's from the dyke community. And, unlike many F2Ms he still considers himself a dyke, which confuses some people. It makes sense to me, though, because I've long since figured out that there's about a zillion different ways to be, and his is just as valid as any other. I suspect it's also why he lacks the slight undercurrent of misogyny I've encountered in some F2Ms.

(On a mailing list a couple years back, a genetic girl was venting about a Slashdot article regarding the disproportionate number of men online which confirmed her worst feelings about the internet. "I KNEW I WASN'T BEING AN ACTIVIST FEMINAZI!!!!" She admitted that her wrath was really directed towards a different, more male-oriented group of friends; in response, I thanked her for bringing it to this particular list. I then namechecked all the women on the list, a definite majority, and concluded that "Only the most ardent dittohead could possibly deny the rampant sexism on this list." Irony and all. An f2m on the list clipped the majority of the message, leaving only the last line about rampant sexism, then said "Uhh, lemme guess. . . I'm automatically a sexist asshole because I have a beard? *Yawn*" Because that bore no relation whatsoever to what I said, I replied "Yes, that's precisely what I said." No smileys or nuttin'. Well, that set him off: "I'm of the opinion that there are some men who aren't sexist and some women who are. I can introduce you to several rather misogynist dykes, and several feminist fags. You of all people should understand that it is possible for people to transcend gender roles and sex chromosome structure. I hope you're kidding, if not get your head out of your ass. Sick of that dumbassed wimmimmimmimmimmins guilt-trip. Been to Michigan Womyns Music Festival, (and the food sucked!)" To this day I'm not sure what he hoped to accomplish with that particular barb, surely meant to be a coup de grace, since trannies aren't allowed into the Festival. If I'm not welcome, why would I be insulted when he slams the food? Sheesh, if they're going to discriminate against me, they can get botulism and die for all I care. Since I was already on the wave, I rode it further: "Yes, I WAS kidding. If you go back and read the part of the message which you snipped, it becomes extremely obvious that it was a joke. Lack of a sense of humor can be almost as dangerous as the cranial-rectal inversion you suggested I might be suffering. Yeah, I know, you've been through a lot. Guess what? Me too. Lighten up. You'll live longer." Much to my surprise, he capitulated, sorta: "Must have missed something that indicated sarcasm. . . perhaps I just don't know you well enough to read between the lines. My apologies for not being more astute." I don't think it was so much not knowing me well enough as it was automatically assuming that as an m2f who prefers girls, I was prejudiced against men. It's that sort of thing which results in antagonism between the two groups, which are two sides of the same coin.)

Which isn't to say M2Fs are above that sort of thing; many are hostile to men, notable those who wrap their lesbian identification around themselves like a flag. It makes me wonder what Maggie would make of Rocco, since the highest compliment she can bestow upon a boy is that they're an "honorary girl." Ugh. The more time passes, the more her blatant sexism bothers me. There's not a damn thing wrong with being male, genetic or otherwise. Granted, it's not for me, but all I know is what's right for me. Everyone else can make up their own minds.

I do have this to say to any M2F who thinks women are inherently better than men: you have obviously never used a women's restroom. Men, you will discover, don't have a monopoly on messiness. If there's anything to the whole cleanliness-slash-godliness thing, and the supposedly holier gender can't even be considerate enough to keep things clean for the next sister to come along, well, the whole pedestal comes crashing down, doesn't it?

Anyway, the questions from both of them came fast and furious, and of course I was more than happy to answer them. This was when they both said that when they first saw me, they thought I was genetic. That's seriously high praise, and I do believe it was sincere, though I must remember that my days of being called "sir" aren't over. They never will be.

It was rather amusing to watch Michelle and Rocco wolf down their food (especially Michelle, who doesn't look like she eats at all—if I could choose a body type, hers would be a strong contender). Maddy and I seemed positively dainty in comparison.

Going out for sushi was discussed; Michelle is interested in the place in Pacifica, both because it's where Maddy proposed to me and because it's another location of the beloved "No-Name Sushi" at Church and 18th. When it was brought up that they had a gig in Santa Cruz this weekend, Pink Godzilla sprang to mind. Not this wekened, of course, but at a later date. Rocco also has a favorite sushi place in Santa Cruz, which he of course insists is the best. Sounds to me like good reasons for two future trips.

I was the only one at the table without any tattoos. That's happening more and more lately.

As is probably obvious by now, I have no supernatural or mystical leanings. Still, when Michelle offered to give me a tarot card reading after having done the same for Maddy, I agreed. I've never had one before, and I do love a good parlor trick. (All I got out of American Gods was a desire to learn how to palm coins.) It was certainly an interesting experience, even if Michelle was constantly apologizing for her unfamiliarity with the deck, handmade by a friend of hers, and promising to get it right next time. I've always been fascinated (if sometimes frustrated) by the human tendency to look for patterns and therefore meaning in chaos, and this was a perfect example. All things considered, it's harmless, and building metaphor out of random chance can be fun. And, as Michelle put it, we're "poet people." I never would have used that would to describe us, but it's certainly flattering.

Best of all, to me, was Michelle's enthusiasm when Maddy said she'd decided to read at K'vetch this Sunday. It's exactly the sort of encouragement she needs. I'm her biggest cheerleader, of course, but from Michelle it's like...if you'll pardon how mileage I get out of this word, validation. Not to mention a great first step.

Except that in a scare story not unreminiscent of the race-based Social Security Number hoax, Trevor told Maddy that until it gets changed from "Transitional" to "Complete," I'll have to renew my license every six months. Becuase they don't trust pre-ops, I guess. In fact, the new license was set to expire on my next birthday. The conspiracy is real!

So I got my renewal stuff a recently, filled it out and sent it in. My renewed license arrived last week— it expires again in 2007. Hrm. I wonder what will happen if I haven't had SRS by then.

They're not using the picture on the old license, but the newer one taken for my ID card. Good. I didn't like the old license picture. I'm not too fond of this one, either, but at least my eyes don't appear to be on the verge of popping of my head. I tend to look like that in pictures. Trust me, they're the ones you don't see.

1:31pm

This may be my last day here for this stretch, or it may not. It appears the hands haven't been keeping each other informed.

3:15pm

It's wrong to listen in on people. T'ain't right at all. Sometimes, however, they just talk so damn loud you can't help but hear every word. This is how I know that that the Marketing Weasel's new haircut is because of his mother: saw the length of his hair this weekend and flipped out. For the record, he's twenty-four and she lives in Los Angeles. And it wasn't remotely long before, maybe at Bill Pullman length, and now it's more of Bruce Willis. (I'm sorry, that's the best I can do for visualization. It was short all along, okay?) Hell, during the power struggles over my hair when I was a teenager—well before I'd figured out exactly what was wrong with me, I knew I wanted to grow out my hair—my mom would have considered it a great victory if my hair had been "long" as his was last week. Of course, considering what it took for her to stop asking me to cut my hair...

4:35pm

Still no sign of the lump o' work which was supposed to land on my lap today, so it's looking more and more like I'll be coming in tomorrow too. Whether it's today or tomorrow, on my last day I don't think I'll be deleting the mp3s I've put on the hard drive. If I end up not coming back, it'll be a lot faster for them to delete them than for me to reload them, and apparently I can't work without 1.5GB of Coil at my disposal.

5:28pm

Not tomorrow, but Thursday. Probably. Swell.

1. I went to MEAT first, getting there around 10pm and leaving for Smoke and Mirrors at 12:30. Being held in a bar the latter closed at 2am, so I went back to MEAT, which was in a private space (someone's large home) and didn't close until 3:30am. As I left both places I was kinda hoping to be invited somewhere else. DIdn't happen.
2. I didn't take any kittypr0n flyers. Shoot. I'm really not good at this promotion business.
3. Then again, I don't think like a promoter, which is to say I'm not out to get laid. Of the male ones I've observed, anyway. They're hardcore mack daddies, using their considerable charisma to its fullest extent, engaging in prolonged lip-mashing with girls with boyfriends and/or telling them that if the she was ever single he'd like to her to know he's interested. This is what Fernando told Dax at MEAT, anyway, and by all accounts she isn't the first.
4. No doubt the girl he was towing around for the first part of the evening was told the same thing. When I first saw her, I felt my ego get ripped to shreds. I was utterly slain. I might as well have just given up then and there, 'cuz I'd never get close. After a while I realized it was because, in spite of what my inebriated admirer from the Great White North said, this girl really looks like Bif Naked. Dead ringer, lack only the upturned nose (which is my least favorite feature of Bif's). Ow.
5. Needless to say, however, I'm not on their radar. I'll admit to mixed feelings. It makes me feel less real. I mean, I know I'm not and never will be, but...
6. Rae was on staff, and when she asked me how I was doing, I told her the truth: I feel fat and ugly. Realizing it was a heavy trip to lay on her, I quickly assured her that I was doing okay otherwise.
7. Both Rae and Ilene complimented me on my hair, saying it was looking especially black and shiny. Considering that my brown roots are getting long, it just goes to show that club lighting is my best friend.
8. Whenever I mentioned that I was going to Smoke and Mirrors, the first reaction was usually "Is that tonight?" followed by "Oh, that's mostly goth and synthpop, and this is industrial." Indeed, the crowd was much smaller at Smoke and Mirrors, and the music was different. I probably wouldn't have noticed had it not been pointed out to me; it all pretty much sounds the same to me, though I did like the music at Smoke and Mirrors better. It didn't hurt that I got Negativland's "Christianity Is Stupid" played. (Two, count 'em, two other people besides myself danced. It's a new club hit!) And, in the long run it's all just for dancing.
9. In the car I was playing an old mix tape, one of the last ones I made in '98. (I made a couple more in '99 for Maddy, then got a CD burner and never looked back.) Playing Sheryl Crow's "If It Makes You Happy" over and over while going back and forth between the clubs helped me ameliorate some of self-image pain I was feeling.
10. Smoke and Mirrors (yes, I'm making a point of not abbreviating it) had a somewhat higher tranny clientele than MEAT; in fact, I'm pretty sure I was the only one at the latter. Some would argue it's because Smoke and Mirrors is smack dab in the middle of the tranny hooker district, but I suspect that's coincidental, since none of the working girls came in. And I'm not one, but I was there. Ergo.
11. One tranny in particular—not a working girl, mind you—was staaaaaaaaaaaaring at me. She eventually came up and told me how great I looked. I thanked her, midly protesting that I was in the wilted stage, it being 2am. She assured me that I still looked terrific. Very kind.
12. I mostly hung out with Dax at MEAT. (Except, of course, when Fernando was putting the moves on her.) She made a passing reference to having modeled in the past, and I can't say I'm surprised. Unlike some other ex-models I've known, though, she doesn't seem to have become completely jaded as a result, which is nice. I also noticed for the first time that she has incredibly thin lips. Maybe that's why she's not working now. (The trend being towards unnaturally thick lips, y'see.)
13. Begotten. Oh my yes.
14. How do people do these things on depressants?

And, for the record, I like the way Dax's mouth looks much better than a collagen-stuffed Angelina Jolie or Jolene Blalock. (If the second name doesn't sound familiar, I envy you.).

My last day at the company this time around is tomorrow. I'd been given the option of leaving early on Friday and coming in on for a few hours on Wednesday to make up for it, but that didn't make a damn bit of sense so I declined. Anyway, Maddy has tomorrow off, but goes back to work on Wednesday when I'm free again. Typical of our timing.

Maddy got me a beautiful black NY&CO sheath dress for $5 from a thrift store in Omaha. We really need to set a morning aside for thrifting next time we're in Fresno.

I'd probably have gotten a lot more done this weekend if I hadn't been catching up on the last few years of The Boondocks. I think we can officially stop mourning Berkeley Breathed's retirement—he's no longer needed.

9:40pm

And to think, most Americans would tell you that the raw fish is the most dangerous thing about sushi.

I'm having a really hard time writing about last night. I have a lot to say, but it's difficult figuring out how to say it. I may end up resorting to bullet points. That's not so bad, is it? Everyone likes lists, right?

sometime after midnight

I'd meant it as a joke, but Mina did show her face. She left her usual hiding place in the bedroom closet while Phred and I sat on the couch eating Chinese food and watching Chaplin on DVD. Even got close enough for the stranger to pet her a a little, which isn't something I ever expected to see happen. (She apparently got along just fine with Dana, but I was never around to see it.) And the wonders continue.

Phred has reiterated her belief that I need to make a movie. I'm not saying she's wrong, but I doubt Christine Vachon is going to start returning my calls anytime soon, either.

If her flight goes as scheduled, Maddy's plane will be landing in twelve hours. I've missed her, and I'm looking forward to having her back.

Anyway, the Wave Organ was neat. I think. It was kinda hard to tell, really, since the wind was loud and drowned more ambient sounds. Also not helping was the gaggle of yuppies and their dogs, who finally left when one of them (the people, not the dogs) asked the burning question, "So where's the Starbucks?" Since it's looking like my current stint with the company ends on Tuesday—which is one day longer than I was originally told, so I can't complain—I guess I'll be going back out later this week to actually be there at high tide, and it goes without saying that Maddy must see it. The others will no doubt be at Starbucks.

Since it's a place visited by humans, there was plenty of litter. There was the usual assortment of cigarette butts, of course, plus at least one empty cigarette pack, beer bottle caps, and the like. The developer of the Organ has said that he sees it as a sign that people go there to enjoy it, which is what it's for. I wish I could have such a positive point of view.

8:54pm

I'm under orders from Maddy to actually go out and do things while she's gone—I'd actually had plans to get together with Dax this morning but they fell through—so I'm going to Smoke and Mirrors tonight, and possibly even MEAT depending upon my tolerance for circling Folsom looking for parking. Tomorrow, I'm hooking up with Phred at a rehearsal for a show she's in called Scabaret, and from there we're going to see The Cockettes at The Castro. And, y'know, if the crowd is rambunctious, that's perfectly okay; I can't rightfully expect them to be quiet during a documentary about a drugged-out cross-dressing theatrical group in the sixties. I'm not that stodgy, honest.

9:14pm

Tania, as a rule, doesn't eat on clubbing nights. Apparently this is something that Terminal could never remember, as he was forever inviting her and Whitman out to dinner before going to a club and she was forever having to turn him down. Anyway, it's a policy which I'm wishing I had the fortitude to observe. I finally got that sushi I'd been talking myself out of, and now I'm kinda wishing I hadn't, or at least hadn't gotten so much...but it's cheap and so good...

sometime after midnight

It's just as well, since I ended up using the caloric energy from the sushi and then some; MEAT didn't close until half past three, and I was also at Smoke and Mirrors for a while. Clubhopping—how very er-friggin-bayne of me. And something I haven't done in, by my math, three years, almost to the day. (I'm not counting the Trannyshack-Camera Obscura trip of last month. Wasn't the same thing.)

Sleep now, before the sun comes up. I hope.

He came by last night to work on the electricity some more, presumably to put meters on the circuits. The power was off when I got home from work, though Maddy was already there, having come home early to get ready for her trip. The landlord had given her time to turn off the various power strips (a very good thing, as it turned out), though it seemed he might not have informed our neighbors; at one point he yelled "Fucking piece of shit!" and stomped downstairs to complain. When we later asked the landlord exactly what had happened, what was with all the yelling, his first reply was that they're getting married soon. (I haven't yet decided whether or not that's a non sequitur.) As it turns out, he'd been trying to work on the circuits without shutting off all the power—which is to say, only ours—and one point fiddled when he should have faddled, resulting in a partial power loss upstairs, hence the hissyfit. Whether or not the seemingly specific curse "Fucking piece of shit" was directed at the landlord remains uncertain, but we wouldn't put it past the guy. "Fucking hell," for example, would seem more appropriate, conveying a general sense of frustration at a situation. The other is what your father used to yell when he was trying to fix something.

Unfortunately, in addition to whatever inconvenience our easily inconvenienced neighbor suffered, there was another problem: there was (presumably) a power surge, which killed our microwave and the overhead lights in the kitchen and living room. Or, more accurately, the switches to the lights, since I'm sure the bulbs are just fine. He stayed for an additional hour trying to fix the switches, to no avail, and will apparently be getting an electrician (the one was originally supposed to install the meters, perhaps) to come out and figure out what's wrong. Overall, it's not too great a tragedy, as we can live without those lights for the time being, preferring the xmas lights for the living room and and the light above stove for the kitchen, and we don't use the microwave very often. Naturally, Maddy had bought herself a frozen Amy's Organic Macaroni and Soy Cheese earlier in the day to have for dinner. That's how the universe works.

Not having been plugged in the rice steamer was spared, and I use the rice steamer almost every night. On the other hand, the rice steamer cost about a sixth as much as the microwave. Clearly feeling guilty about its destruction, the landlord offered to reimburse us for a replacement, a generous offer which we accepted—there are landlords in town who probably would have said it was our fault for not unplugging it in the first place. And really, in a more just world the neighbors would have to pay for it since it was their immaturity that brought as all to this point in the first place. Part of me wants to keep the lights dead just to see if they'll continue to blame us for the extravagant power bills.

10:35am

Maddy left this morning for Nebraska—in fact, her plane should have just taken off. Well, technically it should have taken off an hour and a half ago, but, well, y'know. Having learned our lesson from the trip to Vegas last October I got her to the airport by 6am, three hours before her (original) flight time. I'm sure that if we'd arrived any later the flight would have left on time but she would have missed it while standing in line at the security gate. Much like the confluence of events regarding the microwave last night, here's no point in getting upset with the ironic nature of the universe, as so many do. You must simply learn to roll with it.

She was in relatively good spirits, or at least not as bad as I was expecting. After months of looking forward to this trip and seeing her sister Ritt and nephew, her enthusiasm took a serious downward slide last week after what I'll diplomatically refer to as a "personality clash" with her brother-in-law B.D. on her LiveJournal. That ugliness has subsided, and she's been focusing on good things about the trip, and if something does go bad (and it won't), we're having dinner with Michelle and Rocco this Wednesday at Herbivore. That's definitely something to look foward to. Besides, I'm convinced that the moment Ritt sees Maddy's new haircut, all of the other nonsense will be forgotten for good. (It was what I was referring to in my cryptic entry about visiting Anodyne two weeks ago, but I didn't want to be more specific in case Ritt or B.D. were reading.)

If nothing else, the whole sad incident reminded me why I've resisted the widespread LiveJournal migration: I like the lack of obvious interactivity of this page, that it doesn't invite people to comment on every entry. Granted, you can turn LiveJournal's comment feature off, but still, I have a fondness for the layout of this page, and the fact that for as much as I've tweaked the code—it underwent a serious overhaul a few months back which nobody noticed—the plain/basic/ugly layout has been pretty much unchanged, in spite of how '99 it is. I mean, 10-point Arial/Helvetica and no margins? Ewww! I'd been a professional webmonkey for a while before I even started this page, fer chrissakes, suggesting that I really should have known better. (For the record, I've been considering bumping up the font a point or two. It may happen soon.) I also don't care for the idea of it being on someone else's server; yes, I'm hosted by the eternally generous folks at sfgoth, but I also have the whole kit'n'kaboodle local in case the worst happens, such as the server going down like it did yesterday morning but not coming back up.

These days, people much smarter and hipper than I go the blog route, which in spite of being ultimately the same thing in doesn't have the stigma of the online diary. Maybe it's the girly connotation of the word which makes people uncomfortable, although the typically interchangeable word "journal" doesn't fare much better. (See previous link.) Considering the title of this page is a direct reference to a book which was published in the form of a girl's diary, complete with lock and key, I have nowhere to hide. In any event, those who have blogs rather than diaries seem to be okay. Maybe it's because it can be traced back to a phallic word, "log." (It's better than bad, it's good!) The Star Trek connection probably doesn't hurt, either.

4:23pm

On my list of peeves is pre-recorded annoucements. Muni buses have gotten particularly bad lately; at least once a minute there'll be something like "Eating, drinking and smoking are not permitted on transit vehicles" or "Please move to the rear of the bus," and they're never apropos of a damn thing. If the latter announcement was played when people were actually getting on, it would at least make sense. As it is, what exactly are they expecting? Have studies shown that someone sitting towards the front is going to get up and move to the back mid-trip because a disembodied voice tells them to? It's only on the buses, not the trains, which makes me glad the trains are more convenient for us.

At the airport this morning I was especially conscious of them for some reason. It was standard issue stuff, not to leave your bags unattended or take candy from strangers. It seems to me they've gotten a lot more frequent since The Great Overshadowing, but I could be wrong; on the other hand, airports are probably the only part of life which really has changed now that Everything Has Changed and we've Lost Our Innocence and...hey, what's that? The Gary Condit story in the news? Tabloid fodder treated as serious news and lapped up like so much vomit by the public? Woohoo! We're back to normal again! Take that, Osama! Or Saddam, or Khadafy (remember him? wasn't he a swell boogeyman?), or whoever Bush deems the current threat to civilization itself.

Anyway, it struck me: I was at San Francisco International Airport, and all the annoucements were in English. I think I'll leave it at that.

5:58pm

The second paragraph of the 10:35am entry has been extended.

6:38pm

So I'd just figured the answer to Q: "What am I going to do with myself tonight?" (A: "Go bring home sushi from the place in Pacifica") when the phone rang, and in case it was Maddy calling from Omaha I checked the caller ID. It was the landlord, asking if he could come over to try something with the lights. Sushi can be put off for a while, so I said yes.

Turns out that the wiring wasn't fried after all—there had been a power surge, but it had simply burned out the light bulbs, a thought which we'd dismissed last night as being too obvious. Who knew? He also theorized that the microwave might have a fuse which had been similarly blown, and offered to take it home with him to see if he couldn't repair it. It sounds a lot better than buying a new one, reimbursed or no.

He also showed me the new meter, which thanks to some (I assume) clever wiring shows only our energy usage. The old meter still exists but only shows theirs. Comparing the numbers shows we've used ten kilowatt hours since yesterday, whereas they've used thirty—and the landlords, who have two kids and live in a house comparable to this building without tenants downstairs, also average about ten per day. A 3-to-1 ratio, yet the neighbors accuse of us being the wasteful ones. (Well, they probably don't use the word "wasteful." That's the kind of hippie talk you get from people who actually seperate out the compostables, which they refuse to do. They even dumped a bunch of newspapers and bottles into the composting can, but Maddy's convinced that it was an honest accident on the woman's part and not the aggressive carelessness of the man. She's sometimes far more generous than I.) Maybe with a little effort we can make it a 4-to-1 ratio—I occasionally leave on stereo equipment that isn't being used, little things like that. This is, after all, war.

I don't know if I'll be getting sushi now, though.

9:14pm

I've been feeling very ugly lately.

For them that must obey authority
That they do not respect in any degree
Who despise their jobs, their destinies
Speak jealously of them that are free
Cultivate their flowers to be
Nothing more than something
They invest in.

While one who sings with his tongue on fire
Gargles in the rat race choir
Bent out of shape from society's pliers
Cares not to come up any higher
But rather get you down in the hole
That he's in.

But I mean no harm nor put fault
On anyone that lives in a vault
But it's alright, Ma, if I can't please him.

The Marketing Weasel is just as loud as before.

2:56pm

We had an editing appointment last night, much of which involved me rerecording the music for the June episode. I'd been concerned since I'd originally finished it that the sound was too low—it's hard to tell sometimes with the equipment in the suite, or so I tell myself—and since there's actually a chance in hell of this one being watched (a snowball's chance, perhaps, but a chance nonetheless), I figured I should make sure. Granted, as the Programming Coordinator pointed out as I was checking the tape in his office, it is public access, and low sound is extremely common. Still, though. It's "Sister Ray," and while I don't want to blow out anyone's speakers, having it on too low just wouldn't be right. There's only so much we can do about the picture quality and extremely muted color palette, so the least I can do is make it sound good. Inasmuch as the gloriously noisy "Sister Ray" can possibly sound good by any accepted standard. Personally, I think more records should sound like it, but that's just me...

As were watching a clip of Mina chewing on lettuce (whenever we bring in groceries she inspects the bags, and if there's lettuce she tears into it), the Coordinator told me about his cat's fondness for plants. That's one of the neat things about doing this show: other cat owners always have anecdotes of their own.

We got home at 10pm, in perfect time to watch through teary eyes the just-finished season finale of Buffy The Vampire Slayer on tape. Of course, even if we'd been home at the time we still would have waited until it was over then watched the tape so we could skip the commercials, because we're thieves. (And I quote Jamie Kellner, the Chairman/CEO of Turner Broadcasting: "Your contract with the network when you get the show is you're going to watch the spots. Otherwise you couldn't get the show on an ad-supported basis. Any time you skip a commercial or watch the button you're actually stealing the programming." Breakin' the Law! Breakin' the Law!) I used to be a snob about these things—it simply had to be broadcast quality—but no longer, not since the average commercial break is four minutes and most of them are horribly insulting, even with the volume muted. Radio commercials are worse, though I haven't quite figured out why. They just are. In any event, it's akin to why I can seldom bring myself to go to multiplexes anymore. It may look nice projected and the sound is great, but the rest of the experience is too grating. Not to mention most of what's playing at them doesn't interest me.

On that note (sorta), we watched Vincent Gallo's darkly brilliant Buffalo '66 on video this weekend. As is so often the case, I'd seen it already, and simply had to share it with Maddy. Thankfully, she usually likes the odd movies I bring home and/or drag her to. (Please excuse the errant preposition.) The thing is, it's another of those movies which I saw in the theater by myself in the late nineties. I went a lot by myself, and I don't remember the circumstances in most cases, if The Ex was unable to join me or just uninterested. Sometimes I'd go a second time because I really thought she'd like it (as was the case with L.A. Confidential, or Escape from L.A., though in the case of the latter seeing it on acid in double feature with The Rock helped—and, no, I don't think them being L.A. movies had anything to do with it), but more often than not she just wouldn't see it. That simply wouldn't feel right these days.