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It was inevitable: the director, Noona, asked for a Scream. It's a horror movie and my character's the Girl (but not the Final, for this story is too nihilistic to have one), so of course there has to be a Scream. Except I can't, not really. My voice just doesn't go in that direction. I'd hoped the fact that I didn't do one in the audition meant they weren't expecting one at all, but no such luck. On the plus side, I'm getting to move around a lot, and Noona says she likes the expressiveness of my face, so I guess that makes up for it a little. Something's going to have to do be done with my hair, though. It flies around a lot and covers my face, which is no good. (Not as much as it covers Danielle's face when she reads, but still.) I don't like the idea of simply having it tied back; it really needs to frame my face somehow, but not obscure it. Again I find myself thinking about extensions of some kind, braided or dreaded, that would allow my hair to be down without it necessarily sticking to my face the way it's wont to do. I almost met the person who does (e)'s hair yesterday, but, well, didn't. Not that I'd be able to afford hers or anyone else's services right now. (The Boss informed me yesterday morning that he doublechecked with the payroll person, and I am getting paid minimum wage, plus the commute expense, so I really don't have anything to complain about. Okay, he didn't say that last part, but it was kind of implied, especially since the commute money is tax-free. Which is nice, but getting underpaid tax-free is still getting underpaid. And when him and I had last spoken the issue wasn't me getting paid below minimum so much as me getting paid less than I was on unemployment, and not enough to meet my meager overhead either way. But he forgets things a lot. He also invoked the word "intern" for the first time since my interview back in June.) I suppose it's time to get creative. Otherwise, though, I seem to be doing okay. It helps that the script is not considered gospel; it's a transcript from the movie, and we have a fair amount of freedom to rephrase things as need be, provided the meaning and feeling is intact. Which is good, because I'm having a hell of time memorizing my two mini-monologues as currently written. I'm fairly confident I can smooth them out, though. Still, there's a reason I always read off the page when doing even my own stuff, as there are certain phrases which I can never fucking remember no matter how many times I've said them. "A cross between Zippy the Pinhead and The Toxic Avenger," for example. Always slips my mind. Always. I promise, I'll never smoke grass again. Can I have my memory back? please? Between scenes, when we were working on the blocking, the stage manager and her twin sister were talking to each other via sign language. I had to keep reminding myself that they were probably not talking about me. Since it's all of a block away from Spanganga, I went into the bar occupying Sacrifice's old space. It's very odd. They've repainted, knocked out a couple walls and removed the DJ booth—in renovation terms I think it's what's known as "opening up" the place. It certainly doesn't feel like Sacrifice anymore, which I suppose is a good thing. Indeed, the only remnant is the New Orleans street sign. The teevee, on the other hand, wasn't showing Santa Sangre or Reform School Girls or even kittypr0n, but football. Says it all. Sacrifice is dead. I guess that means I'm supposed to start complaining about how much San Francisco sucks and how it's not as cool as it used to be and why would anyone want to live in a cesspool like this...
12:07pm I hate Phone Fear.
1:53pm There's a guy in one of the other companies in this building who's a dead ringer for Terence Stamp. (Limey-era Terence Stamp, if you must know, not Priscilla or Superman.) It weirds me out every time I see him. I'm actually fine on the phone itself. I just hate calling. Picking up the phone and dialing. It is truly the sux0r. Always has been for me. I'm better about it now, but when I was a teenager, forget it. On the few times that I'd manage to legitimately acquire the number of whatever girl I happened to have a crush on at that moment, I would spend a good hour picking up the phone, starting to dial and putting it back down. It didn't help that when I did finally complete the number and make it through, not much happened after that. I didn't have anything to say to them and they had even less to say to me. It just made a mysterious process all the more so. It was different when I got involved with The Ex, of course—she actually called me. That was quite the shock to my sixteen year-old system. So I borrowed Kelly's cell phone and called one of the dommes Tallulah recommended I contact about possibly getting into the business. We've been corresponding for a few days over email; turns out we were both at the St. James Infirmary Benefit in June, and I wouldn't be surprised if our paths have crossed in other places as well. It was a short chat because she had to leave for an appointment, but it was pleasant while it lasted—mostly about hair falls, of all things—and we'll be continuing it tomorrow.
2:57pm I think I've graduated from having "a gray hair" to at least "a few gray hairs," if not "several gray hairs." Which is fine. I don't mind the thought of going gray. I just wish I could cut to the chase and have Emmylou Harris hair now. And I notice that in terms of shape and length, Emmylou's hair in that picture is the same as mine on the cover of How Loathsome #4. Except that hers is real.
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Alive, yes. Busy weekend.
11:06am No Folsom Street Fair for us this weekend. Instead, we went to see Finding Nemo, which Maddy had seen by herself just a few days before and insisted I simply had to see in the theater. It was my annual excursion into a googolplex, which, quite frankly, is still entirely too often. Those places radiate evil from every direction, and not even the good kind of evil. It's the kind of evil that parks SUVs in spaces marked "Compact." Going to a G-rated movie (which I liked a lot, although I wish Albert Brooks had been allowed to contribute more to his character) on a Sunday afternoon was not our reason for missing skipping Folsom, however. It was to conserve energy for the Gina Gershon concert at the Great American Music Hall that night. A show which almost didn't happen at due to a bomb threat. The doors opened over an hour late as a result, and while the bomb squad didn't find anything, anyone who still felt unsafe was offered a refund. It didn't look to me like anyone took advantage of the offer. What the hell, there are worse ways to go than getting blown up with Gina Gershon. Saturday night we saw two other G-rated movies, these being a bit more my style (and Maddy's, too): Spellbound, a documentary about the 1999 National Spelling Bee (and a look at how my life might have been as a kid if I'd had something resembling decent study habits or a work ethic), and Winged Migration, which might as well have been called birdypr0n. I particularly liked Winged Migration, partially because it was just so beautiful and partially because of one of the most terrifying things I've ever seen: a bird with a broken wing, stranded on a beach, being surrounded and eventually devoured by crabs. (Zombie crabs, Maddy insists.) The actual death isn't shown—there's a jump cut to crabs in a pile, devouring the mostly unseen bird—but it doesn't have to be. Talk about nature at its most natural. I was reminded me of something Ump (I think) once said, that there's a certain part of the Richmond Bridge where, if you dump a body, it'll be completely devoured by crabs. Someday that knowledge will come in handy, I fear. In the meantime, it's a movie kids should see on general principle, but especially for that scene. After all, it teaches an invaluable life lesson. This is how the world works: if you don't get shot down by humans for no good reason, you'll break your wing and get eaten alive by crabs. That is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
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I had to miss the writing group for the first (and probably not last) time last night, though it was certainly for a good cause. I continued my every-other-Wednesday tradition of going to Rainbow after work, however, and bought a package of the Thursday Plantation Tea Tree Australian Chewing Sticks that Susan always brings. They're comforting, and they make me wish I smoked so I could use them to quit.
2:05pm Considering that even when I was fairly well-off I hardly ever gave homeless people change, is it hypocritical of me to be resentful of my Boss, who refuses to pay me enough to make my basic expenses? (And when I tried to get that raise in commute expenses to apply to the most recent pay period, I instead got an advance on my next one—which isn't what I had in mind, but at least means I can pay rent this month. I haven't worked out next month yet.) Is this karma? Do I have the right to feel class rage when I hear him talking about going to the Bellagio in Vegas next month to play high-stakes poker? These are, of course, rhetorical questions.
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Judging from the banner out front, there's a new Walgreen's at 9th and Clement. That's good. According to Yahoo! there's only fifty-two of them. More are obviously needed. On the other end of the scale, a few blocks away at Funston and Clement, is something that always makes me happy: a small billboard for Six String Samurai. It's on the side of an apartment building, and almost certainly put there by the owner. Indeed, it's been up since the movie came out in 1998, and will probably remain up until the place changes hands. It's one of the many things that makes me love San Francisco. 17 Reasons may be gone, but at least Six String is still with us. I did get a raise yesterday, in the form of an increase in my commute money. It's nothing to sneeze at, but it doesn't really give me the financial breathing room I need, either. And I don't need a lot, honestly I don't. Of course, it doesn't help when I come across as incompetent. Like, I made a photocopy of something and put it on his desk, at his request. A little while later he's looking for it to show The Boss. He can't find it. Naturally, everyone concludes that I didn't do what I was supposed to, when in fact I did. But I can't prove it. So why should I get paid much more above minimum? I talked to Tallulah last night. She gave me the names and contact info of some people who might be able to help me enter a considerably different career path. There's the possibility that I'll be following in The Other's footsteps, but that's all right. I'm stronger than her, and I'm not going to let her scare me away again.
12:06pm I forgot my brush, and my hair is frizzy. I hate that. Good thing I have The Dirty Three's Ocean Songs. That makes everything a little better.
1:58pm Looks like I may not read at the slam tonight. Turns out you need to have two poems, each less than three minutes, and I only have one that I feel would be appropriate. Anything else vaguely poemish either doesn't lend itself to slamming and/or is actually too short, a verse or two from a larger piece which doesn't yet exist. I guess I'll just be the DJ's girl.
3:27pm Then again, maybe I will read; I've found something which I scribbled into a notebook in '97, then copied into my online diary two years later. Though a tad on the angsty side—this, arguably, is the Bad Goth Poetry of my youth, although I was six years past high school—it might work. I'll have nowhere near enough time to practice it, however. So we'll see. An open mic which would be absolutely perfect, on the other hand, is the one at Fray Day 7 in a week and a half. A most likely packed Victoria Theater with, among other people, Armistead Maupin in attendance as one of the featured performers. ((e)'s one of the features as well, her last reading before going on tour, and it would actually give her a perfect time for a smoke break. It's not likely to be anything she hasn't heard.) Unfortunately, the timing is all wrong and I probably won't get to do it. Alas.
sometime after midnight That, Lauren tells me, was pretty much a poetry slam. Now I can say I've done it, if nothing else. My overall score was 25.0, with the individual scores for writing ranging from 3.5 to 4.6 out of 5, and for performance 3.7 to 4.5. Not bad, though I wasn't one of the five finalists out of the eleven people who performed. It's still weird to be judged—as in, with people holding signs with numbers—at all. I suspect I'll do it again, though.
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In this case, it was Chupa and Darren at the DNA Lounge; Darren called at just after nine to tell us Chupa had guestlisted us. We were already settled in for the evening, but I got dressed and made up again and went out. Maddy, probably wisely, elected to stay at home. The show was kinda interesting, put on by Body Manipulations and involving suspension and (free!) branding and the like, but I was mostly there to see Chupa. Although she wasn't actually working, she said that she can get us in for free pretty much any night she's there. I'll have to start paying more attention to their schedule. She also informed me that Throbbing Gristle is reforming for a show next year. Granted, it's in England, but pick pick. Want go. We have a couple strings we're going to pull. As soon as Chupa spotted Him, I predicted that he would focus on her and pretty much ignore me. She didn't believe me, but of course I was proven right. I was little insulted when He told me what a great bartender she was, like I don't fuckin' know her or something. Motherfucker don't got a goddamn thing to say to me about Chupa. Even though he really doesn't give a shit about her and is simply trying to get in her pants, it still pissed me off. He also offered to buy her a drink (which she declined), but not me. And why should he? I have a dick.
4:10pm Ugh. I have to get away, but I have nowhere to go. Don't'cha hate that feeling?
7:16pm Lauren and I are going to UC Berkeley Poetry Slam tomorrow. It'll be my first slam, and I'm a tad on the nervous side. More than I should be, probably. The fact that it's scary is exactly why I should do it. At least I have something to read which is not entirely unlike poetry. Lauren is actually going to be DJing rather than performing, and we'll be taking her accoutrementage in my car. This gave me the impetus I've been needing to clean out the trunk, and doing so has brought me closer to an unpleasant conclusion: I've lost a kittypr0n DVCAM master. I haven't been able to find it in the apartment (which doesn't mean it isn't around here somewhere), it's not in the car, and they don't have it at the station. It has episodes #9 and #10, two of my favorites. Of course, whatever episodes they were, I'd probably say they were my favorites. I love all of my children. This doesn't means the episodes are lost forever, just that future broadcasts and new tapes of them are going to suffer in quality. A bummer all the same. Why doesn't losing important things put the folly of keeping unimportant things into proper perspective? funny how the things you have the hardest time parting with are the things you need the least...
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My friends call, and I go. It's the nature of my circuitry.
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