|
| < 9/11 9/12 9/13 9/14 9/15 9/16 9/17 9/18 9/19 9/20 >
|
Monday, 20 September 2004 (hollow blood) 10:40am My vehicular problem child is at the mechanic once again. It should be returned to me in "a few days." Or not, I suppose. 2:24pm The premiere of my radio show has been pushed back two weeks, the first Monday of October. It's for the best, really. Makes me glad I hadn't really promoted it beyond talking about it here—which is pretty much the same as not having promoted it at all. 5:50pm Oh, good. It isn't just me. Women's fashions in the eighties were as gaudy as I remember, and, as I'd suspected, Dynasty had a lot to do with it. (At least, I think that's a relief.) Sometimes I suspect that if I'd been born ten years later, and thus hit adolescence in the nineties rather than the eighties, I would have come out of the closet much earlier in life. Growing up with Joan Collins and Linda Evans as media-sanctioned examples of femininity really fucked with my head. Two words: shoulder pads. Shoulder. Pads.
| ||
 | ||
Sunday, 19 September 2004 (cruelness of time) 7:52am We saw Clue last night for the umpteenth time. It keeps getting better and better. Going back to see it next week, in fact.
I need a manifesto. However disreputable my writing may be, it's my art, and I've been finding
myself having to defend it lately. So, a manifesto.
Or a mission statement, if you prefer, even if they are all hollow.
Something tells me I'll cry once before it's all over. Something will be triggered, and I'll let loose. And that's okay. In fact, it'll be a good thing. Though I wasn't able to make the orientation because I was busy learning how to incapacitate men, I spoke to the guy who runs Pirate Cat Radio this morning; me continuing to host Lit at the Canvas won't be a problem. In fact, he even suggested broadcasting it. Something to look in to, certainly, but in the meantime, Maddy will be covering my shift those nights. Anyway, the show starts Monday night at 8pm. You can listen to in San Francisco and the East Bay at 87.9, or online if you live elsewhere. (Like, west of Twin Peaks—the signal doesn't reach us in the Outer Sunset.) I'd originally planned on calling the show Wicked Messenger Radio, but have decided instead to go with shout-out to my pal Durtro (cf. episode #14 of kittypr0n): Wicked Messenger Presents Rush Hour on the Event Horizon. Or Rush Hour on the Event Horizon for short. I finally saw Fahrenheit 9/11 tonight, at The Dark Room. Really nothing in it I didn't already know—I'd already gone through line-by-line factual backup on Michael Moore's site, which is a fascinating read—but, still. Damn. I think it's a good sign that the movie was such a hit, since it's probably his least commercial movie yet. It's hard to imagine modern movie audiences sitting still for it, but evidently they did. Here's to hoping.
| ||
| ||
Saturday, 18 September 2004 (screaming from the parapet) 7:52am I'm pretty sure I didn't completely blow the interview yesterday. Indeed, I think that if she could have hired me right then and there for sure, she would have. And, if I may be castrating feminazi for just a moment, yay! the ceo is female! happy happy! joy joy! Not that women can't be just as heinous as the male of the species, but I really don't want to work for someone even remotely like The Boss again. Not this soon, anyway. Whatever else she may prove to be, she isn't a smelly misshapen chain-smoking dyed-eyebrowed hunk of slime like He was. I don't even give a shit if he Meant Well. She seemed relatively impressed by my knowledge in the field, and I don't think the stuff I'm not so familiar with will be held against me too much. The vibe seemed positive. She said she has a project she's considering using me for, and that I should hear back next week. Not getting my hopes up too much, but I'm keeping my thoughts positive. My salary requirements were discussed, but she didn't mention anything about a dress code, so I guess my my fadey hair and/or black clothing didn't weird her out. The receptionist was a tad...shall we say, non-professional. That's gotta be a good sign. Afterwards, I went to the Main Library and indulged in my book addiction. Seriously, my concurrent reading list just keeps getting longer and longer. I got Nathanael West's The Day of the Locust and the first book in the xtian apocalypse-pr0n Left Behind series. Stop looking at me like that. No, it is not just an excuse to watch a Kirk Cameron film. And what if it was, anyway? Is your slate clean? All right, then. I also took the opportunity to bogart a mirror in the third floor women's restroom (small but never crowded, yo) to put on a tad more makeup and fix my hair. It had been in an interview-friendly high ponytail, and that's nice enough, but lately my mood has been demanding what I fancy to be Devi pigtails. Made them look pretty good, all things considered. In the evening, Maddy and I went to Oral Fixation. I read a new piece, as well as a passage from The Day of the Locust which had really leapt out at me. Ryka was in from LA to feature, and since she's the one (1) friend-or-relative who came to see me perform at the Parlour Club in Hollywood, being there for her seemed the very least I could do. I would have wanted to see her anyway, mind you, since she's fantastic. Looks like I'll definitely be performing at her show in November, with or without Lynnee, but hopefully with. Either way, it'll be a total commando run, driving to LA on Friday night and returning on Sunday. That's just part of the adventure. Six years ago today, I started on hormones. Is this it?
you call it fake,
| ||
| ||
Friday, 17 September 2004 (nor gloom of night) 7:38am Gah. Preparing for job interviews was so much easier when I was a boy. For CNET, I just wore my regular clothes and tied my hair back into a low ponytail. Relatively little fuss, and an almost total absence of muss. There are so many more factors now. I'm dressed about as conservative as I get, in a cowlneck Buffy blouse and a slim velvet skirt. Nice enough, but I feel so false. I wanna put my (still purplish) hair up in pigtails and wear my chainy capri pants with stripeys. Be myself. The place in question is probably isn't even especially formal. But, you know. First impressions. I sent out a mass email on Wednesday asking for job leads and the like. Got some interesting suggestions, including at least three separate recommendations for my old temp agency, the one I went through when working for Autodesk in '98. Hell, they'd contacted me about the job—remember that? The golden days of headhunters? Man. I didn't part company with the agency on the best of terms, what with their unfortunate tendency to not pay me on time. That was, however, a different time.
| ||
| ||
Thursday, 16 September 2004 (the morning of the seventh night it all ends) 7:32pm A door closes, and you go crashing through a window. And that's okay. It's just the way the universe works. Job interview tomorrow morning. It's for a part time position which doesn't entirely exist, but still.
| ||
| ||
Wednesday, 15 September 2004 (boulevard der dämmerung) 5:56pm Yay. Unless something goes wrong, I am now the proud occupant of the Monday 8-10pm slot on Pirate Cat Radio. I was one of six new DJs selected out of thirty applicants, in fact, which is pretty cool. The things I can see going wrong are the fact that I can't make the new DJ orientation on Sunday afternoon because of my Girl Army class, or that Lit at the Canvas is the last Monday of the month, resulting in me losing the timsslot. Which I hope doesn't happen, because I'm really excited about this. If I have to give up Lit at the Canvas, so be it. Viva Wicked Messenger Radio! Speaking of Mondays (about which I'm largely indifferent), I'm taking my car back to the garage on the next one, because the speedometer is still hosed. Might have to leave it there for a few days, in fact. Wheee.
| ||
| ||
Tuesday, 14 September 2004 (illimitable domination) 6:07pm Took my car to the mechanic once again this morning. Dropped it off by nine. Walked to Le Video to return DVD of Philip Kaufman's 1978 Invasion of the Body Snatchers. (Not that I was here at the time, but I suspect there is no greater sociological portrait of [straight] San Francisco in the Seventies on film. Based on what I've read about my beloved City back in the day, it really feels like it nails something.) N-Judah to Civic Center. Paid water bill. Walked across the street to the Main Library, returned Blackadder DVD. (Maddy's hooked, yay!) To Rite Aid at Market and Van Ness to pick up my 'mone refill. Told my pharmacy card has expired. Walked to Waddell Clinic; in and out in a scant ten minutes, shiny new card in hand. While there, was finally able to change my employment status to "not." Hopefully, this means I won't be getting bills anymore. Back to Rite Aid. Though the card is in my hand, am told their computer won't register the new information for about four or five hours. It's half past ten. Whee. Checked voicemail; nothing from mechanic. (Throughout the rest of the day, I burned a fair amount of change at payphones, checking the voicemail. Assume that I did it at least once an hour.) There's still a message from the night before from the landlord, asking to come over and replace the inside doorbell. We elected not to respond, since the apartment is a smidgen messy—too messy for Maddy's comfort, anyway. Called Maddy, ask if she'd like to get lunch. She would. Found a moderately comfy place to sit in Opera Plaza's courtyard, and read Close Up On Sunset Boulevard, my latest movieporn book. It's fluff, but it's fluff about Sunset Boulevard, for Pete's sake. Walked the half dozen or so blocks to her office. We then walked four blocks to the nearest post office, and then decided to try a Greek restaurant we'd never noticed before. Goddamn it was good. We parted company, and I walked back down to Opera Plaza. Read for a few more hours. Still nothing from mechanic. At about three I called Maddy and suggest we take the train back homewards together when she gets off work, and we can stop at the mechanic to see what's up with the car. She agreed. Walked back down to Rite Aid to see if I can pick up my refill yet. Nope. Tried to explain to guy that half past three is more than four hours after half past ten, while being conscious of not being the kind of person who argues about this sort of thing. Delicate balance, that. Have about half an hour until I can expect to Maddy to appear at Van Ness station, so I walked back to the Library to use the restroom. Never a bad idea. Returned to Muni station. Maddy appeared. We took an outbound N-Judah to the mechanic. Picked up car—and didn't get charged for labor or anything, since I'd technically already paid to have this particular problem fixed. That's why I like these guys. Drove car home. Seems fine. And then the Klingons attacked. The end. If you have to ask...
| ||
| ||
Monday, 13 September 2004 (temple of the playa) 10:30pm Our response to the Great Overshadowing's anniversary was to get the fuck out of Dodge. Plane tickets to Vegas are prohibitively expensive, what with me being all unemployed and stuff (not that they weren't much more feasible when I was employed), so we went to Santa Cruz. The first stop was UC Santa Cruz, to which I haven't been since The Ex took summer classes there in...1991? Something like that. A serendipitous wrong turn resulted in a hummingbird-gazing stroll through the arboretum, after which we finally managed to find our way into the campus proper. (Thirteen years, and I wasn't doing the navigating the first time around, okay?) The campus is just as beautiful as I remember. As dorm life goes, I've always thought it must be wonderful—if you can't see the ocean from where you're standing, it's okay because you're surrounded by redwoods. I seem to recall The Ex having problems with her roommate, but pick pick. It still looks awfully nice. From there, it was to Pink Godzilla for sushi. I don't think I've gone to Santa Cruz once in the last ten years without eating at Pink Godzilla. And that's okay. Our new Santa Cruz ritual is going to the Skyview Drive-In. Sadly, they don't show genuine drive-in movies, but those days are long gone. Of the two screens, we went with the seemingly less painful combo of Open Water and Without a Paddle. (Confession: on the other screen was Resident Evil: Apocalypse and Anacondas: The Hunt for the Blood Orchid, big dumb action/horror movies which I fully admit come much closer to the old-school drive-in movie ethos.) I suspect the manager hadn't intended to create a yuppies vs. nature double feature about vacations which go horribly awry as a metaphor for spiritual emptiness, but by god, that's what it was. Paddle was a mainstream, Gen-X male-oriented comedy with testosterone to spare along with sexual fantasy elements (a pair of giggly blonde "hippie" girls with lesbian overtones), whereas Water was practically a chick flick. Both are perfect examples of the dictum that not only is a movie about how it tells its story rather than the story itself, it's also a product of its time. Future film historians will find these films valuable when discussing millennial yuppie angst, with their reflections on how technology affects our lives, and the current state of interpersonal communication—especially the first five minutes of Water. Meanwhile, Paddle has plenty of gross-out humor, and Water has quite possibly the most gratuitous nudity since Brian DePalma said "Look, Angie, don't you want the audience to forget about Police Woman?" No body doubles this time around, though. But anyway. Maybe I shouldn't try to get deep about movies, or anything else, at eleven in the evening. I'm thanked (along with many other people) in Caitlín R. Kiernan's new novel, Murder of Angels. When you read the book and think to yourself, that seems like a perfectly reasonable amount for a cab ride in San Francisco, that means I've done my job. Ironically, my name is misspelled. At least, I think it is. (I think it's ironic, I mean. I know for a fact my name is misspelled.) I was kinda expecting it, so that may or may not qualify as ironic. My last name is misspelled this time around, rather than the more commonly goofed first. Anyway, it isn't her fault, and I'm not upset about it. This has happened before, and will continue to happen. Maybe I should keep a list of all the books in which my name is spelled wrong—gimmie a decade or so, and it'll be quite impressive. Caitlín shares my pain, I'm sure, since people are forever forgetting the little accenty thing over the second "i" in her name. Or, worse, calling it "the little accenty thing." (Half past eleven, okay?) That rumbling you hear is the shifting of my paradigm.
| ||
| ||
Sunday, 12 September 2004 (uplifting nihilism) 10:13am Another dream about the end of the world. Unlike nuclear war, which is really more of a severe paradigm shift, this one seemed to involve the breakdown of reality—which, if you think about it, should give you some sense of how banal my dreams usually are. There were religious aspects as well, perhaps a second coming kinda thing. (Note to self: bump The Rapture up in our GreenCine queue.) Unsurprisingly, the overall feeling wasn't one of dread so much as can we just get on with it, please? 5:48pm Today was my first Girl Army class. It ended two hours ago, and I'm still feeling the adrenalin. This is a good thing.
| ||
| ||
Saturday, 11 September 2004 (burn you up, burn you down) 8:31am Fuck Patriot Day. sometime after midnight Trust me: if you find yourself at a double feature of Open Water and Without a Paddle, leave after Open Water.
| ||
| ||