K had the day off, and we went out and had some adventures. We went to the Ripley's Believe It or Not Museum, a charming tourist trap smack dab in the middle of Hollywood Blvd. The building has a giant T-rex poking out of the roof, and when you get inside his feet are hanging from the ceiling, about twenty feet above your head. I'm not quite sure how he's supposed to have gotten stuck up there; it's pretty high in the air, and T-rex's aren't known for their mighty leaps. At the entrance there's a beautiful arch made of jets of water. They look like curved glass bars, but if you touch them you disrupt the water's flow and get sprayed in the face. I found that out the hard way. Apparently that happens a lot, because there was a huge puddle on the ground, and a sign that said CAUTION! WET FLOOR!, with a little cartoon of a guy slipping and falling on his ass. Once we got inside we saw a cow with five legs, and a life-size Marilyn Monroe made of shredded dollar bills, and a portrait of John Wayne that was made of lint. We left filled with awe and wonder. O, brave new world!

Once we got outside I was suddenly so hungry I thought I'd faint, so we stopped off at Mcdonalds and had some beautiful french fries. These were floppy, old-skool Mickey-D's fries, not those nasty, stiff, Burger King wannabe fries that most Mcdonalds sell now. If I could have bought a Shamrock Shake, I would have died from sheer joy.

When we left we went over to Hollywood Toy & Costume (the world's premiere wig store,) and swooned over the new Halloween merchandise, then we swung through Fredericks (I still haven't used up the gift certificate K got me for my birthday,) and bopped around to about nine different trashy clothes stores looking at several thousand square feet of bright spandex, feathers, vinyl, and rubber goods. Everything was grossly overpriced, and wonderful. The only thing we bought all day were a couple of fake tattoos and some dragon patches for one of K's shirts, and that was just fine. It was fun just to walk around and ooh and aah at all the trashy stuff we didn't quite want enough to buy.

We came home around seven, ate dinner, and set to work on one of our latest projects; trying to devise a decent drag name for K. "K" is fine in print, but when you say it aloud it sounds like "Kay," and my boy is not a "Kay". We got quite involved in this thing, digging through copies of H.P. Lovecraft and Edward Gorey and a bunch of thesauruses (thesauri?) trying to come up with that perfect boy name. We're currently thinking Drake or Johnny for a first name, but we're still kicking around ideas. Drake is more goth, while Johnny has nice rocker possibilities. Maybe we'll end up settling for Johnny Drake.

We finished the night with a lengthy discussion about makeup techniques (I've become such a pro that my girlfriend comes to me for advice!) and some snuggling in front of so-so episodes of Strangers with Candy and The Upright Citizens Brigade. Maybe it doesn't sound like the living end of big-time excitement, but for me this was a dream date.

This year is zipping by. Christmas feels like it was about three months ago, but any minute now it'll be time for another one. Before long my twenties will draw to a close, and I'll be unquestionably, utterly, irrevocably a grown-up. All my life, I insisted that when I turned 30 I wouldn't piss and moan about it, and it wouldn't be a big deal. After all, most of my relatives have lived into their '90s, and if I decide I'm old at 30 I'll probably have a lot of years left to sit around feeling sorry for myself. I still think our culture makes way too big a deal about turning 30, but now that I'm getting closer to that fateful day myself, I can see that it does make a difference. I'm realising like never before that my days on this planet are finite. There's no time for farting around with jobs I hate or people I don't really like or anything that takes away from my central mission of being the kindest, loveliest, happiest goddamned Ursula Hitler I can be. I've got to do what I really want, and be me as much as I can, because I won't be me forever.

So long as I can look back on a fair number of dumb, happy days like today, this life will have been worth living. Decades from now, when I become completely senile and my surroundings become a dull blur, I can only hope that it will be happy memories like these that replay over and over again in my tired, grey head.

Of course, I'm still banking on those geeks at MIT working the bugs out of cryogenics. No matter how good this life has been or will be, it's also been tough enough that I think I've earned a second chance. This time, I want a cute little button nose. And giant knockers. And K better be waiting for me when they thaw me out in 2525, or I will bitch and carry on like you would not believe.
 

9/9/99, 12:20 a.m.
After all the noise I made about my new public access show, I'm ashamed to say that I'm already getting cold feet. I just know that word of this thing would get back to my parents... but I can't spend my whole life worrying about what my darn parents think... but if they DID find out, it would kill them... but but but...
Jiminy Crickets, I sure annoy me. 
 

9/10/99, 1:40 a.m.
I just don't understand my hit counters. I've got three different services that measure how many people visit this site in a day, and they all give completely different numbers. Depending on which counter you believe, this site is either a smash hit, a moderate success, or a fiasco.

K slipped away from work a bit early today, so we dashed over to a chain store on La Cienega to look for outfits for the next Dragstrip. This place is called "Falla"-something, we can never remember the whole name because it's in Spanish (just checked; it's Falla Paredes, whatever that means). Their prices are absurdly low; shirts for two dollars, dresses for five dollars. This stuff is all new, and it looks nice, but at those prices you have to assume it ain't built to last. I bought a dress-shirt there a couple of months ago, and even though it still looks okay, I figure it'll probably melt in the next heavy rain.

I was looking for a whole Catholic schoolgirl ensemble, but I only found a white schoolgirl shirt and some cute little white panties. I've already got a pleated black skirt, but I still have to find one of those yucky little Mister Rogers sweaters that they make schoolgirls wear as part of their uniforms... and since I'm never going to wear it after Saturday night, it's gotta be cheap. I'm a discount Britney Spears! Hit me baby, one more time!

I'm bummed because I forgot about going to Reverend Dan's new club, Jetset, until it was too late. Dan's put a LOT of time and energy into this thing, and I wanted to be there to show my support. Damn. Empira sent me a bunch of pix from this thing, and it looked like a lot of fun. The place has booths with Zebra-print seats, and Empira wore an oufit with a zebra print, so in these pictures Empira is almost invisible. She's like the Predator. Spooky!

9/11/99 3:45 a.m.
God DAMN it! Just got word that Music for Nimrods has been cancelled again. Poor Dan. It sounds like his club, Jet Set, didn't go too well either. He lost a couple of hundred bucks on it. I called him up to offer my condolences, and he laid on the guilt trip pretty bad; "Y'know what really sucks about this whole thing? Ursula Hitler never showed up for my fucking club!" Youch. He sounded so heartbroken about the whole debacle that I told him I'd bring him some candy when I see him at Dragstrip tomorrow. I asked what his favorite candy was, and he said "Necco Wafers". What the..?

9/12/99, 4:39 a.m.
Got back from Dragstrip a couple of hours ago, & I'm still all moist & whoozy. Nobody really went too crazy with the schoolgirl theme, although there were some cute cheerleader and prom queen outfits. K was an adorable little schoolboy with a little tie and everything. She looked so wholesome and well-scrubbed, she brought out my bad-girl side. My schoolgirl outfit worked out surprisingly well, I thought. A white, short-sleeved shirt, unbuttoned and tied in a Daisy Duke knot, over a black, push-up bra, with a pleated black mini-skirt, fishnets, little white socks and shiny black schoolgirl shoes. I also had a couple of lollipops that I kept sucking on all night for the full Lolita effect. I sure wish I'd had the guts to go to school dressed like that when I really was 16! I never did wear the Mister Rogers sweater I bought. It would have looked cute, but it was just too warm.

I felt silly, but I did make a cuter teenaged girl than I would have thought. I looked like the really tall, gawky girl that you had a secret crush on in high school. When you would talk to your friends about the girls you kinda liked, I'd be the one you'd leave off the list because you didn't want your friends to think you were weird.

This afternoon we found a couple of packages of Necco Wafers over at Sav-On (only fifty cents each!), and when we presented them to Dan/Dashelle tonight they were a big hit... She gobbled down a whole pack in like twenty seconds! They're these weird little chalk disks, they look (and taste) just like antacids, proving that one girl's sweets are another girl's poison. Even the name is nasty, it makes me think of necrophilia. Yum.

Dash says the show might be saved if enough people call Tracy, KXLU's station manager, and ask for it. So... Everybody call! Ursula has spoken.

9/17/99, 3:20 a.m.
The other day we went to see the big screen re-release of Yellow Submarine, a film that easily makes the top ten list of my favorite things in the world. I always loved that little multi-headed mutant doggie, and now he gets a whole musical number! Pure bliss.

9/25/99, 4:20 a.m.
There's a long, long story behind why this site has been offline for an entire week, but it's late, and I'm tired, so I'll try and keep it simple...

The whole mess started when I sent out a few emails to people whose sites I liked, trying to exchange links. These were little form emails that said, "I like your site, & I've linked to it on mine. I was wondering if you could give me a link in return..." these emails were really basic. Well, somebody I wrote apparently thought I was "spamming" them, and they took some pretty extreme measures to get back at me. First this darling wrote to Hotmail and got my email account cancelled, then he whined to Web1000, and they shut down my website. I've spent the last week begging Web1000 to let me put my site back up, and I've just spent about nine hours ftp-ing all of my old files back to Web1000. There are still a ton of pics and links missing from this site, but everything should be back to normal (um, "normal" being a relative term) within a few days.

The really ridiculous part of all this is that I HATE spam, I'm always ranting about it. Sure, I can understand wanting to get back at the sleazoids who fill your mailbox with ads for online casinos and discount viagra, but I wasn't trying to sell anything! It was just a goddamned LINK EXCHANGE! I'm still not sure who the creep was who got me into so much trouble (there are about seven people it could be), but if I ever track him down he's gonna get a size 12, stiletto-heeled pump up his ass.

In other news, I've got a nasty cough going on. Deep, woofing blasters that keep me awake at night. I'm pretty sure this thing is allergy-related, but it's bad enough that I'm thinking of seeing a doctor anyhow. I'm in a bitchy fuckin' mood, so if you know what's good for you, you'll stay out of my way!

Gee, aren't you glad I'm back?

9/26/99, 2:20 a.m.
Bleh. K was down with a belly complaint, and I'm still coughy, so this Saturday was pretty much a write-off.

At least there's been some good news; Music for Nimrods is NOT being cancelled after all! Yay! LA needs that show like never before. I think it's safe to say that popular music has never, ever been worse, and could not possibly GET worse. I mean, Jennifer Lopez? TLC? Ricky Martin? N-fucking-Synch? Britney? I keep thinking I'm getting old because I can't stand the music kids are listening to nowadays, but then I remember that I would have hated this shit when I was 16, too. The Sex Pistols came along twenty years too early. 

9/30/99, 4:30 a.m.
I'm coughing myself purple. My lungs feel like they're full of skittery beetles. Whee. I hope I'm better in time for Club Makeup this Saturday. I sure could use an evening of pure frivolity.

K's birthday is coming up next week, and I'm working on her cake. For my birthday she made that incredible Edward Gorey cake, with a little mansion and Gorey people and everything, so now I gotta come up with something pretty goddam extraordinary to top that. I guess it's safe to tell you what I'm making. After all, K hardly ever visits this site. She never has time; they monitor her computer use at work, and of course when she gets home we're just screwing and screwing and screwing, all night long. Well, when we're not watching Star Trek, that is. Anyhow, I guess I can tell you what cake I'm making... but you have to promise you won't tell K, OK?

OK. I'm making her a Buffy the Vampire Slayer cake. I bought these two little Final Fantasy action figures, and I repainted them and gave them little props, and now they look EXACTLY like Buffy and Spike! They actually looked a lot like the Buffy characters even before I did anything to them, it was kind've weird. The characters are standing in a little graveyard, and I made a bunch of mini tombstones and a tiny zombie hand that's busting outta the ground. The annoying thing is that in a few weeks a bunch of actual Buffy toys are going to come out, but at least this way K will have a couple of hand-made Buffy figures.

These cakes are always so much work... I don't know how we started this damn tradition, anyhow! One of these days, I'll have to open a crazy cake gallery online so the world can see the Buffy cake... and the Gorey cake... and the Van Gogh Starry Night cake... and the Yoda cake...

I'm still not sure what gifts to get K. In some ways, she was easier to shop for when she was just a regular girl. I could get her lingerie and perfume, and all kinds of girly stuff. Now that's she's my boyfriend I have to get her a bunch of boy stuff, but boy stuff is so boring! I can't buy her boy clothes because she's too short to shop for off the rack, so I'll probably just have to get her some cologne or something. Bleah. At least I know she'll still like Star Trek toys.

9/30/99, 4:55 a.m.
Koff! Koff Koff!

10/1/99, 2:45 a.m.
K's family had to put K's dear old cat, Jim, to sleep. The poor thing had gotten too sick to eat, or do much of anything else. Heavy sigh. It makes me even more thankful for our always-healthy pups, Nopey and Yeppie.

More bad news: Yahoo has "deactivated" my email account. It was just like when my Hotmail account got shut down; I went to check my email, and all of a sudden my password didn't work. I don't know yet if this means my account is just dead and there's nothing I can do about it, or if there's still hope. I wrote to Yahoo, but they just sent a form letter back... and nobody answers Yahoo's phones on the weekend. I'm gonna call first thing on Saturday and find out what in tarnation is goin' on. I'm going crazy from all this stuff, it's like there's some anti-Hitler conspiracy afoot.

10/4/99, 2:45 a.m.
Well, now my email address is magically working again. Go figure. I got a call back from a Yahoo drone, and she said she had no idea what the problem had been. Whatever, as long as the damn thing works. I was dreading the thought of having to change the email address on every page of this website, and then having to re-ftp everything, AGAIN. There are still some bugs in the works, though... Rev. Tom tells me that he keeps getting javascript error messages when he visits this site. Nobody else has mentioned it, but it's got me worried.

This weekend's Makeup was pretty good, but nothing epic. We went totally goth, with fake tattoos, which is a good look for both of us. K had this wild Edward Scissorhands hair and a long black coat (very, very yummy), and I wore my velvet lace-up corset top with a teeny velvet miniskirt. The evening was in honor of David Bowie, another guy who is too big too show up for parties in his honor. At least this time I actually liked almost every song they played. 

We had an actual drag queen cat-fight break out on the dance floor, and one of the boxing queens absolutely CRUSHED my foot. It hurt like heck, and afterwards I took off my stocking and all the skin on top of my foot was peeling like I had bad sunburn. That put me in a foul temper, and for some reason I had a hard time shaking it off. I tried to dance, but I was just kind of limping around and feeling like a spazz.

Local legend Vida Deville got up and sang, and while she IS hotter than Barstow asphalt, she's got a voice that could shatter glass. She gave it her all, at least, and she knows how to wiggle. I swear, I'm getting more and more tempted to audition for that show. I know I'd just make a fool of myself, but I've heard enough of these girls bomb to know that at least I wouldn't set a new low or anything. Hmm.

10/6/99, 2:12 a.m.
Tonight we celebrated K's birthday! I'm not going to give her the cake until this weekend when we get together with her folks, but tonight I gave K all of her presents. The main thing I gave her was a Fiji Mermaid I made out of paper mache and other junk. The Fiji Mermaid was this creature that P.T. Barnum exhibited in his sideshow. It was a desicated monkey carcass that had a fish tail grafted onto it. We've both always been sideshow fans, and fans of the Fiji Mermaid in particular, so I knew K would really like to have a Fiji Mermaid of her own. I spent days and days working on this thing, and I thought it turned out pretty well. The mermaid had a little baby doll head for a skull, it was this ugly, ugly doll I found at Sav-On at 3 a.m. She actually kinda looked like a monkey even before I did anything to her. I felt really SICK peeling off this doll's dress and cutting off her head and poking out her eyes. Brrr. She started off as this wholesome little girl-thing, and I turned her into a grotesque monkey-fish creature. That's gotta be some bad karma, man.

I got K lots of stuff, but it was mainly lots of little gifts instead of one big gift. The biggest gifts of the bunch were the Mermaid, a ten-inch tall Jack Skellington in a coffin-shaped box, and a t-shirt that bore the image of Pulque from Jim. "Dios... meurte... borracho..." Gotta love that frog.

I didn't end up getting K any real boy gifts, other than some temporary tattoos. I just never found anything butch that I thought she'd really like. K oohed and ahhed and jumped me, so I guess the presents went over pretty well.

10/10/99, 5:16 a.m.
What a peculiar night. It was great, then it sucked, great, sucked, great, sucked...

We had one Hell of a time getting out of the house to go to Dragstrip. It took me forever to get ready, and then when I was finally done we had to do this whole Mission Impossible operation to get out to the car. We live in a duplex, and normally the place next door is empty, but our landlord was in town for an audition or something, and we were worried about him spotting us in drag. It would have been scary enough normally, but this time it was worse because of what we were wearing. Dragstrip was having a lingerie night, so we both got totally prettied up and wore our skimpiest unmentionables. I had on a purple, lace-up corset with black spandex opera gloves, garters, stockings, and a tiny black panty that left very little to the imagination, and K wore a black push-up bra, panties, and glitter underneath a long velvet coat. We had to scamper out to the car, and then when I got in I closed the door too fast and banged K on the hip really hard. Youch!

When we finally got to the club, the line outside was huge, but we didn't have to wait long because Dragstrip has a special line just for queens. While we were waiting, this schlubby little guy came up and said nice things about our outfits, and then he asked if we wanted a slave. He said it so casually, and K was so polite and reasonable about the way she turned him down, that the whole thing sounded like a job interview or something ("Oh, thanks, but we're not really doms. It's nice of you to offer, though. Good luck finding someone." "Thanks. If you should happen to reconsider, I hope you'll keep me in mind. I've got good references.")

Once we got inside it was so hot that K immediately ditched her coat, unveiling her spectacular little bod for all to see. K really is gorgeous, and the fact that she consents to let me place my loathsome mitts upon her never ceases to amaze me. She looked utterly sexy and seductive and... well, perfect, and I should have been able to just enjoy it, but instead I got kind of weird and pouty. My feelings are so conflicted when we're both all girlied up like that. I feel this desperate, crazed lust when I look at K, but I also feel really envious and ugly. It's hard enough for me to look presentable, but when I'm there with this sex goddess I really feel like a beast in comparison. I get so into her that I kind of forget I'm even in drag, and when I do remember, I feel silly. Sometimes I can just relax and enjoy being out with her, but then I'll catch sight of us in a mirror and the contrast is so depressing I want to slit my wrists then and there.

On the other hand, as fabulous as K looks when she's dressed as a boy, I am more attracted to her when she's girly (what can I say, I likes the femmes), and I'd be heartbroken if she stopped going out in public all tarted up! Besides, when she's dressed as a boy it's hard to get too frisky with her... I can't touch her boobs, she doesn't have a willie to grab ahold of, and if I kiss her anywhere but the mouth she whines that I'm getting lipstick everywhere! When she's a boy she mostly does stuff to me, and as great as it feels, it makes me feel selfish. I love having a boyfriend, but there are DEFINITE advantages to having a girlfriend, too. I keep suggesting that sometime we should go out with K girly and me in my hideous boysuit, but I think we both have our doubts about the idea. I've never liked going to clubs as a boy, and I don't think I'd be much fun. It's tricky enough for me to dance as a girl, but as a boy I'd just be too inhibited. This is a big, silly issue that I don't know how to solve. Poor K. How the hell does she put up with me?

We did have fun, though. The DJ seems to be finally getting over his Soul Train phase, so we danced a lot, and we had a long conversation with Misty Blue, one of our drag pals. Misty was there with her new manfriend Steve, and while I didn't get to talk to Steve much, he bought us all lollipops, so he's obviously a class act.

While we were talking, this one tall, kind of goth queen walked up & stood a ways away, looking at us with this big, frozen grin. I smiled back just to be friendly, but there was something creepy about her, she had that crazy vibe. I went back to talking to Misty, and eventually the queen left, but then a minute later she came back and did her little routine all over again: stand far away, grin for awhile, and then take off. I had no idea what she was up to, until later in the evening when K turned to me and said, "Hey, did you notice that queen who kept coming around with her willie hanging out?" I guess this was some weird little mating dance. I don't know how I missed it!

You see a lot of strange stuff at these clubs. Usually it's great that people are expressing their sexuality so freely... but sometimes you run into somebody and you get the feeling that maybe they spent so long locked in the closet with their fantasies that they grew up kind of gnarled and twisted-up in there. They're like those poor, abused children you hear about sometimes, the ones who get shut up in the basement by their psycho hillbilly parents, and they never see the sun or talk to another person until they're 12 years old and somebody finally notices the awful stink coming from under the house, and busts them out of there.

We got pretty frisky at the club, and then when we got home we had some truly spectacular sex, it was like a visit to Oz or something. While we were afterglowing, we realized tonight was the two-year anniversary of our first public drag excursion! In some ways, it seems like it's been much longer, but in other ways, I still feel like a rookie! I'm so glad I came out of the closet. It's been hard sometimes, but it's been worth it. I fully intend to be a mindless club hopper disco biscuit until well into the next century... 

10/12/99, 3:28 a.m.
Oh, I forgot to mention Dragstrip's next theme. They've had some lame themes before, but this one is just hopelessly, unspeakably lame. Mobsters. Fucking mobsters. Huh?? Did the person who dreamt this theme up know anything about drag queens? What drag queen wants to dress up like the goddam Godfather? Sigh. I guess K could be a mobster, and I could be her moll... That way I could use my leopard-print minidress, AGAIN, and K could wear a suit, AGAIN. We used to love these Dragstrip theme nights, it was like having Halloween every month, but lately every theme seems to CRY OUT for my goddam leopard-print minidress. A cavegirl theme? Leopard print. Tarzan? Leopard print. Rock stars? Leopard print. Gangsters? Leopard print. I know, I could buy a new outfit for each of these events, but these themes just aren't inspiring enough for me to bother. Besides, I'm too poor.

Whatever happened to the days of themes like "Dragula" or "Mars Needs Drag Queens"? Off the top of my head, I can think of dozens of sexy, silly themes that would be infinitely more fun than MOBSTERS. How about french maids, or prom queens, or Playboy Bunnies, or goddesses, or movie starlets, or... Christ, ANYTHING but mobsters. 

Gee, Ursula... Tell us how you REALLY feel.

I'm only obsessing on this malarkey to get my mind off the fate of Scratchy the Possum. I'm sorry to say that Scratchy is currently MIA. We haven't heard his nocturnal scuttlings under the house for some weeks now, and I fear the worst. We did all we could to protect the little fuzzball, but this is a hard world for urban marsupials with few defensive skills beyond pretending to be dead. Perhaps Scratchy has simply moved on, his restless o'possum nature driving him onward, ever onward, toward new horizons, and new adventures.

Fare thee well, little o'possum... May you cross the highways safely, may the dogs never catch your scent on the wind, and may all of your backyards be full of trees bearing fine, rotting peaches. You shall be missed, sweet household pest. You shall be missed.

10/16/99, 3:38 a.m.
Wednesday night I payed a visit to Dan's new club, Jet Set. K couldn't go - it was a weeknight, & she's a working girl - so I was flyin' solo. It's a happening club! Dan should be proud.

I went as a boy, which was pretty surreal. I've gotten so used to being Ursula at clubs, it's hard to know how to act as a boy. My boy persona got an interesting reaction from my drag pals. They were all very complimentary, but I also seemed to make them kind of uncomfortable. Either that, or I was so uncomfortable that I made them uncomfortable. They reacted kind of like most people react when they see me in drag for the first time; "Gosh! You look... great! Uh..." 

I had some long conversations with the Nimrods gang, but I also spent some long stretches just floating around the club all by my lonesome. Misty Blue asked if I wanted to dance, and I really, really did, but I just couldn't! As a boy, I dance like Bill Gates.

Normally when I want to strike up a conversation at a club, I just look for someone with an interesting outfit, and I compliment them. Then we can usually talk about clothes and good thrift stores for a few minutes. That's fine when you're a girl, but a boy never, ever compliments somebody on their outfit unless he's hoping to get laid. A boy usually won't talk to anybody at a club, for any reason, unless he's trying to get laid. I couldn't think of anything to say that didn't sound like some ghastly come-on.

Rev. Dan told me I look like Lukas Haas, so of course the first thing I did when I got home was get online & look up a picture of Lukas, and all I can say is that Dan was either being kind, or he needs to pay a visit to his optometrist. People are always telling me I look like somebody, and they always get it wrong. So far, I've been told that I'm the spitting image of:

- Vincent D'Onofrio, the fat guy from Full Metal Jacket. He's a versatile character actor who's played a fair share of pretty-boy parts, and I wouldn't mind looking like him, but I do not.

- Stewart Copeland, ex-drummer for the Police. Very blonde and chinny. Could not be less like me.

- Jon Cryer. Yuck. Sadly, this one's probably the most  accurate of the bunch.

- "That kid from Children of the Corn... Y'know... that kid!"

- Jeff Goldblum. K is always saying this, and apparently she thinks it's a compliment. The only thing I have in common with Mister Goldblum is that we both have features that are much too big for our heads. We look like what would happen if somebody took the face pieces from a Mister Potato Head and stuck them on a carrot.

Nobody ever tells me who Ursula looks like, presumably  because girls who look like Ursula usually don't get to be famous. When I'm feeling pretty, I think I look like Gillian Anderson's giant sister, or maybe the pre-nosejob Cher. Actually, one Filthy Mind fan did write in and say that the picture of me on this site's warning page bears an uncanny resemblance to The Artist Formerly Known as Prince. Hardly what I was going for, but I suppose it beats looking like Duckie from Pretty in Pink.

10/19/99, 12:35 a.m.
Tonight we finally celebrated K's birthday with her folks, and I gave K her cake. She loved it, but her folks don't watch Buffy, and I think they were pretty horrified by this cake covered with little tombstones and stuff.

K's parents gave her one of the most disturbing presents I've ever seen. It's a Jar-Jar Binks head mounted on a little gun thing, and when you pull the trigger, Jar-Jar opens his mouth and sticks out a big, bumpy, candy tongue! To eat this candy, you're supposed to french kiss Jar-Jar! His tongue is almost life-sized, and it's disgustingly realistic. This isn't some little porn novelty dealie, it's an official Lucasfilm product. What were they thinking?

10/19/99, 3:04 a.m.
It's official; I'm going to try and perform at Club Makeup this January, an event which, coincidentally enough, takes place on my birthday! I haven't even auditioned yet, but I'm reasonably confident they'll let me perform. Hey, I can sing off-key and forget lyrics with the best of 'em!

Now I just have to think of what song I'd sing. Mama ruined "Pretty Vacant" forever. Torment just performed "Heroes" recently. "God Save the Queen" is great, but you have to sing it with a snotty British accent, and I don't know if I could remember that whole "flowers in the dustbin" rap. "All Tomorrow's Parties" is too slow & glum for the venue. I don't know if I have the pipes for "Helter Skelter," and it's not terribly glam. I know all the words to "Saturday Night's All Right for Fighting," but that's just too lame. Argh!

10/20/99, 3:55 a.m.
Ow ow ow. Toothache. Nasty toothache. I know, it's always something with me, isn't it? Last Wednesday, I was eating some popcorn and I bit down on a hard kernel. It hurt, but only slightly. I felt fine the next day, then the morning after that I woke up with pain that lasted the rest of the day. The next day I was fine, but then the day after that, the pain was back. Everytime I think the pain's gone, it comes back. Everytime I think I should go to a dentist, the pain goes away. I have no dental insurance, so if this pain decides to settle in for good I'm screwed. Ow ow ow. Isn't this riveting?

I'm getting concerned about the new Buffy season. After those last few, incredible seasons, I was beginning to think the show could do no wrong... But now we're three episodes into the new season, and it still hasn't caught fire. That Angel show hasn't really grabbed my interest, either. Even the big Spike crossover tonight felt kind of limp, and Spike is just about the coolest character in the history of anything. I kinda liked Harmony, the little airhead vamp that Spike had hooked up with... But where the hell is Drusilla? Was Juliet Landau asking for too much money or something? What the heck is she doing that's so important that she can't show up for a good Buffy episode? I just hope that Joss what's-his-face isn't spreading himself too thin. You're not gonna go Chris Carter on us, are ya, Joss? 

It seemed kind of weird that Spike was suddenly so rotten again, after he'd been such a sweetie-pie in his last couple of appearances. He was getting so funny and charming that he'd almost turned into one of the good guys, and now, boom, he's a shit again. The writers on that show must have a hell of a time figuring out what to do with him; it's downright odd that Buffy hasn't staked Spike by now (she routinely takes out fiends far more capable than he), but if Spike died, the fans would scream bloody murder! I know I would! I admit it, Spike is one of those boys who makes me feel little girly tingles. I just adore the accent, and the way he struggles with his S's when he's got his fangs in. As nifty as Spike is alone, I really miss the whole Sid & Nancy thing he had going on with Drusilla. Yeah, Juliette Landau kind of looks like a fish, but I couldn't resist her sickly, Edward-Gorey-waif routine. The absolute hottest vampire EVER, of course, was the Evil Willow. I'm heartbroken that they killed her off, although I did think her death scene ("Oh, fu-") was priceless. 

Okay, okay, so I sound like a 14-year-old schoolgirl going on and on about this WB kiddie show... but I can't help it, I'm totally hooked. At its best, this show is great. Besides, would you prefer it if I ranted about my damn toothache?

10/20/99, 4:57 p.m.
Damn it. The toothache is still aching. If it's not better by Friday, I'm going to a dentist. This should slim down my bank account nicely. Damn it.

10/23/99, 11:55 p.m.
Well, now the toothache is better, but I've got all kinds of other health nonsense going on instead. Christ! Don't worry, for once I shall spare you the details.

The other day I went to see a mainstream movie to review it for my job, and there were sixteen and a half minutes of ads before the movie started! Mostly it was movie previews, but there were also plenty of ads for cars and stuff. I mostly review art-house stuff, and I don't see too many mainstream flicks... Is it normal for there to be SO MANY ads before the movie? I was just sitting in the dark, with nothing to do but watch all these goddam commercials... I thought it would NEVER end! Actually, I ended up enjoying one of the ads more than I enjoyed the film. It was this big noisy preview for a new action movie starring Anna Niccole Smith. Anna is running around in a little black catsuit, and George Takei is this evil super-villain guy who's blowing everything up. I was totally buying that this was a real movie, but then at the end it turned out the whole thing was just a goddam commercial for an internet investment company. Hyuk hyuk! It was a really cute ad, but now I'm sad because I want to see this horrible Anna Niccole Smith movie for real. 

Sigh. Anna, Anna, Anna. Say it soft, and it's just like praying, say it loud, and there's music playing. Something's gone very wrong with America when an unsalted stringbean like Jennifer Love Hewitt is a sex symbol, and a gloriously overripe peach like Anna Niccole Smith is reduced to doing commercials sending up the wretched state of her own career. I'd be very surprised if Anna lives to be 35. Maybe she'll end up some sad old Mamie Van Doren hag, but she's got "overdose at 33" written all over her.

Poor Anna; she's had the misfortune to come along during one of America's periodic moodswings when everybody decides that they simply cannot tolerate ANY FAT WHATSOVER, no hips, no boobs, no butts... NOTHING! So Anna and Jenny Macarthy and Jennifer Connelly and all these other red-hot mamas have to beg for work, while America celebrates bland, meatless bone-women like Calista and Gwyneth Paltrow. These women look like storky twelve-year-old girls on their way to ballet class! It's all so, so wrong. You look at teenaged girls today, and they all have those tragic little Calista bodies. If they ate a banana, you could probably WATCH the banana make its way down into their tummies, like in one of those old Tom & Jerry cartoons.

Girls, let me fill you in on a couple of things. If you think you're gonna make the boys happy by starving yourselves, you're wrong. Boys don't really like the scrawny Calista look. Some dopey boys have been brainwashed into thinking they like that look by the media, but deep down, what most boys really crave is a girl with giant tits, hips, and a big, round, biscuit-ey butt to play with. That's right... all of your girlfriends and the beauty magazines have been lying to you... guys actually like big butts! 

Do you know who dreamt up this nutty notion that women have to be emaciated to be pretty? Women did! Well, women, plus a handful of really warped homo boys in the media. Look at it this way; if men like skinny girls so much, then how come in the '50s - an era when men had almost complete control over women - all of the sex symbols were big blonde fatsos? Huh? And when were women at their scrawniest and most boyish-looking? Back in the '20s, an era that saw huge developments in women's rights! Look at history, and you'll see this pattern over and over again, from the Renaissance (chubby, powerless women) to the '60s (liberated, wispy women). Yeah, men have a lot to answer for... but you can't blame men for making you starve yourselves, girls!

If you girls stop skipping meals and let your figures blossom, you'll be amazed at the results; your girlfriends will all get really catty, and their boyfriends will all wanna screw you! Deep inside you, there's a fat girl trying to get out! Let her be free, sisters... Let her be free!

Of course, it's different for me. I have an excuse for being anorexic; I'm a tranny, and if I bloat up, I don't blossom into zaftig womanhood... I turn into a big, fat gorilla boy! So while you girls are all eating your cake, I'll just be over here munching on my goddam carrots. Sigh. I wish I could be a fat girl.

Maybe in the next life.

10/26/99, 12:31 a.m.
Oh, joy. It looks like K's getting sick. Maybe a cold... or maybe the fuckin' flu. Scratchy throat, queasy stomach, the works. She felt so bad that she gave up on tonight's episode of Angel about ten minutes in, poor baby... and now that we're living under the same roof, the odds are pretty good that I'll catch this thing, too. God damn, god damn, god damn.