February 11, 1999.

Today is the second anniversary of the lowest point in my life. No, I don't feel like telling the story right now, but maybe I'll want to relive my afternoon of humiliation and insanity in some other entry. You can always hope, right?

Suffice it to say that the event revolved around largish sums of alcohol imbibed on an empty stomach...I blacked out at some point, and I can't smell port to this day without wanting to vomit. I've always thought that I should celebrate this bitter little anniversary by getting shit-faced in a more easily controlled environment, but every year I end up eating well and remaining sober. S'prolly for the best, you know.

Last night Dirk & I went out to see Big Rude Jake at a CD release party on Queen Street. Because of the unfortunate coincidence of a Wednesday night class, I was forced to go in swing drag to Greek Drama. And when I say drag, I'm not kidding...over the summer I borrowed an ancient pinstripe suit from my father, and I wear it when I want to swing like a boy. (Interesting trivia note: I lent it to the Boy for Agamemnon's ordination, but I'm unwilling to discuss the ramifications of dressing up my boy in my father's clothes, so no email! Another interesting note is that Paris has publicly declared that "when he loses a hundred pounds," he plans to borrow the suit. It's that good...)

Got into the bar with no trouble, and we settled into the long performance limbo between admission and the main event. I utilized the time rather wisely: I waited until I was alone in the bathroom and stole the complimentary decorative BRJ poster, thus winning Dirk's admiration and securing my status as a gig paraphernalia thief. Incorrigible, that's me.

Of course (or not, depending on who you are and what you've heard about 'em), they swung like nothing else on this earth. All new band, as has become standard...and this one included a brass section that danced vigorously and intricately with each other. Although they all came out in suits, the strip show began as soon as the heat rose to intolerable levels...and the drummer was down to his skivvies and a fedora five songs into the set. No insults from Jake, which bitterly disappointed me...I was counting on some derisive comments about my masculine garb prior to their performance of the fashionable lesbian anthem, "Queer for Cats." But no soap.

Shortly before midnight, Dirk & I staggered out of the Shoe; covered in sweat, weary from swinging and too wired & happy to go home. We finished off the night at the Victory, where I once again made a sausage party into...a sausage party with a girl. I have no civilizing influence on them...as they'll admit themselves, they're chimps. But they're my chimps, damn it.

The infamous ex-boyf/Uprite Animal/Little Spider dispute has moved to private email. I never wanted it to be this public, really. If I hadn't been at a university terminal (read: 2 miles away from my email program), I wouldn't have used the guestbook...but there's no sense in lamenting the oysters once they turn into stew, now is there?

I just wish Dirk wasn't mad at me.

Today I convinced the Boy that we should follow the giant drop of blood to the university donation clinic. And wouldn't you know it? My motherfucking iron level is too low. I'm not looking forward to developing a taste for spinach and liver, I can tell you that much. Besides, you eat too much liver; you get Vitamin A superfluity, which makes your bones all mangled - I read it in an Anthropology text, and they always tell the truth. Right?

Long story short, the Boy ended up as the blood donor superstar; not only does he have a rare blood type (O negative, for all you goth-cheese-rockers out there), but he can fill up a donation bag in five minutes. I've never seen anybody bleed so fast. He got the satisfaction of knowing that his blood would be rushed to premature babies. I got an oreo and an injunction to eat more dried apricots. Life just isn't fair sometimes.