Caterwauling

I got suckered (read: roped) into going to dinner with the boss, Pussy Demure, and other event organizers. J-Ho was there too, sucking up to me as usual. I think she wants to interview for my newly opened Managing Editor position. Heh — good luck, I don’t think so!

Anyway, my last bitch fit before the closing ceremonies of this damn convention — Demure and the gang (and we all work together) went to dinner at Tangerine’s, and we were also with a rep from the convention and visitor’s bureau from the city we’re visiting next year. Would you fucking believe that Demure refused to pay for our dinners, except for the CVB chick? She pulled out her credit card, and two of us figured that, shit, she brought us to dinner so she would pay for it. Oh, but no. She declared that she was paying only for the other chick’s meal. Dumb fucking cunt! For all the hard work we do, the bitch couldn’t pay for our meals? The bill wasn’t even $150, and she could have gotten reimbursed by the company!!! Asshole! She only makes three times more money than I do — and I’d had plans to meet Karen and Chrissy, which I had to cancel. God damn it. Cheap crusty ole biatch!

Anyway, party till midnight tonight, and a day full of traveling tomorrow. I will miss living in an immaculate hotel suite — I am so damn neat, it’s frightening. Here’s to hoping I can get motivated to retain my rediscovered passion for immaculateness when I get back to D.C.

Anaheim’s been fun — and the balmy near-80-degree weather has been charming, but it will be good to get back to having a car and a cat. My clothes look so different without feline fur!

Clicking heels three times.

The Veggie Patch Board of the Directionless passed a bylaw this past weekend to advocate for piece. One of the “Whereas” clauses included sending this new piece of hippie legislation to President Bush. It reads something to the effect that we disagree with the aggression that our country is taking out on other, smaller, poor, unfortunate countries.

!

Sweet Jesus. Luckily, one of the girls in our membership meeting created a stink, because her organization would have its funding revoked if this were actually followed through on. Unfortunately, we had our President-Elect there, whom I’ll call Pride Fag (not flag), who shot right back that we in fact are peace loving hippie freaks who need to take a stand. I was practically spitting nails and had a few choice words to say that we need to choose our political battles, and this ain’t one of them.

Damn it — gotta run, but I will finish this diatribe later.

I didn’t come out as a lesbian, but god only knows that the inclination is there — especially after the failed relationships and seemingly endless series of first dates and no seconds. But what the aforementioned Goddamn hippies have done for me is allow me to be free to display my longing for equal human rights in my own nation. Our hippies and our gay group have been handing out rainbow stickers, and I’ve been displaying them proudly on my name badge.

Sometimes, I wear the badge to walk down the street — away from the safety of my hippie convention — and it’s scary and thrilling all at the same time to see people look curiously at my badge, which displays a variety of symbols about me. But it’s the large rainbow that stands out — it’s perhaps the only thing that they see.

And when I leave this convention, I will never wear this badge again. But for a few days, I have known what it is like to be different — to not be accepted as a portrait of the mainstream society. And even in here in the convention hall — my colleagues and other professionals have gotten to know me as me, and it was only two days ago (of this five-day ordeal) that I picked up this vibrant sticker. And now these people look at me and see the sticker. Many look at me and smile, because they are damn proud of me for showing my support of ALL communities. Many look at me and think, “What the hell? She’s a dyke?” And still others look at me like almost dismissively, like, “Oh, she’s one of THEM.”

I know I can never truly walk in another’s shoes, but I’ve been walking around a hell of a lot in my own, and my feet hurt. I can only imagine how the feet of those with one more burden must feel. I salute the gay community, and while I may not be gay, I am still one of you. But it’s a shame that you can only feel safe in such a protected environment as this, and not in the society at large in which you are a huge part.

Went to a candlelight vigil last night, sponsored by our social justice group. I properly offended the 90 participants with my photography and my incessant need to talk during the half-hour of silence. I had to clarify that it was simply an event in favor of peace, not a protest against the war. Folks were properly horrified that I am for the war, but that’s another story.

When I was 18 and living in Pittsburgh, I was attending such vigils for a variety of causes. I had respect and passion and a sense that I was accomplishing something — even if only for myself — as I held those lit candles whose flames were contained and kept alive by their protective Dixie Cups. Now I’m 28, living in the political mecca of the country, and now a citizen of the world. And for awhile last night, I was thinking that I’d become jaded, but this morning, I realize that it might just be that I’ve become a hardened realist. The vigil was sweet and all, and it made its hosts and attendees feel good, but what did we really accomplish? Perhaps our prayers for peace were heard somewhere, and maybe those wishes will come true someday. But instead of praying solely for peace, I was sending my thoughts and my love to the soliders who are laying down their lives to fight for world freedom. I was hoping that someday, I will tell my kids about this horribly unjust world in which I grew up, and I was hoping that they would laugh and treat it like my generation treated the “I walked to school barefoot 20 miles each way. …” stories — like, damn! Things were like that? No way!

Anyway, whenever I snapped photos, I was snarled at. So I put the camera down and eventually burst into silent hysterics, waiting for them to burst into “Kumbaya” or something. And they DID!!! They started singing some Beatles-era song about peace and love and what not, and some chick with a booming opera voice started her own reprise. It was moving and laughable at the same moment. It was one of those times when, as my grandmother would say, you just didn’t know whether to shit or go blind.

The hippies staged a day of peace here at the convention center. I thought it would be a good photo op, but I lasted 10 minutes and had to leave and go indulge in some capitalism (I bought a Los Angeles shirt to sleep in). And unfortunately, their hippie-ness carried over into other non-hippie sessions — they took off their shoes and sat Indian-style, they laughed and sang and carried on, and they talked about how terrible it was for our country to invade Iraq. First of all, the smelly feet were enough to KILL me in most of the sessions (and believe me, my feet were hurtin’ too but I didn’t remove MY shoes!), but what really frosted my flakes was when our presenters were bitching about “Blood for Oil” and how President Bush is a bully who coerced his staff and his military into terrorizing Iraqi civillians so we can get our hands on that country’s resources. Let me tell you, I walked out of a bunch of sessions, just based on that alone. I came here to be educated on topics of interest to me — if I wanted to hear about the war, I could’ve stayed in D.C. and turned on the fucking news.