Maura's Illuminated Manuscript

Saturday: got my hair done, then took the train down to Tacoma Girl's place for mead, beer, Chex mix, and epic chat. How epic? I didn't get back to U District until 0020, well after the bus to my neighborhood starts running hourly. I think Tacoma Girl likes getting together as much as I do.

Sunday: finished all the Sunday chores — beans, bins, buy groceries, laundry — early, and crashed early. Got an unusually good night's sleep. I haven't had much energy or inclination for circumflatulation lately.

After a sugaring appointment rendered a little chaotic by a four-year-old* I took the bus to the train, and then got the Wendling to pick me up because the 50 is the most useless bus route in Seattle. And where did this epic journey take me?

To Both Ways Cafe, where Ex was having a party for her sixtieth birthday. The food was amazing, of course, because Ex made most of it, and much of it was gluten free. Ex's brother, niece, nephew, cousins, dog trainer lady, rabbi, etc. were all there. Some of them flew in from California, but I was still the best dressed person there. In a few cases it took me several minutes to remember people's names despite sobriety. They remembered mine, of course.

It was kind of trippy telling Exbrother's bi daughter, whom I've known since she was a baby, about the Wildrose. Ex's childhood friend P, who's been having some success at writing (!), tells me she's given up on dating. Mayunn, het men need to suck less, especially the ones around sixty years old.

But Ex provided me with another reason to be there: I commissioned from her a pair of red ceramic horns to the balcony on the front of the Devil Girl House. You see, the ones that I have made of red tape and wire haven't withstood the elements despite some serious coating applied. They look perfect, and I intend to install them today. I have some neoprene to use as padding, which I think will be necessary.



*The lady who does my sugaring has a young son who inherited ADHD from both of his parents. He's... a handful, and his mother doesn't really have a reliable alternative to having him with her there at the salon. I feel sorry for her. And I'm glad I wore boots there yesterday because he broke some glass.

[Confession: While I was in Germany I used Zuckerberg's data mine as a microblogging platform and scratch pad. I could have typed up Dreamwidth entries on my phone, but I mainly couldn't be bothered. Much of what you're about to read here is based on what I put there. I'll be doing this in chronological order because it's just easier.]

On the 14th, just minutes after my on-call shift ended, I left for Leipzig, Germany for Wave-Gotik Treffen, the goth & industrial music festival to end them all. Basically, a black-clad mass of thirty thousand takes over every venue in greater Leipzip with... music. And outfits, so many outfits. And a (very) little kinky stuff.

So how was the trip over? Nine hours in a coach-class seat, but at least not nearly as bouncy as across the tropical Pacific. I did get to see something interesting as we zipped over the Netherlands and north Germany: hundreds of windmills in rural areas. They're serious about renewables over there.

I never did really adjust to Central European Time, but that's just as well because I was staying up into the wee hours every night to see shows.

Getting my wristband was an adventure. I left my hotel room around noon on Thursday expecting to need to take the tram, which is free if you already have your wristband. But no! I was staying in the beautifully designed Adina Hotel just two blocks from Hauptbahnhof (main train station). Since that's the transpo nexus for the whole city, the WGT ("veh-geh-TEH") organizers wisely put a satellite box office there.

There was one trip through the line to figure out that I needed to get into the short line for ticket buyers, get the paper ticket that they won't mail overseas, then go through the line again to get my wristband. It all seemed a little bit cumbersome; I'm not sure whether that's German or not. They just didn't seem very well set up for people coming from outside Europe. To be fair, such people are a small minority of WGT attendees.

I was wearing my Pride-and-stars-and-stripes leggings, so I stood out in the sea of black. A video crew interviewed me during my first trip through the line, asking me why I was so brightly dressed. I told them the truth: I wanted to make myself visible to someone I was going to meet later.

And did I see that person? No, but I was in the appointed place and time for that, namely the Sadgoth gathering. The Sadgoths are a large group of goths from Anglosphere countries. The dude running it now is English. I should have hit the Sadgoth Facebook page more to be less lonely, escape the horrible feeling of being that dumb Auslander who doesn't speak any German, and maybe party ridiculously late into the night, but honestly, I just plain forgot to. That, and I didn't really want to punish my body any more than I had already. This trip was... a lot.

At the Ratskeller, i.e. the cellar of the "new" town hall (Neues Rathaus), I had a salad with sorbet & ricotta on top (?!) with a one-liter beer. Fear not: Germans are so old school about their beer that it's usually at most 5% alcohol, so large volumes don't put you under the table. I got some interesting info: there were to be a couple of official pre-funks, one at Felsenkeller.

And what was Felsenkeller like? It has about ten times the capacity of the Mercury and is more of a concert hall than a club, but otherwise it looked and felt familiar. I didn't feel the live act that was playing when I got there, but DJs in the basement, Paradroid and Puppe, really kicked butt! The basement dance floor was about half the size of the Merc's, and the Germans just kept on packing in. It warmed the cockles of my heart to see two girls making out on the dance floor; some things really are universal.

On to Friday! I hit the local equivalent of PCC because it was going to be a long weekend for Pentecost, and I therefore needed to stock my hotel fridge. Hey, I got to try gen-u-wine Müsli, and found it satisfactory.

Sometime on Friday I tried Currywurst. They could do with more curry. In general I found that the Germans could do with more spice and less salt.

I donned the Devil Girl outfit only with comfier boots and bopped over to the Kätz Club for a fetish night. It's a playspace cum dance club into which an awful lot of love, money, and thought has been poured. It's mostly in a basement and is divided into many small rooms. Each of these rooms is set up for a different kind of... activity. I had a couple of Schwarzbiers, watched some impromptu pole dancing, and headed for Ladytron at the largest venue, agra. Yes, lower case.

On the way to the tram I saw a much younger blonde woman who was an absolute vision in a black dress with a hoop skirt. I made the heart sign. After the obligatory "I don't know German", she asked me where I got the Devil Girl corset and I told her. Game recognizes game.

WGT attendees basically swarm the trams, especially line 11, the one between agra and Hauptbahnhof. That passes through a heavily graffiti'd neighborhood called Connewitz. The representative graffito that stuck in my memory is "Yuppies raus."

Agra looks like it used to be a hangar. Half of it was devoted to vendors, and it's a minor miracle that I didn't buy something bananas expensive there. My fave was a sculptor and furniture maker named Lucas Haupt. He welds together arthropod-shaped... things. Spider chairs. Face huggers from Alien. Lamps shaped like spiders perched on pistons. Giant molars with faces. Creatures inspired by Hieronymus Bosch.

I needed to caffeinate because Ladytron wasn't to take the stage until 0100. This was where I first applied my knowledge of the Pfand that I gained at the Ratskeller. And what's a Pfand, you ask? A deposit that bars & cafes charge for the use of their reusable glassware, typically one euro. Much of my caffeine intake on this trip was in the form of Irish coffee at agra.

But on to Ladytron! I'd missed this band in Seattle at least twice, so this was my revenge, and sweet revenge it was. They sounded fabulous, and I felt a bit guilty for not buying their entire catalog and listening to it constantly. They seemed to have changed some of the arrangements to appeal to gothier tastes. Near the end of the show, their drummer burst the head of his kick drum. As the stagehands replaced it, Helen Marnie joked, "That's why they call him the Highland Hammer." When I laughed, I was the only one within earshot who did. Take that, Germans.

How did I get back to my hotel? By tram, of course. At 0233. Not only does Leipzig let WGT attendees use their trams prepaid; it runs the 11 at high frequency late into the night. God bless 'em.

Am I going to write up the wrest of WGT tonight? Hell no. There will be at least one more entry tomorrow, though, and I have pics that I'll put up.

I went to the Georgetown Carnival on Saturday afternoon, which happened for the first time in four years. I watched the power tool races over the shoulders of others. I saw and lusted after SIGIL jewelry. I was about to say "and its lovely proprietress A", but believe it or not, I don't lust after A. She's straight, and my libido has no taste.

Saw a giant spider sculpture as tall as a person as I turned a corner. I have friends who would... not like that. I ran into Empress, who just got a job running the arts promotion org for Georgetown. Her resumé is perfect for the job, being a working artist herself who at least used to be part of a collective there. (Iron Monkeys, n'est ce pas?) Anyway, I couldn't help observing how my neighborhood, Fremont, thirty or forty years ago was an awful lot like Georgetown today: a place where artists work and have fun. I told her that if the tech industry shows up, commit arson. She points out that Georgetown has arsenic in the soil, which may act as techie repellent. It's also got relative inaccessibility, proximity to an airport and therefore with jet noise, and a punk rock vibe going for it. Good luck, Georgetown.

Went home, packed my messenger bag, and got on a bus to Tacoma for a date with the Tickler. There were eetz on the waterfront at one of the restaurants that seems to cater to the older crowd. We closed the joint, and it wasn't that late. Went back to their place. As ever, I crashed. But! We had a lovely morning with their kitties. They picked greens from their garden and made salad to go with the eggs & toast for brunch. I, uh, brought my heaviest toy and the Tickler got an unusual morning workout with it. Ahem. Once again, the Tickler's soft bed has messed up my back; my hard bed messes up theirs. Le sigh.

Oh: the Sound Transit buses didn't run at all yesterday. I was under the impression that they did. I ended up taking Amtrak to Seattle for $28. Ah well, it still beats a ride share. But mayunn, if you want people to not drive, you need to provide services for the non-drivers on Sundays.

I've spent the last three weekends on trains and buses. I'm looking forward to not leaving Seattle for a few weeks, not least because the weather has turned perfect.

The esteemed DJ & promoter seelenschwester decided to call last night, the anniversary of the Mercury's reopening, its rebirthday, which is the same word I use for my anniversary of beginning to live as a woman. Between that and the amazing time I had at the reopening, I had to go.

There was pre-funking at the Wildrose and chatting to Martha, but once again I didn't give any of my queer lady friends notice so none of them joined me. I really have to stop doing that. The short notice, that is, not the Wildrose.

The Merc was lovely as ever, and A excitedly showed me her pictures of Thailand. Shallow Fashion details: the violet brocade corset from Dark Garden as I wore to the reopening, my boot licker skirt from Gallery Serpentine, black over-the-knee Fluevog Truth boots, and every glittery violet accessory I own.

But even more than any dolled up sweet thangs at either the 'Rose or the Merc, what captured my attention is that the Mercury is once again carrying more than one kind of absinthe – three, to be exact. (I had the St. George. Mm, tasty.) That hasn't been true since the early teens, maybe not even since the '09 recession. If we're going to make things like they were in the aughts, can we make it so the Merc staff can make rent off tips? That would be even better than a bigger absinthe selection.

Oh: I got sucked into the tail end of "Johnny Mnemonic" on the screens. I rolled my eyes at how William Gibson's short story, which I read in Omni magazine in 1983, got beaten into a standard Hollywood product. Do yourself a favor and read the story.

Another thing I need to stop doing is expecting a reasonable wait to catch a bus from the U District to Fremont after midnight. I didn't hoof it all the way home this time, just to Wallingford where I watched groups of young people leaving various establishments. Then I caught a bus home. Sheesh.

Oh: I'm totally hitting the Merc on Christmas Eve because a) I have nothing better to do that evening, b) this I gotta see, and c) my Big Red Dress needs some love and is perfect for the occasion.

I actually got some money back from my damage deposit. I don't even remember how much I paid ten years ago. Regardless, it's in the bank now.

I tried again to hang the full-length mirror. I left even bigger holes in the wall, so I gave up, leaned the mirror against the wall, spackled, and painted. I am done messing with my house. For now. There are no more furniture deliveries scheduled.

Speaking of beautiful, charming women with ADHD, Zuckerberg's data mine reminded me that Funny Lady was having a barbecue this afternoon just as I was waking up from a nap. I hadn't written it in my own calendar. Onto the bus and train I go! Being social in FL's back yard for a few hours was just the ticket. That sake I bought the other day? Shared with the mayor of a neighboring small city. I thought impure thoughts about one or two other women at the party. It was an excellent and unexpected way to spend the afternoon.

Oh: Seattle area train passengers are in for some annoyance. The new card readers they've installed don't read the old ORCA* cards unless you do the thing with their ill-designed web site. I've never been more OK with being the equivalent of a turnstile jumper.

To do: wash the sleeping bag I slept in for three weeks. Luckily, there's a laundromat nearby. Yeah, I could hit up Ex, but her dryer takes forever.



*One Regional Card for All. Really.

I have once again used every station in Seattle's light rail network. I went to Northgate last night, using as a flimsy excuse needing some cleaning supplies from Target. Things I learned:

• What was Northgate Mall still has some larger stores open.
• The new Seattle Kraken hockey team has an ice rink under construction at Northgate as well. I think I remember reading that in the paper, but I'm not exactly a fan.
• That Target is not designed for pedestrian access. Bad plan for the current environment.
• The art at Northgate station is in the mezzanine, not on the platform. I missed it. That means I have to go back again for Kizuki ramen.
• While waiting for the bus home from Roosevelt station, a fellow with a Mexican accent came up to me and this other girl and told us the price he paid for these spiffy new stations that he'd helped build: the concrete dust has given him cancer. I'd call bullshit, but he knew there were three stations in Bellevue. I'm a light rail geek and even I didn't know that. I jumped on the 62 as soon it came, even though I really wanted the 45. Of course the 45 passed me on the longer walk home because karma.

As for the concrete dust, did that fellow not wear protective gear? It didn't occur to me to ask until later. If not, why not? Was this OSHA not doing its job or construction worker machismo?

The idiot light in my car came on a couple of weeks ago. That usually means it's time to get its oil changed. I might be tempted to wait until the end of shelter in place, but no one knows for sure how long that's going to be, and at least a month is likely. Do I really want to defer maintenance on a car that my anxiety-prone, Hero of Socialist Groceries son drives most of the time? No.

Since he and the car were at Ex's as usual, that meant a bus and train trip, one that I've made many times, but never before during a pandemic. So I put on an outfit that said, "Stay at least 6' away from me." Shallow Fashion Details: high-necked, mutton leg black blouse, bird skull brooch, ankle-length black appliqué skirt from Mishu, black Ariat cowboy boots. Oh, and an N95 mask that I bought for Burning Man who knows when.

I didn't know that the local transit agencies had suspended fare collection. That's mighty decent of them. It's certainly not an incentive and it isn't meant to be. People did their best at social distancing on the bus, and I was one of at least three people I saw wearing a mask out of maybe twenty on the 60' coach.

And now, a little background for you non-locals: there used to be a viaduct along Seattle's waterfront that was built in the late '40s. The 2001 earthquake damaged it so badly that it needed to come down*. There was a cut-and-cover tunnel at the north end of the viaduct, and the entrance to this tunnel is on my bus route to the office. I've watch them fill it in, pave, add signals and bus stops, and plant plants. They're nearly done after more than a year, but I'm guessing they have to pause because of the 'rona.

So I got downtown and transferred to a train at a station that I thought might be less crowded than the first and fastest one I could have used. Crowded? There were three people in the whole station including me, and one of them was staff. The trains are running every 14 minutes instead of the usual 10, said the announcement.

I got off at Ex's station, and grabbed a tofu banh mi & a latte from Le's Bakery on the corner. I figure, hey, a Vietnamese-owned business could use my patronage. Good sandwich, too.

I got my banged-up mint-green Prius and took it to the dealership. Do I want to deal with those recommended maintenance items I've been putting off? Yeah, I have the time and the money for now, and as I said, my son is driving the car. Well then, Ms. Nun, you'll have to come back Monday because we're closing at 1500 today. Le sigh. I guess I'll be picking up my son Monday night and getting takeout again.

Getting back from the dealership was the hair-raising part: the nearest bus route is the 124, and there were a lot of people who weren't exactly well off at the stop. I think that's stop's near a thrift store. Social distance? Not happening. I was one of a few people in masks hunkered down against the germs. I could have walked half a mile to the nearest train station.

On my usual bus home, there was a major fire right next to the bus route, with plenty of billowing smoke. The street highway that my bus normally takes was closed for a few blocks in both directions. No biggie: the driver just detoured a little, and that stretch doesn't even have any stops. Still, I couldn't help but observe the irony that I was already wearing a mask and in a situation for which it was intended.

How insane was this? I'm honestly not sure.



*It's been replaced at huge expense and with facepalming accidents and delays with a mighty spiffy new tunnel. The old viaduct offered stunning views, but it was an eyesore, a noise & pollution hazard, scary to drive on, and so worrisome to the engineers after the quake that they shut it down for two days of inspections every six months.

At my son's suggestion we tried Rain City Burgers at 65th & Roosevelt. I found it an adequate replacement for Red Mill, which I don't do anymore because one of the owners is a nasty transphobe. Rain City is also less crowded and has mango lassis. Pity it's such a long walk; m'boy drove us and parked by the soon-to-open Roosevelt Station, which was the first time I'd gotten a good look at it. I am excite!

That burger was payment in advance, more or less, for shopping the bulk bins at PCC for beans, rice, and oatmeal. I was out of the first two, and it occurred to me that with COVID-19 looming I might want to maximize the amount of food I have on hand in case I need to stay home a lot. For that, my son is a great help.

This morning on the bus, I observed a first: just two or three stops from where I work, the driver got on the PA and said, "Fare enforcement is here," just seconds before they got on. Was he giving passengers more time to get their proof of payment out, or was he giving people who hadn't paid a warning that they should bail out of the bus? My money is on the latter; this is the E line we're talking about here, the surliest, skeeviest, skankiest, sketchiest route in the north end. I think the driver was from east Africa.

Company holiday party on Saturday night. I... overindulged. I didn't do much yesterday except cook this week's beans & rice and fetch the Wendling's new shoes.

But on the way home from shoe fetching I got to do something I'm not sure I've done before: break in a brand new bus stop shelter. For you folks outside Seattle, almost a year ago the Washington State Dept. of Transportation (acronym: WaSDoT, pronounced "was dot") at long last opened the spiffy new tunnel that replaced an earthquake-damaged viaduct and the short cut-and-cover tunnel that led to it. My daily commute took me past the north entrance to that tunnel, which had to be filled in.

All this construction means that the bus stops along the way have been closed or moved several times. That new shelter means they've finally stopped moving one of the bus stops and have given it a permanent home. They're oh-so-close to opening all lanes of the street, and since they filled in the tunnel entrance, the street is a lot wider than it was. You guessed it: I'm salivating at the prospect of a significant commute improvement.

Living in a big city means you get excited about things that are hard to explain to everyone else, things like new bus shelters.