09/18/2002 Entry: "One Of Us, One Of Us, One Of Us."

We are freaks: We follow the code of freaks.
We are freaks: Stand back and that's that.
We are freak: We fuck who we please and do what we choose.
We look bad: We're not diseased or confused.
Freaks, Hedwig and the Angry Inch

Girls Against Boys rage in my headphones, and I get on the K Ingleside at Van Ness to get my haircut. Maybe I'm singing along, probably, I don't remember. But I'm sure my hair is a windblown mess, my black cloth sports coat's ripped lining is hanging down below the bottom of the coat, Doc Martin shoes, and I'm standing in the doorway waiting to get to Castro street. A sweaty-looking woman in a tacky-tourist print shirt, corduroy shorts and Birkenstock-style sandals looks at me over her Old Navy shopping bags, just as Steven Trask (and I) sang "I know this guy who can suck his own dick/and my mother has a friend with three tits."

The dirty look she gives me at that moment is incredibly well-timed and utterly priceless. I smile. That's right, I say to myself, that is the way god planned it.

I'm reminded of this because this week my employer has apparently found faster, more efficient ways of sucking the very soul out of me. The song is still playing in my head, but I'm feeling not just tired but tiresome. Frankly, I'm beginning to fear the worst: When there's nothing left of me but an ashy (but well-branded) shell in khakis from Dockers, I beg you—speak kindly of the freak that I once was.

(Isn't it Friday yet?)