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July 2, 2001, 10:34 p.m.

Poppolitics.com, a consistently thought-provoking site, published "The Allure of Alcatraz" as part of their crime spree. I wrote it and they gave me delicious gourmet cookies. Also check out Make, which is a wonderful political queer print and (now) webzine. A somewhat discombobulated essay (not enough editing or flow on my end) I wrote about race, drag kings and talk shows is published there (and was republished in a fanzine called TransAction ). I'll probably be re-working it soon.

10:09 p.m.

I am breaking out in weird, itchy bumps in an allergic reaction to what, I don't know. It could be sublimated panic, having to drive a vehicle with the air-bag light flashing to indicate a malfunction in the seat-belt/air-bag system, especially since I've been told that the deployment of the air bag might crush my ribs. To reach the pedals I generally have to scooch the seat far forward, apparently too close to the steering wheel and almost-certain lung puncture in the case of emergency.

I am trying, trying the write for the fanzine without committing too much overlap. I got nothing done to day, however, because it was "new issue" day over at Maximum. We half-assedly played Trivial Pursuit and turned our hands black with ink, and out loud I berated punk rock for its race politics to a concerned Arwen. 

"I hate punk rock," I said, distractedly turning pages. "I don't know why I'm still here, except for all of you."   

June 30, 2001, 8:40 p.m.

I'm sitting at my computer in the growing darkness because the switch on my desk lamp was reduced to an un-turnable plastic nub by a pair of clamps. (Don't ask.) I haven't felt much like writing here (surprise, surprise) because there are so many other projects I need to be working on, for real. I know I say this a lot, but there's the dissertation and my Punk Planet columns (and I feel like I want to get a head start on these, since I'm always missing deadlines as it is), which is sparking an old debate I have with myself about where and how I want to publish. And then I was asked back to MIT for a panel on "popular culture and third wave feminism" in the fall, which will also feature riot grrrl luminary Kathleen Hanna of Bikini Kill/Le Tigre fame, and, of all things, I was invited to submit a book proposal to Routledge after an editor witnessed two of my conference presentations on digital space (and heard wrongly from some sort of grapevine that I'd just successfully defended my dissertation). I'm feeling overwhelmed by all the choices I have to make -- grateful that I have them, of course, but still overwhelmed.

And oh god, then there's the zine I have to finish!

June 29, 2001, 9:31 p.m.

listening: The Ex, Dizzy Spells CD, Cyndi Lauper, She's So Unusual CD

At a "management/leadership training seminar" Mark was told by the professional motivational speaker to always lie to the employees. When another editor expressed outrage at such a dishonest approach, the speaker said, "Hey, we all wear masks in our everyday lives. It's just like Madonna -- we have to adopt new identities to suit our purposes, right?"

Ah, straight to the heart, and you're too late. Is this the fitting death or the tragic irony of the "postmodern"/"postfeminist" celebration of Madonna as self-conscious artifice? 

I was always a Cyndi Lauper fan myself.