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Rumor around these parts has it that My Boss won't be back in today. Nobody's heard from him since he left town on Wednesday, which usually means he's having too good a time to be bothered. It's remarkable that any of us even knew that he was going to be gone at all; it was a surprise to most, and will piss off at least one person who was supposed to be meeting a client with him. Naturally, I'm keeping my fingers crossed that he remains AWOL, since I can really use another day to myself here, especially after how last night went. I was actually feeling good yesterday afternoon, for the first time in a week and a half, and then I careened back down. Almost wore a trench into the kitchen floor with my pacing. It's just how things go.
11:10am He'll be back this afternoon. Oh well. It was nice while it lasted.
3:14pm Not only am I co-hosting an event which I didn't organize tomorrow night, it's practically a comedy show. How weird is that? Should be fun, though.
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Lynn Breedlove and I are talking about doing a few readings together in Los Angeles this summer, a microtour, probably in mid-July. Problem is, I haven't been to LA in—this is what, 2004?—fourteen years, so I know next to nothing about the scene down there. If anyone can suggest people to contact about booking gigs, please do. (But I'm still being all DIY, right?)
2:41pm Maddy just asked me how my arm feels. I'd actually forgotten that I'd gotten a tetanus shot yesterday, which I guess means it feels fine. They'd warned me at the time that my arm would probably hurt like the dickens the next day, but, nothing. Wasn't so bad at the time, either. The nurse was priming me for something really painful, telling me to relax and making sure I was extra-comfy (most vaccinations are more of an assembly line) but it didn't feel much different from any other needle. Even if it had really hurt, or was hurting bad now, it still beats lockjaw. For as many things as I don't like about my body, I'm ultimately very lucky. My metabolism may be way too slow, but otherwise I'm remarkably healthy. If I'm allergic to anything I have yet to discover what it is, and I've never shown any sort of adverse reaction to hormones. Which is something my original endocrinologist should have observed after about, say, six months, but she didn't care about me so it was two years of way too low a dosage before I realized how useless she was and I took the initiative to find an endoc who gave a damn and you know what? Ain't no point in going there again. I was done wrong, but things are better now, and that's all that matters.
11:45pm A little Meliza makes everything better.
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I got about six hours of sleep and am feeling much more rested. If He rips into me again today, I should be far less likely to cry. Wow. It sounds kinda fucked up when I put it that way, doesn't it?
9:28am Of the final Spang Bang. (Contains descriptions of partal nekkidness.) #17. At first, I was disappointed to be going on so late. The open mic list had filled up pretty quickly, and I was grateful to make it into this final Spang Bang at all—especially after being in it on Thursday, arguably bogarting the stage—so I knew I shouldn't be quibbly about running order. For a moment it looked like I'd get slot #3, when there would still be an audience, but I remained at #17. The last slot. Oh well. It's not like I've never played to a mostly empty house before. (Like Thursday.) The more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea. After all, this was Spanganga's final night. Last one up meant I was the last one up, ever. After me, no more show. (In more ways than one, as it turned out.) I mean, how cool is that? Closing out Spanganga! And, for that matter, Wicked Messenger opened The Dark Room. I'd be, like, an axis or a hub or something. Don't know what, but I was not going to be denied. As is so often the case with final nights, there were some firsts. Personal firsts, that is. For starters, I smoked grass. Oh, I've smoked (plenty? my share? way too much?) in my time, and Spanganga was the catalyst for me picking up the habit again again last fall, but I've never smoked before having to go on stage. (It will forever blow my mind to think that on at least one occasion during the summer of '90, Tom dropped acid before a Sedan Delivery gig in which he played bass. By that point, acid probably felt very weak to him.) It just always seemed like a phenomenally bad idea. Tonight, however, was what it meant to be young, so when I was offered the joint, I accepted. Two hits were all I required. It was a warm evening outside and thus an even warmer evening inside the notoriously non-ventilated Spanganga. I also found myself thinking about Lynnee, what a dynamic performer he is, and how as the final act on stage I simply had to do something memorable. (Speaking of the word "dynamic," early on in the evening I was helping Sean Kelly compile a list of every single show ever done at Spanganga. To that end, I was in the restroom, looking at the collection of fly0rs. I sensed someone waiting the doorway, and without looking at them I said, you have to piddle, don't you? "Yes," he replied. you want me to leave, then? "If you promise not to look at my weenie, you can stay." i assure you, i assured him, that i could compile an extremely long list of things i'd like to do, and looking at your weenie would be nowhere on it. "Good enough for me," he said, and entered. I continued to make a point of not looking at his weenie, which wasn't too difficult because I really didn't want to. He commented on my Lexington Club tank top, saying he'd been there recently and felt like he was going to get beat up, although he figured his striking resemblance to k.d. lang probably helped. He'd finished piddling, so I hazarded a look. Yeah, I guess. Not the most non-k.d.-ish person I'd ever seen, that's for sure. He said that I was very "dynamic," and he liked me. He started to high-five me, then pulled his hand back, saying he had dick hands. I thought about it for a moment, decided that was why nature provided us with soap, and said I didn't care. I'm sure that impressed him. Not that I was trying to impress him. Just being dynamic, I guess.) WWLD? (What would Lynnee do?) Flash the audience? Nah. Old hat. Go topless? Yes. Much more like it. Except— Maddy wasn't there. She'd already been to Sebastopol and back that day, it was a schoolnight, and Saturday had been fairly grueling too, so she elected (wisely) to stay home. It was very much the sort of thing which required, if not strictly permission, then at least some assurance that it would be non-destructive. That was the very least courtesy demanded. I called her with Ty's cell. Voicemail. Damn. It was a quarter to ten, so it stood to reason that she was already in bed. Okay, then. Educated guess, based on recent events: she wouldn't mind. The crowd stuck around longer than I would have expected. It was the whole "final night of Spanganga" thing, I guess, in spite of the repelling power of the occasional bad spoken word and the frequently bad comedy. (The comics would probably say the spoken word was frequently bad, and the comedy only occasionally.) As the end grew closer, I went back stage to see what was left of the running order. What the—? Someone had been added to the list, after me. No. Uh-uh. Not gonna happen. I located both the host and the performer, and they were both copacetic about us switching. Whew. That was close. On two levels, in fact. One, it meant I get to be the last on one (am I so fucking territorial sometimes), and two, it meant I didn't have to go on after the current act, an extremely bizarre karaoke/lip-sync duo. Both Jon Fast and Erin came up to me and said "You don't have to follow this, do you?" So nice to have friends that care. (I'm not being facetious.) Garden-variety drunkenness combined with the knowledge that This Is It would have guaranteed the place was a mess by the end of the night anyway, but there was also the Pie Raffle. It worked like this: two tickets are drawn. Winner #1 gets to put a pie in someone's face. Winner #2 gets the money collected in the raffle, as well as—oh, I don't have to tell you what. There were two separate pies, and thus two separate pie-ings. A lot of of the pies ended up on the stage, curtains, etc. There were also many large pink marshmallows of unknown origin. In short, it was a big mess. A beautiful, glorious, sticky mess. Never having met me before, the host forgot my last name and introduced me as "Miss Sherilyn." Ehhh. Not so crazy about that—I prefer "Sherilyn Connelly," although my favorite would be Kirk calling me "Sherilyn Fucking Connelly" at Smack Dab—but no harm done. I was feeling pretty damn good, focused and confident in all the ways I hadn't when I was on that very same stage seventy-two hours prior. And still stoned, though not quite as much as I had been an hour earlier. I probably could have lit up again, but I was already tempting fate enough as it was, thank you very much. I stopped smoking grass altogether in mid-'02 when I started reading in public, since my confidence was nowhere near strong enough to overpower the paranoia. While the balance has very much shifted—I seldom smoke at home, which helps—sometimes fate doesn't need to be tempted. I adjusted the mic stand, thanked Sean for the zillionth time (and I've meant it every time) for casting me in Night of the Living Dead and altering the course of my life, reveled in the utter sugary chaos of the stage, said god, it's hot in here and removed my blouse. (To aid in visualization, I was wearing chain-y black capri pants, fishnets and boots.) I think it surprised everyone except Erin, who'd encouraged me to do so. I couldn't have felt less self-conscious. I tossed my blouse to Jon, who was sitting in the front row and probably feeling self-conscious enough for the both of us. Channeling Lynnee all the more, I took a swig from my water bottle, swallowed some, and spit the rest out. I felt profane and radiant. I owned the stage and the light and everywhere it reflected. Goddamn, it was fun. I went with a piece I've read a baker's dozen times before, since I was confident I'd get through it with no problems, and it's always a crowd-pleaser. My pace was a little brisker than it should have been, probably because of how amped I was feeling. I stopped again halfway through to guzzle and spit more water, and make fun of Sean's ample belly. (In the context of pointing out my own rapidly enlarging midsection, which I felt much more self-conscious about than my breasts. There were a few gasps, but Sean laughed, as I knew he would.) I listened for the sound of people in the gallery, and heard none. Erin later told me that there really wasn't anyone in the gallery—everyone had come into the theater to hear me read. Well, more likely to see me read. Behold the power of breasts, even tiny ones like mine. Power is the operative word, I think; I felt like I was in control of the audience in an entirely new way. Maybe that's why Lynnee does it. Of course, he's male-identified, so it's an entirely different statement from him. The average person in the audience probably doesn't pick up on that detail unless told, and even then it's hard for them to wrap their brains around the concept since he doesn't take hormones or make any attempt real attempt to hide his breasts. Then there's the fact that I was born male, a whole 'nother ball of wax entirely. (After my set, a guy who worked with me on Night asked if I was "on chemicals or something." Either he hadn't clocked me before, or hadn't picked up on the boobage.) The last time I was shirtless in public (no doubt sometime in the nineties, but I couldn't say why or when), it wasn't considered public indecency. Either way, the intentional exposure of the hormonally female breast cannot help but be a political statement, just like the breaking of any taboo. (Let's not talk about the ugliness involving the pop star and the sporting event some months back, okay? I acknowledge that it exists and is somewhat relevant to the topic, but I refuse to add to the dyscourse.) My exit was to one of the most energetic reactions I've ever received. I felt victorious. Maybe it was mild for a place which is infamous for sex parties like Darkness Falls and Splosh, but for me it was pretty damn great. And that was it for Spanganga. I'd closed the fucker out. There was no more show. Sure, there was The No More Show Show, but that's okay. No matter how big your finish, "Greensleeves" is still the last thing a Fillmore audience hears, y'know? The next morning was not so good.
1:43pm Have you ever brushed the back of your neck in that certain way?
10:00pm I was off His radar for the majority of the day. He even admitted that, upon reflection, I was right about something we argued about yesterday. Acknowledging that someone else's point of view is not only valid but possibly even correct is not something that comes easy to Him. I'm not saying He deserves credit for it, though. There are still too many other bad things. Why don't I leave? Nowhere to go. Plus I'm on the verge of getting out of his line of sight, of not being the neck for which his claws aim. He warned me yesterday during the shredathon that just because I'm going into another department doesn't mean I'll be getting away from Him, that He'll still be giving me admin-ish duties. Sure, why not? I'm obviously so good at the job, why not continue to make me do it for as long as possible? Yeah, that makes sense. I ordered my new computer today, a refurbished Dell Dimension 8250. I sure hope I'm not tempted to do personal things on it. Cheating Him would be wrong. I make jokes about it, but if I do get shitcanned, I will be very upset. But now, while I can laugh about it, I will. This evening I went to the Waddell Clinic. It was mostly because I needed to see my endoc to clear up a snafu which occurred in her recent absence. The doctor who temporarily replaced her severely underwrote my prescription, cutting my spiro dosage in half. I continued to take the same amount as before, so I had to get refills twice as often. Annoying as hell, particularly when the pharmacy told me last week that I had no more refills. It got cleared up, thankfully, without me having to go off the spiro. The last time I had to go without, bad things happened. I really, really need my terstosterone blocked. We looked at the results from my last blood tests. Everything checks out—"perfect" was the word she used, in fact. She also said several times that I look "terrific," and that even though I've gained at least ten pounds since last June, it doesn't show at all. She's my doctor, so I suppose I should take her word for it. Both my weight and my (total) cholesterol are the same number: 173. One of those makes me happy, the other not at all. I do love my vaccinations, and running down the list, we discovered that I haven't had a tetanus shot. Like, ever. So, I got one. The nurse actually doing it commented that I looked familiar, but she couldn't quite place me. She thought that she might have seen me on stage, but she doesn't go to spoken word events nor had she ever been to Spanganga, so it remained a mystery. I get that a lot. I have a very vaguely familiar face.
sometime after midnight And then there are times I think Dylan's "Tough Mama" is one of his great unknown lust songs, if only because of the terms of endearment he uses. dark beauty
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Returned to harsh reality, first thing. But that's what surreality is for, to even it out.
7:16pm Between ten last night and ten this morning I shifted emotional polarity, experiencing both an extreme high and an extreme low. I went from a fantastic reading which felt like I'd expanded my boundaries as performer exponentially while nailing something I can't yet define, to a severe chewing out the next morning by My Boss in which he once again wielded the threat of firing me like a knife to my throat and also fabricated complaints about me by other employees (including the HR person, a tactical error on his part), resulting in me barely being able to make it to my car before I completely broke down. I had to hide a few more times through the course of the day until the feeling passed. Today the power went off in Sausalito for at least an hour. I spent the dark time writing in my notebook. He'd told me earlier in the day that if he ever caught me doing something not work-related ("Do you know how cheated that makes me feel?") , I would be out a job. He didn't say a word. I was ready to fight him on it, too.
7:40pm I've been invited to perform at a poetry reading in honor of Anna Akhmatova's birthday on May 30. I've never heard of her before—my poetry knowledge is sorely lacking, Russian or otherwise—but that's no reason not to give it a shot, to rise to the challenge to write something appropriate. Maybe I'll even learn something new. We did visit with c0g and Melissa in Sebastopol yesterday. They're doing well. Nobody deserves it more.
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Spanganga, as it looked at the end of its final night. The white stuff on the curtain is pie topping of some kind, probably whipped cream. It all happened before I actually performed. The stage was very sticky. I couldn't have been more proud to be up there.
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My Twilight Zone cast finally gathered at Jon Fast's last night to watch the original version of the episode. Well, mostly they gathered; it was only three out of the five, but still, it's a majority, and that's all you can really hope for when herding cats. It was the first time I'd actually watched the episode itself since last October, although I'd worked with a transcript when writing my version. While the actual production of the play wasn't all it could have been due to time and resource issues (another week of rehearsals and we really would have nailed it), I'm still very proud of my adaptation. There's a possibility of it being restaged at the Odeon; Liz informs me she's up for it, and while I haven't really approached the rest of the cast, I'm not sure how I feel about it. Might be like going backwards. Besides, there just aren't the same lighting options as at Spanganga, and that's an important aspect. Too important, maybe. From Jon's, we went to Spanganga so I could act in a commercial before Blue's umpteenth (well, second) restaging of his episode. Considering that I was given the brief script the night before, I think I learned it pretty quick. I punched it up, made it funnier and darker. I hope. It was my first time actually doing it on the stage, and having a full audience is really not ideal. I didn't fuck it up, though. And there were so many details to remember—project, don't goof up the lines (including not transposing "ritalin" and "lithium," which is a biatch, lemme tell ya) , hold the prop in the correct direction, that sort of thing. The knowledge that I could fail miserably in front of a packed house was part of the appeal, really. Doing it without a net is what makes it fun. If the stove isn't glowy, why bother touching it? Whether that's a testament to confidence or my recklessness is for history to decide. We'll be seeing c0g tomorrow. Unfortunately, he's lacking certain fang supplies, and it seems that all the places that sell Dental Acrylic Monomer (White #62) are closed on Saturdays. Imagine that. I still want drugs, though. Just something to make me feel different.
11:08pm We spent the day geeking out at The Chabot Space & Science Center. Much nerdy fun was had, and we got our picture taken by a staff photographer. I guess they want visual proof of the diversity that the Center attracts, such as weirdos dressed in black with blue or purple hair. Maddy had never heard of Laika before. It made her very sad. The commercial last night was for a Ritalin-based children's cereal called Rital Flakes. Problem was, as far as props went, I was the only one who knew or cared that it should be spelled "Rital" and not "Riddle." I actually had to get somewhat diva-esque, saying that I wouldn't do it at all if they didn't at least spell it correctly. Since I'm a Spelling Nazi and all. Tomorrow we're going to see c0g. Or not. It's also Spanganga's very final night, so I want to be there. Who knows, I may even be able to weasel my way on stage once more.
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Maddy and I have decided we have to get away to somewhere tomorrow. Not sure where, though. Might be something as simple yet nerdiriffic as The Chabot Space & Science Center or NASA's Ames Research Center. You know. Wholesome, edifying stuff, and it does sound like fun. Of course, most of the things I really want to do simply aren't an option, for various reasons. Fuck you, DEA. No, really. Fuck you very much. I hope you all get genital warts which grow tentacles and strangle you.
3:40pm I think I've figured out one of the causes of my current state of anxiety: I don't have much in the way of gigs for the next month. There's the grand opening of The Dark Room on May 1, though that's going to be be co-hosting rather than actually performing. Which is fun and I'm looking forward to it, but after that I'm not booked for anything until Lit at the Canvas on May 24th, and then Poetry Mission on the 27th. (Why do these things always bunch up?) On the other hand, I'll be reading at the open mic at K'vetch on May 2 and probably at Poetry Mission on May 13, also in the open mic; Maddy's considering reading at the latter as well, as a sort of practice run for the Morbid Curiosity Reading at Borderlands Books on May 15th. Her first big feature slot. (How cool is that? Pretty goddamned cool, that's how much.) So, yeah. It's not like I'm not going to be doing anything. Still, though. Feels weird. Junkies and fixes and all. Although the collective breath is not being held, we're attempting to get in touch with c0g, in hopes of hanging out tomorrow. Seeing him always makes things a little better. We also really want to take him up on his long-standing offer (years, now) to make fangs. I've seen his work; they're good-looking removable ones made from stuff dentists use to repair teeth. (If memory serves. As I say, it's been years.) Maddy's really been wanting a pair ever since she heard that he did them, and up until now I've been personally ambivalent—I chose not to participate when he made a pair for The Ex in '99, for example. Now, though, it sounds like a damn good idea. It's just the kind of mood I'm in, I guess. Lord knows we've paid him enough Guinness for them already. And I am so beyond being self-conscious about the anti-vampire vibe in the goth scene. Fuck it, motherfucker. That shit don't mean fuck to me.
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A month or so ago, Kirk and Larry-Bob asked me for a picture to use to promote Smack Dab, so I gave them what I rather unimaginatively call my vampire hooker picture. Last week, Larry-Bob mentioned that the San Francisco Bay Times was going to print it. Which leads us to yesterday evening. Maddy and I were standing in the Larkin Street entrance to the Main Library, looking through the latest issue for the picture. I figured it would be a rather small one in the calendar section, and— jesus FUCKING christ! I was so startled, I literally shouted that. On page 29 of the April 15 edition is an approximately six by eight picture of me. Think about that for a moment, or grab a ruler if one's handy. That's friggin' huge. The caption is equally hyperbolic (and poorly punctuated): Smack Dab @ Magnet is the open mic not to be missed. This month Sherilyn Connelly, artist extraordinaire is one of the featured performers. She's done it all from self-publishing to acting in a stage production of The Hitch-Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy.Jeez, it's just as well my name wasn't on the marquee, huh? I'm getting hyped enough as it is. And I have so not done it all. Far, far from it. I've barely done anything. Presently, I apologized to a woman a few feet away for my outburst. She asked what it was about, and we showed her. Maddy suggested sending a copy to my mom, and the woman asked me an oddly perceptive question: "Will she be proud of you?" yes, I replied. yes, i think she will.
12:00pm It's good to know I can always count on My Boss to kick me when I'm down. He just gave me "everyone thinks you're lazy and easily confused and i've been tempted countless times to fire you and i will fire you if you suck at the new position which they don't even want you in in the first place" speech. Wasn't the first time, obviously. But at a very, very bad time, when I'm already feeling confused and insecure. Not that he would give a damn if he knew. I also know from experience that there's really no point in defending myself, even when he's demonstrably full of shit. It just prolongs the torment. Best, I've found, to just let him run out of steam, then crawl off to lick the wounds left by the ones that didn't just bounce off. What really sucked was him hinting at what other people are saying about me, but being vague about who and/or what. Often, it seems to contradict what they've said directly to me. I'm not sure I really want to know the truth (why you gotta tell me if i'm hated?), and yet...
2:06pm Now, a gripe about the Bay Times, which (in case you didn't know) is a queer newspaper. The headline on the April 15 edition is Gwen Araujo Trial Opens In East Bay. Looks good at a glance—until you read the article, wherein they refer to her by her birth name in the opening paragraph and treat her preferred name like a nickname. Hell, they manage to work it into the picture caption twice: [The DA] shows a picture of Eddie "Gwen" Araujo to the jury during his open statements on the opening day of the Eddie "Gwen" Araujo trial.They also belabor the point by mentioning that she was born "Edward." This is to be expected from the mainstream media, and I assure you they greatly exceed those expectations. But from a paper which claims, in a tagline right above the freakin' article itself, to represent the trans community? So fucking insulting. They might as well have called me, in that very same edition, 'Jeffrey "Sherilyn" Connelly.' Ignoring for the moment that they didn't know my birth name, why do I get the proper respect but Gwen doesn't? Yes, I've changed my name, but I was also nearly ten years older than Gwen at the time and had the means to do so. Even though she was a teenager, she still has every right to be addressed according to her chosen name and thus real gender. She may have been cut down before she had a chance to make it legal (and I'm not talking about so-called "sex-change surgery", a faulty standard at best for determining gender), but that doesn't make her clear wishes any less valid. Feh. At the risk of sounding binary, at least they got the pronouns right.
3:07pm Highs and lows. There's a compulsory company meeting today at four, and as if that weren't bad enough, it's at the Sausalito Yacht Club. It would sound positively hellish even if I was in a good mood. I don't like those kinds of places, and they don't like me. Tonight, I'm reading at The Spang Bang, part of Spanganga's final week of shows. I don't know what I'm reading yet, but I have ten minutes to fill. I need to make the most of them. I need to yell and curse and spit blood and bring the fucker down. And that'll make everything better.
3:40pm
they all figure you out sooner or later, don't they?
11:54pm Didn't do so well at Spanganga tonight. Everyone else says I did a great job, as usual, but it feels like I bombed horribly. I was a tad scattered, and also broke my own rule by announcing my motivations. (What are one's own rules for, if not to be broken?) It just fit the mood I was in. The pieces I read weren't among my strongest, either, and my delivery was somewhat flat. Maybe I shot my wad at Smack Dab, if you'll pardon the multiple levels of entendre in that statement. At least I got some good laughs during the banter, which is becoming increasingly important. Blue's Twilight Zone episode is being performed again at Spanganga tomorrow night, and I've been recruited to act in the commercial beforehand. It'll last all of thirty seconds, it's mostly me solo, and I can make whatever changes to the script I like to make it funnier. Sure, why not? I'm a slut for the spotlight, since I'm no good at being a slut for anything else. The company meeting was fairly painless. My Boss announced formally that I'm getting promoted (although He's never used that word), and even mentioned me getting married. Wasn't expecting that. I also got a chance to speak to one of the guys I'll be working with, one of the ones He said didn't really want me over there, and quite frankly, I didn't get that impression at all. The guy's description of what will be expected of me in the job are also considerably different from My Boss's. So I don't know. (A goddamn thing, really.) There was a benefit for LadyFest Bay Area at the Beauty Bar, a hip yupster dive down the street from Spanganga. Dykes a-plenty. I was there for a while towards the end of the evening, and side from hanging out with Heather Gold, the only person who showed any interest in me was a very drunk boy who was clearly bar-hopping. He insisted that I dance with him. Um, no. Figures, though. Just fucking figures. Jim and Erin told me more about the part they have in mind for me in a certain future production. Now, I'm not so sure about it.
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Further evidence that my head is getting way too big: this morning I drove by Smack Dab's venue, a health club called Magnet, and was disappointed to see my name was not on the marquee like they usually do with the features. Instead, it reads WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY?, which is entirely appropriate for an open mic. Still, though, it made me sad. I know I'm not entitled to be up there—I have no marquee value—but I was really looking forward to seeing my name in lights, y'know? My operating theory is that they didn't have enough Ls and Ns for the names ("Sherilyn Connelly" and "Roger Pinnell"). Oh well. This just means I'll have to really rock the house tonight, make them wish they could have put me up there. While hosting the wonderfully named SMEGMA series last year at a bathhouse, Smack Dab co-host Kirk Read once mentioned that performers invariably say they'll do there thing wearing just a towel, but only one ever did. I told him that if he ever booked me, I'd do it in a nightgown. He said it was a deal. SMEGMA is no longer, but I figure a series hosted by Kirk at a gay men's heath club is just as good as a series hosted by Kirk at a gay men's bathhouse, so I'm keeping my promise. I don't actually own a nightgown, and evidently I'm too lazy to go out and buy one, so I'm borrowing (e)'s from her book's promotional pictures. Hopefully I'll get some of her energy, too.
12:04pm There's a quote-reality-unquote show running on IFC about Gina Gershon's recent concert tour, which Maddy and I attended last September. We don't have cable, but we've ben told that the camera lingers on us for a few seconds during an audience shot. So, my brother Jim Tivoed the show from Digital Cable with his Replay (yes, he says he Tivoed using Replay, which I guess is like googling using MSN); found Maddy and I, freeze-framed us, and used his wife Roxanne's cell phone to take digital pictures of us from their HDTV screen; uploaded the digital images to the Sprint Website using Rox's cellphone; emailed links to the digital images to himself from the Sprint Website; and finally forwarded those links to me. He loved every technogeeky moment of it, I assure you. I just like the retextured, Brakhagian quality of the pictures themselves (a result of how they were taken, not how they got to me), as well as the blue glow and the peaceful look on Maddy's face in the first one. It's probably just as well that you can't really see my face in any of them. (Did I know the camera was on us when I kissed the top of Maddy's head? I'm not telling.)
sometime after midnight I did, in fact, rock the house.
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