this lightning storm
this tidal wave
this avalanche
i'm not afraid
c'mon c'mon
no one can see me cry

As I was listening to the last two performers, Beth Lisick and Carol Queen, I was struck by a severe crisis of confidence: I have nothing to bring to the table. Not a damn thing. I am, especially compared to this group of people, banal. Vanilla. Mundane. As boring as an evening of network sitcoms (if a little more intellectually engaging—hey, I do give myself some credit). I've never been abused, raped, addicted to drugs, prostituted or promiscuous.

Believe me, this is not regret, nor do I mean to sound flip or to trivialize those who have experienced any of the above, and I'm a firm believer in being careful about what you wish for. After all, the statistical probability of me getting raped is increasing—and if they don't like what they find, I may not live to talk about it at all.

As trannies go, I'm a dime-a-dozen, especially compared to Charles or Rocco. Many trannies of my ilk have a history of severe depression and self-destructive behavior brought on by the emotional stress; but not me. Yeah, it sucked coming to terms with all this and working up my courage to the point where I could do something about it, but there was nothing particularly dramatic about it, either, beyond the stress it put on my already stressful relationship with The Ex. Not even any good stories about suicide attempts, and our suicide rates are astronomical. It just never crossed my mind.

All of which may explain why when Lynn wondered aloud after the show who was going to be reading at K'vetch next month, I kept mum. It's an open mike, of course, so she was asking more out of curiosity than anything else, but I still didn't say a word. I think the only person I've mentioned it to who might be there is (e). (And, of course, anyone who reads this page, so...well, I mentioned it to (e).) I guess I'm so worried that I'm going to be somewhere between unremarkable and mediocre that I want as few people looking forward to it as possible.

(There's a voice in the back of my head which keeps saying, "If you do it at all." Go away.)

When the relatively few people I knew left, I followed suit. I retrieved the car from the garage—maximum of $5 a day, can't beat that with a stick—and went to Sacrifice to see if Chupa was working. She was, and she was ecstatic when I gave her the kittypr0n tape she'd asked for. So I guess it's not like I don't have anything to offer.

4:11pm

And the trickle continues: today arrived, from Maddy, Negativland's book Fair Use: The Story of the Letter U and the Numeral 2. She ordered it 4th Class Media Mail from the group itself, and yet the stuff from the allegedly more profession Amazon still hasn't arrived. Score one for the D.I.Y. guys.

Speaking of such things, tonight we're going to see Straightsploitation, locally produced and part of the Festival. Michelle and Rocco were going to be joining us, and though they haven't officially cancelled, I'm not holding my breath, given Michelle's illness. The poor thing, she's having some seriously bad luck these days.

So it turns out that Sacrifice isn't the first public display of kittypr0n after all:

I was in LA for a dj performance by Venetian Snares (huge demented cat lover). The girl who does the video projection is from SF and was showing a copy early in the evening. I didn't get to watch the whole thing but liked what i saw.

It's good to know we're connecting with other huge demented cat lovers. Now I need track down that video person...

My mood improved when I saw that we'd made it into Annalee Newitz's Techsploitation column in the Guardian:

...but not as much as I like to see kittypr0n (kittypr0n.livejournal.com), a new public access television show in the San Francisco Bay Area. Basically, it's just what you think it is: a bunch of cute kitties rolling around and playing with boxes and stuff. Sometimes the two amazingly talented women who produce the show will screen it at bars, and all the patrons are utterly riveted. Leather dykes with tattoos will start screaming at the screen, as if kitties are more fun to cheer than hockey.

Chupa, the bartender at Sacrifice (where Freeloader was held) has asked for a copy to keep at the bar. Rocco was also telling us on Sunday that he got stoned and watched it. Leather dykes and stoned trannies: by god, we've found our audience.

Admittedly, if the net result of the exposure we've been getting lately is the possibility of viewership in the double-digit range for July (which would be a first), I may need to shuffle around the schedule a bit. For as fond as I am of it, the all-sleep episode currently slated to air might not be the best introduction to the show, especially for those expecting cavorting and boxes. (I have no idea why, but the clips involving boxes, and Mina in the bathtub, get the most comments.) It's a little too...esoteric. "Self-indulgent" also applies. Neither of which are necessarily bad things, but timing is important too.

3:31pm

We've been home the last couple nights, mostly occupying our time with the Tron DVD; at first Maddy agreed to watch it only because I was so excited about getting it—so sue me for wanting to revisit the parts of my childhood that didn't suck—but after having watched the movie she was actually interested in the extras. Sometimes I think she has the potential to be an even bigger geek than myself. Anyway, as if to make up for our brief stint of homebodiness we're going to see Group. It's part of the San Francisco International Lesbian & Gay Film Festival, and the Festival we've seen which doesn't star Courtney Love (cf. Julie Johnson and Beat). We're branching out, y'see.

After that, Maddy may or may not be accompanying me out to the El Rio for the spoken word thing du jour. She stayed home from work today because of a Janeway headache, and will only be joining me for the movie out of a monumental act of will, and because she really wants to see it. The El Rio thing is nothing she hasn't seen before, and there'll be more where it came from. I'm definitely going because I parked at the garage at 21st and Valencia this morning and took BART to work so getting home from the show would be easier, ergo I might as well. Besides, momentum. Use it or lose it.

5:10pm

For a temp who's gone at the end of the month, probably never to return, I sure get territorial. No, not another Marketing person within earshot!

11:43pm

I was right. It was a Godspeed shirt.

Going out to eat hadn't even crossed my mind until Maddy suggested it. We did have plans for the evening, The End of the World and Deep Dickollective at Kimo's, but I'd just assumed I'm make my usual brown rice and we'd go straight out to the show. But it seemed like a good idea, since one is supposed to celebrate and all. The sushi place in Pacifica (my default idea) is closed on Sundays, and most of the relatively nearby places like Olive Garden or Chevy's were bound to be packed with Father's Day crowds. Besides, we were going to be dressed for the show, and since Maddy was going in schoolgirl mode and I was probably going to look like I was headed for the Prom, the stare factor was a consideration—ergo, Fresh Choice was very much out of the question. When I finally thought of Herbivore, it seemed glaringly obvious. It's freak-friendly enough.

After Herbivore we headed to Kimo's, getting there shortly after the doors were supposed to open. We were, of course, the only ones there—it seems I haven't quite worked out that when it comes to music in bars, "doors at 8:30, show at 9:30" usually translates to "people will begin trickling in about a quarter past nine and the show will probably start sometime after ten."

Much to my surprise, Michelle and Rocco remembered that it was my birthday. Maddy had recently mentioned it to Michelle, but still, I figured they'd have other things on their mind. I got my first present from them: candy, probably from their own cupboard. (Rocco has a major sugar habit, as evidenced by both an elaborate tattoo on his arm and The End of the World's "Candyass," which was featured in the dyke porno Sugar High, Glitter City. The movie was subsequently nominated for the AVN Best Soundtrack award. Coincidence?) I'm not so big on sugar myself, but was extremely touched all the same. And I'm hanging on to them, since the wrappers are so cool. "Superstick Bubble Gum—Equivalent to 11 Sticks!"

It wasn't a completely uneven exchange, though: we brought them a slice of vegan chocolate cake from Herbivore. Since it was my birthday, and all.

Michelle also invited us to join her at her table, as (e) had the day before at Writers With Drinks. That's always a nice feeling, since Maddy and I still tend to view ourselves as tremendous dorks. I'm not sure that's going to change, though I think we do a pretty good job of hiding it. Except for when we admit it, that is.

The opening acts were just okay; the first sounded like early Hole (and was fronted by Michelle and Rocco's roommate), and the second, Fast Forward, was fascinating for blowing out the fuses with their blinding stage lights after two minutes, and then ending their minimalistic set five minutes after the lights came back on. Gotta respect that.

Deep Dickollective and The End of the World were great, even if they had to contend with the obligatory Drunk Obnoxious Guy. There's always one, which I guess is what happens when you play in a bar, even upstairs at a bar with a $5 cover charge. On a couple occasions he even stumbled onto the stage, and I was surprised that he didn't hurl. I could help but cheer when Rocco finally told him to shut up.

It was almost 1am when we got home, but we were too wound up to go straight to bed. Besides, we hadn't only bought cake for Michelle and Rocco.

It was one of the better weekends in recent memory.

7:25pm

For no good reason (except for sudden feelings of inadequacy after this weekend), I weighed myself. I'm hovering around 170, which isn't as bad as I was expecting—I'd thought for sure I was around 180. 160 would be better, but hey.

Typically, I was awake by 8 on Saturday. (As was (e), it turns out. I knew there had to be someone else with such wonky sleeping habits.) To our mutual surprise, Maddy was up by 10, allowing us to go the 2pm showing of Jean-Pierre Jeunet's Amelie at The Red Vic. I liked it a lot, which I think allows me to come out of hiding and announce that his film The City of Lost Children left me cold. There, I said it. I feel better now. (Dax recently got unfairly flamed for saying that she didn't like City; one of the first people to tear into her was The Leader. I can't say I was surprised.) (Yeah, I know, he's really a sweet guy under that dickweed exterior.)

From there it was to Cafe Du Nord in the Castro, where (e), Lynn and others were reading at Writers With Drinks, yet another spoken word show. It was hosted by Charles Anders. I'd actually first met Charles at Smoke and Mirrors last month—the tranny who'd been gushing about how I looked—and she'd also been at Freeloader, where she asked if there was going to be laser pointers on kittypr0n. (The answer is that given the limitations of our camera and the lighting requirements, laser pointers simply don't show up. Mina seems to enjoy chasing the flashlight just as well, thankfully, and it shows up a lot better.) It wasn't until later that we realized she wrote The Lazy Crossdresser, a book I've heard good things about but haven't bought 'cuz, well, it doesn't quite apply to me. Although now I suppose I'm gonna have to get it, because Charles has a great sense of humor and it's bound to be a good read.

Lynn read from Godspeed, and in exchange for the kittypr0n tape we brought her gave us a one of her t-shirts. Not off her back, mind you, but a promo for either the book or her band Tribe 8.

I'm not sure which it is, because it's still in Lynn's car. What happened was, at Charles' suggestion, a couple dozen people who were at the show descended upon Baghdad Cafe down the street. By the time Maddy and I got there the main table was pretty well packed, so we wound up sitting on the other side of the restaurant with Lynn and her date for the evening, Rocco's fraternal twin sister Anastasia (who DJ'd along with Rocco last week af Freeloader). Which was fine by us, since it was nice to get a chance to actually talk to the both of them in a less manic situation than a club or a show. Not to mention it's a hell of a lot easier to split up a check between four people than twenty.

Next on Charles' (and therefore our) agenda was the onomatopoetic Pow!, a Roy Lichtenstein-cum-anime bar at the charming corner of Sixth and Mission. Of course, we didn't have to go, and in fact Maddy really didn't want to—she'd been up for going to the movie, and wasn't going to miss hearing Lynn and (e) at Writers With Drinks, but after dinner she was ready for little else than going home and crashing. But I wanted to, so she indulged me. Above and beyond.

So we rode in Lynn's car to Pow!, which was far preferable to taking the train and walking. (Isn't it always?) (Actually, no. It depends.) And there the shirt remains. But we'll get it back.

Pow! was cramped, crowded and loud, like most every other bar in the city on a Saturday night, but the cartoony decor was pretty neat. I was also informed that the restroom, with its walls covered in collages from comic books, had the reputation of being the best in the city for having sex. Even if Maddy had been feeling better, I don't think we would have put it to the test. It would have been a great place for acid, if you don't mind A) the utter assault of color and motion it would present, and B) the fact that you're in a bathroom at Sixth and Mission on acid. I'd be fine with the first one, but the second is exactly the sort of thing I try to avoid.

The walls actually reminded me of the magazine collages in Orky's apartment. Speaking of whom, I ran into two of his friends; one of them, Shrike, I see fairly regularly at goth clubs. (Well, I see her regularly when I go to goth clubs regularly, so I don't see her that often. You know what I mean.) And Shauna Rogan we'd met at K'vetch, where she told us that she used to see us on the train. It was through Shrike that she discovered we both know Orky. Again with the converging circles.

There was also someone I recognized whom I didn't talk to, mainly because he didn't recognize me. We used to work at Le Video together, and I hadn't seem him in at least four years. He was one of the two other Star Trek fans at the store, so we bonded. (It almost goes without saying that neither of them liked Voyager. Get three random Trek fans together, and I guarantee you no more than one will like it.) He even used to wear a Bajoran earpiece, and somehow, on him, it worked. Didn't look geeky at all. I kid you not. They aren't like pointy ears.

He wasn't wearing it now, though otherwise he looked the same. I, evidently, do not, although bar lighting always helps. (For the record, the worst lighting in the city is in the restrooms at the Access SF. I got made up there before the LGBT Center opening, and I could see every blemish, imperfection and threatening follicle on my face. Basically, I could see myself too well, and that's not always a good thing when you're getting made up. Nothing blended, it just sat on the skin.) We even made eye contact, an "Excuse me" as one of us squeezed by the other, and there no flash of recognition. I thought going up and talking to him, seeing how long it took him to figure out who I was, but decided against it. There wouldn't have been much point, and he didn't seem to be at any loss for company.

There seemed to be at least three DJs. One of them sucked. Guess who was on the most.

Maddy's energy levels got dangerously close to zero around a quarter to twelve, so we decided to call it an evening. It was early enough to catch a train, so there was no temptation to cab it back home.

Maddy slept until noon on Sunday. I awoke considerably earlier.