My Face for the World to See (Part II): The Diary of Sherilyn Connelly a fiction June 21 - 30, 2002

Sunday, 30 June 2002 (going through the motions) 7:02am It's a truism that there's a crisis right before a wedding. So, in order to keep things as traditional as possible, either Mina or Oscar were kind enough to hide my glasses before we had to leave. I'd dumbly left them on the counter, allowing them to be knocked off and camoflauged amongst the water bottles. We were already running kinda late to begin with, and by the time we found them we had twenty minutes to get downtown—meaning our original plan of taking the train was simply no longer an option. So we drove, and somehow managed to find parking within walking distance of the ceremony at the Main Stage in front of City Hall, only arriving a little late. Between noon and one it was mostly just paperwork, as the Domestic Partner forms were notarized for free. We still have to pay $10 to register with the state, but at least all that's left to do. Then the two hundred-odd couples were herded onto and in front of the stage—we were in front of the stage, making us even harder to miss as the only goth couple—for the ceremony itself. Assemblywoman Carole Midgen gave what I'm guessing is a typically fiery speech, and Supervisor Mark Leno and Board of Supervisors President Tom Ammiano both spoke and led the group in vows. All three of them were also greeting the couples as we went into place, and although it probably wasn't the most appropriate time I shook Ammiano's hand and told him that I voted for him for mayor and would again. He thanked me and told me I looked gorgeous. Oh, those opportunistic politicians. If there's a crisis beforehand, there has to be a glitch in the actual ceremony itself as well. In our case, it was not realizing that both Leno and Ammiano were going to be reading the same vows, and that we weren't supposed to both say them at the same time. Whoops. Well, at least we weren't the only ones doing it. At no point was the word "god" used. That was a good thing. We'd originally planned to go straight from the ceremony to Pam and Liz's Pink Saturday party. For as frustrating as leaving late had been, I'm glad we drove, since it required us to drive back home (no way was I going to try to actually find parking in or around the Castro, nor was I going to leave the car until some unknown hour in the project-y area where we parked), giving us a chance to change clothes. I'd been wearing my long black velvet dress, which is more than sufficiently formal for a commitment ceremony (or a wedding, as I'd worn it to Jonco's last yeat), but a bit much for the Dyke March and everything surrounding it. I suspect I would have wished I didn't have to wear it for the rest of the day. I switched into a short pleated skirt and black blouse with stripeys on my arms and legs, and Maddy into jeans with fishnet shirt over a black sports bra. It felt much more comfortable, and more appropriate for the amount of hiking I'd suspected we'd have to do. And it ended up being more than I'd anticipated. So we took the train to Church and Market and walked to Pam and Liz's place at 18th and Church. We knew which corner it was on, but had neglected to get the exact address. It took us a while to find the right door, though the "Pussy Power" sign (among others) should have been an early clue. I have no idea where Maggie was. I'm sure she was taking part in festivities somewhere, perhaps even across the street amongst the thousands of people in Dolores Park. For her sake I hope she was at a similar party, if only because it represented an ideal she'd always aspired to, one which for her represented an end-all and be-all of existence: dykes in various levels of (un)dress giggling and going on like they were at a slumber party while dancing in the living room and posing for the professional camera equipment set up in the bedroom, as well as Pam and Liz's video camera. (They're budding videographers. Or maybe they've already budded.) It was quite wonderful, don't get me wrong, especially since nobody seemed to object to the fact that the estrogen in my body isn't produced naturally. Some gay boys showed up and were equally welcomed. That legendary dyke exclusiveness was not evident, but of course gay boys and trannies are one thing; straight men would have been quite another. (When we were in line earlier in the day waiting to be taken on stage for the actual ceremony, a drag queen walked up to the fence separating us from the crowd and started waving in our direction. I pointed them out to Maddy, who went to the fence and was handed a flyer. They walked away, not trying to flyer anyone else in line. Great. I got read by a drag queen at twenty feet. Just what I needed.) We were asked if we'd like to have some pictures taken. Maddy was a little reluctant, but I was interested, and she agreed. In keeping with the spirit of things, we removed our tops, Maddy down to the sports bra and me to the stripey top which was just a regular pair of stripeys with the crotch cut out, and of course the toes cut out for sleeves. (Which I have to do anyway to wear them normally, since they don't come in my height.) It was as much nudity as they were getting out of us, and by our standards it was a great deal. Besides, I've been lazy lately and haven't been shaving my torso as much I should, just only the parts that show. I don't think there was any doubt in anyone's mind that I was a tranny, but hairy breasts would have settled the issue a little too decisively. As were getting ready, the photographer asked me when my last shoot had been. I thought for a moment, appeared to do the math in my head, then replied that I'd never done it before. (Ha! Get it? You see, I made it look like I was simply trying to the last time, when in fact it was my first time! How's that for clever and original?) She said she was surprised to hear that, considering how hot I was. I accepted the compliment gracefully, I think. The pictures were taken with me on my knees, compensating for the dramatic height difference, embracing Maddy. I don't know if we'll ever see the finished product or not, but we did get a Polaroid, which I guess qualifies as our wedding portait. It seems appropriate. I kept my blouse off until we left the party. I'd been wanting to wear the stripey top for a while—I confess, I have a weakness for bare midriffs, and the desire to do it myself is a strong motivator to do crunches in the morning—and frankly, I think it looked good. I wasn't even self-conscious about my stomach. All things considered, it's relatively flat, at least in the front. It's the vestigial love handles that bother me. The apartment was on the second floor at a busy corner, complete with a fire escape, so I spent a fair amount of time standing outside the window watching all the activity. It felt good, and natural, to be so in the middle of things. It was very much where I belonged. But you can't stay where you belong forever, and (e) had also invited us to a party, so around five we said our goodbyes and headed to (e)'s place two blocks away. We'd never been but I'm pretty sure I had the address right (and it was definitely the corner where I'd dropped her off after House of Voodoo), but there was no answer. We tried a few more times, then gave up. Hrm. Okay. On to Plan C: meeting up with Shrike outside of Embeth's place at half past six. I'd never been there before, (having only met Embeth the previous Sunday at Audible Irregularities I) and didn't know the exact address, only how many doors away it was from a particular corner. A corner which was across from a landmark in the Park and within two blocks of both Pam's and (e)'s places. Apparently Dolores Park is a very happenin' area. Nobody was there. Of course, it was a little early, so we went into the park to see if we recognized anyone. Of course, there were thousands of people and at the most we'd know a couple dozen. So we didn't. Realizing that our restroom options were about to become very limited, we went back to Pam and Liz's to use theirs. The party had pretty much broken up. Pam and Liz were among the few people left, and they were about to be heading out themselves, video camera in hand to continue working on their dyke porn documentary. (Yep, they've definitely budded.) Liz invited us to come along with them, and in what would turn out to be a major tactical error I said no, figuring we'd still be meeting up with Shrike. I did ask if she had any idea where they'd be, so if things didn't work out we could hook up later. I almost felt guilty turning her down, because Liz has this wonderful sense of earnestness in her eyes. When she asks you something, she seems like she really really means it. By half past six we were back at what I figured to be the front of Embeth's place. Nope, nobody. Urk. We went back and forth across the street, thinking that maybe they'd ended up in the park, but wanting to check back and the original place. Feeling very anxious (which I've been feeling way too much lately), we went up to where Liz said they'd be, as near as I could figure. Uh-uh. We were wandering around like rain dogs, trying to find the trail back home after a harsh storm, one which I should have known better than to brave in the first place. And then we got lucky. sometime after midnight Tonight at Freeloader, Michelle and Rocco gave us a wedding cake—a piece of Herbivore's vegan chocolate cake, to be precise. We have the coolest friends. I hope to have the Pink Saturday story finished tomorrow. Breathtaking cliffhanger, no? Last | Top | Next

Saturday, 29 June 2002 (aqua regis) 8:28am Pink Saturday, don't'chaknow. sometime after midnight Yes. Last | Top | Next

Friday, 28 June 2002 (the order of things) 6:15am Oh, yeah, one more thing also in the "already knew" column: if you buy earplugs to protect what's left of your hearing after an overamplified youth so your eardrums don't go all Pete Townshend on you, bring them. Not doing so severely limits their effectiveness. 8:32am On Madeline's last day with the company, more layoffs were announced. The ship continues to sink. And yet, I hope I come back. Because I'm like that. 12:39pm So we're at the foot of The Bottom of the Hill's stage before Tribe 8's set when Lynn, who's been running around like the slightly crazy (but in a good way) person he is, comes up to us and asks what she's been asking everyone else: do we have a stuffed animal? I suspect he figures to strike paydirt with us, what with us having the cat show and all, we're likely candidates to have out in the car. She even described us as "obsessed" at one point, which makes me laugh coming from someone whose first published poem (in the third grade) was called "Kitty." For that matter, when we were walking down Market with him a few weeks ago, Maddy spotted a cat in the window of a closed store. Lynn kept walking, but when Maddy called after her about the cat, he came running back with a huge grin on her face and starts tapping on the window to get the cat's attention. I suspect that in this context, "obsessed" means "kindred spirit." Problem is, we don't. Lynn is looking specifically for a stuffed gerbil, but really, any stuffed animal will do. To stab. I think carefully, trying to remember any time in recent memory that a stuffed animal might have found its way into the car. Just wasn't happening. I look around for anything remotely furry, pointing out a bust of Elsa Lanchester from The Bride of Frankenstein inexplicably up in the rafters. She glances up at it and says he's thought about it, but will simply have to improvise. And improvise she does, bringing onstage a girl from the audience—Liz, the butch girlfriend of Pam, an (ex-)coworker of Maddy's who is also at the show. Throughout the song ("Gerbil") Lynn playfully menaces Liz with the knife. (Whether this is before or after Lynn took off his shirt (no bra! what a shock!) and pulled the dildo out her pants, I don't recall.) Natasha plays along expertly, and I find myself hoping Lynn will need to bring a femme onstage for some reason, but figure that even if he does she'd want someone who isn't taller than himself, though she isn't exactly petite. I do get a few lines thrown in my direction during "Estrofemme," even though I can't tell you what they are. After that, Maddy smokes a little grass with Natasha and Pam in the patio area—I'm driving, so I don't partake—and we head home, with one question on my mind: why does other peoples' pot always smell so different? Ever notice that? 4:12pm I'll be out of here in about an hour. I don't really know when I'll be back, but I'm guessing "Never." Granted, I'm told that they'll be wanting me back for a few days a month for the next few months, an extended period of time in September, but that all depends on those people still being here after this round of layoffs. I'm not holding my breath, and I suspect they aren't either. I'm keeping the Throbbing Gristle on the hard drive, though. Just in case. 10:56pm A word or two about pronouns. Since they're kinda important to me, I believe in respecting the preferences of others. Lynn, being interviewed by Michelle in the Lit section of the June 26 - July 2 issue of the Guardian: I don't refer to myself in the third person, but if I did, I would refer to myself in both pronouns, he and she, 'cause I'm both, I'm neither. Charles, in response to a question from me: Yeah, I prefer "she" and "her." Right now, it's an uphill battle to get people to call me "Charles" but use "she". I need to start being more of a hard-ass about that, actually. :) So there you go. Last | Top | Next

Thursday, 27 June 2002 (around the world) 8:56am Maddy's in a meeting right now to determine whether or not she'll be going on the aforemntioned leave of absence (the one where she won't be coming back), get laid off, or be allowed to stay provided she doesn't miss a single day of work for any reason whatsoever for the rest of the year. If she gets hit by a falling safe while walking down the street, she'd damn well better come into work the next day, and a measly doctor's note will not do. 9:29am The leave it is. Today is her last day, and although she'd been told that the she'd get paid in full for the first nine weeks of the leave, she's now been informed that she won't be because she's been working half days. This sort of thing is exactly why labor laws were created in the first place, but it still doesn't stop companies from screwing employees. Indeed, I think it can make them more creative. In any event, it's the way things are now. 11:08am I had my first solo editing session last night. Maddy had a chiropractor's appointment, and I'd been planning on tweaking existing episodes—sound levels and credits, mostly. Unfortunately, the floppy which contained the credits for all the episodes died sometime during the day. I'd checked in the morning before we left for work and it was fine, but by the time I got to the studio it was dead. I can only assume someone on the Muni had an electromagnet in their bag. There was still plenty of sound work to do, and I didn't get it all done because of misbehaving equipment. At least I can console myself with the fact even for shows and movies with actual budgets entire crews, nothing goes right. It's same across the board. And, as I knew I would, I chickened out and changed July's episode to something a little more palatable than an unbroken shot of the cats sleeping. That can wait until after the half-dozen people who actually watch next week decide they want to watch again. I think it's symptomatic of how needy I've been feeling lately. I'm just amazed that people seem to be liking such a low-rent, conceptually banal show at all, I don't want to push it. Not yet. I don't want them to stop (or never start) liking it, and, by extension, me. (I admit, I have some issues right now.) It's a very small group of people, especially compared to the attempted scope of a lot of other public access shows which are out to change the world, but that's okay too. (I'm all about niches, and goths and dykes are two of my favorites.) I don't want to disappoint anyone, have their already low expectations not be met, to be told that the least we could have done was show cats playing like they'd heard about. Yeah, it's our show and (according to federal law, even) we're beholden to nobody, but there's something really nice about knowing that it's being enjoyed, if only by a demographically invisible few, and I guess I'm not quite ready to jeopardize that... 4:00pm So. We'd been planning on having a commitment ceremony in Las Vegas on Halloween. However, given the change in our financial situation, we're seriously reconsidering it. We'd already been planning on taking part in the Pride Weekend Domestic Partner Commitment Ceremony on Saturday, since we'd been wanting to register with the state and this way it'd be free with comparatively little hassle; now we're thinking in terms of just calling that our wedding. Plenty of others will be, and it would certainly solve a lot of problems. 5:36pm Ugh. There was a game at that damn ballpark today, meaning the train is going to be backed up. Fuck baseball. For that matter, fuck football. Fuck organized sports, and the cretins who make it a zillion-dollar industry and have been conned into believing it actually matters, so much. (To any sensitive sports fans: don't worry, I'm not talking about you or your team. That's different.) sometime after midnight Okay. Two things learned, one of which I already knew. Bands never start on time. Always bring a stuffed animal (preferably a gerbil) to a Tribe 8 show. Check. Last | Top | Next

Wednesday, 26 June 2002 (paranoid inlay) 5:35am I'm probably only a few misfiring neurons away from being anorexic. 11:15pm So long as burritos from Azteca at Market and Church exist, I'll always get enough to eat. Besides. Maddy says she won't let me be anorexic, so that's that. Last | Top | Next

Tuesday, 25 June 2002 (into my vein) 8:35am i am waiting here for more i am waiting by your door i am waiting on your back steps i am waiting in my car i am waiting at this bar i am waiting for your essence The shame of it is, this month had been going so well. Excerpted from pages of stream-of-consciousness scrawled into my notebook early on at the show on Sunday, hoping to find some inspiration in the sound and noise: ...I think I'll look back on June '02, the summer of the my twenty-ninth birthday, as a watershed, a turning point, or at least a hell of a good ride. It's that last which scares me: it'll end, I'll come down. That even the memories will lose their luster. And that it will all end because *I* will screw it up. I'll lose sight of something important, or forsake it, or simply play the fool, something I do with such panache people think it's on purpose. It's not quite over, though. Tribe 8 is playing on Thursday and Lynn's reading at Michelle's store on Friday, we'll be hanging out with (e) and others on (Pink) Saturday, and I'm led to believe that Freeloader is on Sunday night. Up until the bitter end. Next week, of course, Maddy and I will in all likelihood be unemployed. But that's just some other time. 10:14am I'm shivering right now, wracked with them, punctuated by the occasional chattering of the teeth. It's not cold in here, so if I put my jacket on it wouldn't matter; it's purely internal, because in the last two hours I've drank four and a half liters of water. (Or maybe six; the bottle holds a liter and a half, and after the third refill I tend to lose track.) I don't know if my body's reacting to the volume or the temperature—the futuristic cooler in the office kitchen tells me the water's 46°F, which isn't especially cold—but I enjoy it. It's like a short, relatively harmless drug reaction, not entirely unpleasant, making me a feel a little different than I feel otherwise, distracts me from all the things swirling around in my head, and it gives me an incentive to hyrdate my body, which is always a good thing. (And, yes, I'm aware it's possible to drink too much water. I don't think I'm quite at that level.) I also have Lucinda William's song "Essence" on repeat, which for some reason is the perfect accompaniment. I guess it's just a good song for shaking and shivering involuntarily. I doubt I'll be able to continue doing it next week at home; there's just something about sitting at this desk which inspires massive water consumption. On the other hand, unlike my last bout of unemployment, I'll be working out again. There's too much on my bones. Must reduce. 4:19pm You know that feeling of waiting for the phone to ring, yet you have no idea if it actually will? Unsettled and anxious? 9:09pm I don't think I'll be smoking grass anytime soon, at least not at home. My mind just isn't in the right place. (If I'm out someplace where I can be distracted and not have to think about myself, that's different.) Sleep may be difficult enough. Last | Top | Next

Monday, 24 June 2002 (a window of possible organic development) 9:11am gracedesirebalancecautionweightpaintemperance 3:04pm Maddy was just given something euphemistically referred to as a "choice:" either leave now with two weeks of severance, or go on an extended leave of absence after which her job will not be waiting for her. Her ex-husband. My foot. His nads. Ad infinitum. 4:54pm The life cycle of one kittypr0n flyer: A couple sets into Audible Irregularities I it occurs to me that Maddy had asked me to bring flyers along for a reason, so I went to the girl at the door and asked her if I could leave a few amongst the others on her table. She was fine with it, and as I was walking back to my chair (to be abandoned when Ilene showed up a little later), I see her pick one up, look at it, then hand it to someone else. A few hours later I'm outside with Ilene and some others—one of the nice things about this sort of show is that since it's usually just a guy noodling with racks of equipment on stage it doesn't require rapt visual attention, and given some of the high frequencies it sometimes sounds just as good through the wall—including a girl Ilene had just introduced me to named Embeth. She pulls the flyer out of her purse and asks if it's me. Considering she's showing me a picture of Oscar, the temptation to make the obvious joke is strong, but I behave myself and say that yes, it's me. She replies that she'd thought so, since the girl at the door had said it was from "the pretty one." My willpower disintegrates and I reply that, yes, Oscar is rather pretty. I can't help it. The defense mechanisms are strong, even when I have nothing to defend myself against. Anyway, she says that she's interested and lives in the city, but doesn't get cable. Nothing new under this particular sun. We talk now and again throughout the evening, usually outside as part of a group. I spend most the evening hanging out with Ilene, sharing our brown-bagged dinners and going to the two chairs at the very front of the stage (otherwise, there was a gap of about fifteen feet between the stage and the seated audience) when we are informed that one of the only groups with a vocalist, Cthonic Forces, is "offensive." And they are, in a low-rent, hackneyed, wholly unoriginal but nonetheless entertaining way. It's hard not to laugh when the singer occasionally leans down at us, screaming "My face is the last thing you'll ever see!" At one point I get the giggles from something else entirely, which doesn't help. If I find anything remotely offensive it was the fact that the female guitarist was dressed in full-on fetish gear, and the male singer is as casual as can be. I very much appreciate how she looked on an aesthetic level (made me feel fat, which goes without saying), but jeez, the least the guy could do was put a little effort into it. No equity at all. It's made up for by the best part of their set, her singing solo. Absolutely beautiful. The show finishes at about a quarter past eleven. (It started around five. Not bad for ten bucks, although the length of the show was one of the reasons Maddy didn't join me.) I'm about to leave when Embeth comes up to me, hands me a folded piece of paper and tells me to read it later. Okay. I put it in my pocket. So I go out to the car, which is thankfully unmolested in spite of a rather high rate of break-ins in the area—the Chevil Ate is in a sparsely populated industrial zone, but Ilene tells me that sparse population is none too happy about their presence and occasionally takes it out on cars. I was doubly expecting to lose a window or two for purely karmic reasons, since I'd kinda stolen someone's spot. The less said about that, the better. The paper turns out to be the kittypr0n flyer, and on the back she's written: Too shy to say this—you are one of the most beautiful people I've ever seen—forgive the stares—I was trying to memorize what you look like...inspirational beauty—Thank you! For not being afraid to be you...Embeth Wow. Okay. If there's been any staring I certainly haven't noticed, and I'm usually attuned to this sort of thing, though not quite as much since I began to pass. (When was that, anyway? Logically, there must have been a moment at which I went from passing 50% of the time to 51%, i.e. the majority of the time. I surely wouldn't have been aware of it, and considering how I was getting odd looks in the men's room towards the end of my time last year, it may have been sooner than I realized.) And, surely, if she was paying that much attention to my face she's noticed the pitted look around my mouth from the electro—I wonder again if I didn't do enough to help my face heal properly—and perhaps the aggressive dark hairs on my upper lip depending on the light, so maybe if she squinted and used her imagination then the word "beautiful" might apply, but certainly not prefaced by "most" or "inspirationally," so there must be something else at work, even though it's a non-alcoholic event she's probably been drinking, she mentioned a fascination with the Bond films, maybe there's been a little shaken-not-stirred action going on behind the scenes, or maybe a disgruntled McDonald's employee spiked the McFlurry she'd been struggling with earlier— And then I take a deep breath and consider the possibility that maybe it's a sincere compliment, that it's not unduly influenced, that maybe maybe maybe I should just take it at face value. Well, okay, allow for the slightest degree of hyperbole, but not enough to truly change the sentiment. I've been hearing enough similar sentiments to lead me to believe that they aren't all just playing a game of Coddle the Tranny. Maybe I am a little bit on the beautiful side, and not even just by tranny standards. After all, it's written on the back of a kittypr0n flyer, so it must be The Truth. When you seem to have acheived what you'd thought for sure to be impossible, but all you have is abstract and secondhand evidence, it can be a little difficult to believe. Especially when you know the danger of believing your own press... 9:36pm It's very quiet. Last | Top | Next

Sunday, 23 June 2002 (bloodclot) 6:39am Once again I awake with words in my head, and once again they're someone else's. I hate that. (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands -e.e. cummings, somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond 8:49am There's a new exhibit at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art (aka SFMOMA, pronounced just like it looks) which I'm very curious about called YES YOKO ONO. It is, as the title implies, the work of Yoko Ono, a concept which I'm sure scares off a lot of people. I'm fascinated, though, because I've always liked her music (no, really), and one of the works on display is Ceiling Painting, which most ignorant Beatles fans would tell you us the root of their breakup. She's always gotten a bum rap about that, and it shows how sexist and xenophobic the rock world can be. I'm glad Joss Whedon did his part to battle that bit of disinformation on an episode of Buffy The Vampire Slayer, via Spike: "When they broke up, everyone blamed Yoko, but the fact is, the group split itself up, she just happened to be there." Damn straight. sometime after midnight I wish I'd known that the Chevil Ate Theatre—where Audible Irregularities I, the dark ambient music show I went to tonight, was held—had a resident cat so I could have brought the video camera along. It was like kittypr0n alive. Last | Top | Next

Saturday, 22 June 2002 (either open or unsound) 6:02pm We (finally?) saw The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring today, at The Red Vic. If it hadn't shown up there, we probably would have waited to rent the DVD. I enjoyed it, though I kind of wish it wasn't a rerelease print with a Two Towers preview tacked on at the end, thus robbing Maddy and I of the opportunity to look at one another and say "Huh? Is there going to be a Lord of the Rings 2?" Because, you see, clueless moviegoers were heard to be saying that as they were exiting the theater during its original run. Irony. We were lucky enough to have a group of frat boys behind us, one of whom wanted to make sure that everyone in his immediate vicinity (hey! that's us!) know that Legolas is a badass. He repeated it several times in case we didn't get the point. Remarkably, one of his companions eventually told him to shut up; he must not have been a fan of learning through rote. So (e) is reading in an artsy-fartsy benefit at Fort Mason this weekend, and she's not at all happy about it. Her presence has something of a sore thumb quality to begin with, her being the only poet and/or solo performer surrounded by mostly dance troupes. Not helping matters much was a last-minute request from the organizer that she not read off the page, but rather have something memorized. No doubt they were worried that for $40 a ticket, the audience would consider it cheating. They finally backed down, but the conflict left a bad taste in her mouth. We offered to take her out after the show on Friday to blow off some steam and be around friendly faces, i.e. people who don't think any less of her for not having memorized everything she's ever written, and she agreed. Unfortunately, by the time Friday night rolled around Maddy had to back out, still feeling loopy from what we're thinking was a little too much medication on Thursday night for her current migraine. It's a delicate balance; I know that when I used to dip heavily into the vicodin for electro, I would sometimes still be feeling it the next day. It's that whole bipolar damnation thing. (Which is to say, if'n you do or if'n you don't...) When I picked her up at 11pm in front of the building, ten minutes after her set was technically supposed to end, she was more than ready to get the hell out of there: like the final anticlimax to all the prior jerking around, she got cancelled. Seems one of the dance troupes had run overtime—hey, choreography isn't an exact science, you never can tell how long it'll last—and threw the whole schedule out of whack. I can understand these things happening with rock music and the like, but isn't this sort of highbrow stuff supposed to be a little more disciplined? Alas, it was not to be, and since someone had to go, why not the troublemaker? It's a two-night thing and she's scheduled for tonight as well, so hopefully she'll make it on tonight, and be known for the trail of dead bodies she leaves behind her when she's done. We went to House of Voodoo, a club at Jezebel's Joint. I hadn't been to a goth club since the Smoke and Mirrors/Meat night in May, and I'd never been to this one at all, probably owing to the neighborhood—I tend to let these things scare me off, but I'm getting better about it. As it happens, (e) had been at Smoke and Mirrors that night with Charles, but she hadn't really registered on me. (Oh, look, another beautiful girl who makes me feel fat and ugly. How novel.) There aren't six degrees of separation anymore. Two at the most, and sometimes it seems like half. I got a number of nods and hellos, though (e) didn't know anyone there; it kinda felt like the reverse of when we're out somewhere with Michelle, this being more my turf than hers. On occasion I was tempted to announce that Maddy and I are still together and (e) and I are just friends, but people are going to think what they're gonna think no matter what, and it's not like anybody cares about my relationship status. Dax did ask how Maddy was doing, which was nice of her. A couple people I didn't recognize came up to me, though of course they recognized me. One of them was the guy who's going to be putting kittypr0n online, and who'd told me about seeing it at at the Venetian Snares show. Nice fellow, and I'll be giving him a tape on Sunday at Audible Irregularities I. Another said he'd taken my picture at Gothnic, but didn't know my name so he'd identified me as "DJ Stripey." Considering that my I was very stripey'd at the time, I can hardly object. For as surprised as I was to discover that (e) was familiar with both Kenneth Anger and Maya Deren, I think she was moreso. Believe me, outside of film school (and even in), it's unusual. My primary mission for the evening was to cheer her up after having to deal with the indignity of the benefit (not to mention her continued grief at the recent loss of her mother, even though I'm well aware there's not a blessed thing I can do to help), and even though we didn't do much but talk, I think it worked. She says it did, anyway. Last | Top | Next

Friday, 21 June 2002 (acts of senseless beauty) 9:37am It's the first day of summer, the longest day of the year, and it's 54°F and windy outside. Yep, this is my city. 2:48pm It was plenty cold last night, too, and Michelle and Rocco did make it, even though Michelle was not entirely well. But they had the tickets, and they were gonna use 'em. She was terribly amused when I told her I'd heard at El Rio that she had bronchitis; she was sick, but not that sick. She also didn't seem to mind that word about the eviction had gotten around, since that increased the chances of them finding another place in time, presumably one with less mold so she wouldn't get sick like this so often. Indeed, they think it was a retaliatory eviction because they'd complained about mold. The circle of life. And, in spite of the cold and her illness (mostly manifesting itself in a hoarse voice and a nasty cough), she still wore her regular uniform of a short skirt and boots. I think I've seen her with her legs covered, like, twice. Frankly, I admire that dedication to her particular kind of fashion. I could never manage it, if only because I just can't handle that much direct cold, but she didn't seem to mind. I wonder if it has something to do with body types, as hers is much smaller than mine and regulates its heat differently. Or maybe she's not as much of a wimp. sometime after midnight And then there's (e), who's much closer to my height—unless she cheats and wears platforms that is. Last | Top | Next