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Saturday, 20 March 2004 (echoing the sound) 12:58pm Shauna and Meliza featured at Oral Fixation last night, and both rocked muchly. I also read in the open mic, and it went well, even if it wasn't as personally revelatory as Smack Dab. No reason it would be, really. Matthue, who was there on Wednesday, wrote this in response to my diary entry about it: sherilyn, you are becoming a positive force when you read, like a tornado or a dinosaur. i think when lynnee talks about you downplaying the trannyness, it's because you're writing about so many things at once. (and, look, you also downplay gothness, and geekiness, and drugness...well, no, i've never actually seen you write a story where you downplay drugs...huh.) for a lot of us, it's a constant worry that we're milking one trait, our kitsch or our hook. but no matter what you're writing about, you're always saying something new.I love that little guy. We're going to a Camp Trans benefit at the El Rio today, and after that, to see this weekend's Twilight Zone at Spanganga. Jim's adaptation of "Nightmare at 20,000 Feet" is one of the episodes, and to ensure we don't miss and it actually get good seats, we actually bought tickets. Paid for 'em and everything. Now that's dedication.
It just struck me that not only is Wicked Messenger 4.11 on Easter Sunday, it's also my mom's birthday. Must
be sure to give her a shout-out from the stage. In addition to a phone call, of course. Or maybe a call from
the stage...
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Friday, 19 March 2004 (everywhere but inside) 1:20pm The reworked fly0r. I've lost Derek Powazek for this month but gained Roky Roulette and Butch, and hopefully acknowledging The Sisters' event will help. (Not sure why, but it's worth a shot.) It's still probably not quite final, but good enough for now. And I finally remembered the Beatles reference I'd been meaning to use all along. The name won't change again, I swear. Meanwhile, out in the real world where people like me are considered immoral and degenerate, three xtian school board members in Southern California are challenging the state law which prohibits discrimination against trannies. The below quotes aren't quite in the same order as in the original article, but it doesn't change their meaning. "[The law is] totally anti-family," Ahrens told the paper. "It's not protecting the kids. If we include this identity-crisis language, looking down the road, we could be in some real trouble. ... If we have done this right, this will cause people to take a look at what's going on and ask why three brave women had to take a moral stand."No comment here, no comment at all.
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Thursday, 18 March 2004 (zero debt) 11:01am I was feeling antsy and alone at the reading last night, in spite of having (e) next to me and even holding her hand for a while. I just wasn't sure where I fit in the world. It was triggered by the weird doppelgängerness of Carolyn, although aside from being tall and transgendered and coincidental name, she isn't very much like me at all. It wasn't like looking in a mirror, or seeing myself from across a room. 3/17/04Still, through absolutely no fault of her own (experience has taught me that, to avoid censure, I can't possibly emphasize this enough: this is ALL IN MY HEAD, and therefore should not be interpreted as anything other than my neuroses putting on their own little passion play), I was all kinds of wigged out. I didn't really get a chance to speak to her, as I arrived shortly before the reading began (and spent much of that time scribbling in my notebook), and I bailed as soon as it was over. She's reading again this Saturday at the Camp Trans Benefit, so hopefully we'll actually talk then. At that moment, though, after the reading I needed to get to Smack Dab. I really, really needed to get to Smack Dab. Look, it just isn't the direction my mind goes, okay? It's not my sole identity. It's part of me, yes, but god, I find it soooo boring. Fine for other people, they do it well, it just doesn't move me. I'd probably never write again if that was all I had. God. Lynnee's right, I downplay it. Too much? Am I assimilationist? Binary? A traitor, counterrevolutionary?I'd been planning on going anyway in hopes of seeing Lauren feature. It started at eight and I had an editing appointment at nine, so even if I didn't see her read I figured we could at least hang out. Now, though, I wanted to read in the open mic. Oddly enough, I hadn't given it much thought before, which goes to show that I'm getting a little too sure of myself. I always need the practice, and I haven't done a non-K'vetch open mic since Fray Day last October. In any event, I was jonesing hard to get in front of a microphone and play rock star. And maybe, if I was lucky, perform an exorcism. I parked somewhat illegally in the zebra-striped part of the lot behind the venue, Magnet, and got in a few minutes before it started. Lauren wasn't there yet, and the open mic list was filled up. I assured Larry-Bob and Kirk that she would be there (she's overworked, to put it mildly, and more often than not has to stay late), and asked if they could maybe possibly squeeze me onto the open mic list. It would have been completely understandable of them to say no, and I wouldn't have argued; I've had to turn people away myself. Fair's fair. Instead, they put me in the second slot (right after Matthue) as though I actually mattered. Kirk even plugged Wicked Messenger 4.11 when introducing me. They didn't mention anything about the fact that I'm supposed to feature at Smack Dab in the next few months, but that's okay, since so far as I know a date hasn't been decided. When it does happen, it'll be really, really neat seeing my name on Magnet's marquee. I wish I'd had my camera so I could have taken a picture of Lauren's up there. If the personal is political, isn't just living enough? Besides, I'm visible. Really, it's the opposite of stealth. The fact that it's not a morbid preoccupation like with K. or D. doesn't mean I'm any less dedicated to the cause, does it? Am I indulging in some sort of privilege?Playing to fags is great. Seriously, I don't do it enough. I love their energy. (Except when I'm trying to enjoy a classic movie at the Castro, that is.) Maybe it's the change of pace, since I usually play to dyke crowds. I don't know. It felt good, that's for sure. I was getting my fix, the rush, holding and enthralling and taking them on my trip. I remembered just who I was, what I do. Not that I'm defined by performing, but at that moment in time I needed to be in the spotlight spitting fire, to be momentarily loved by people who didn't know I existed, to be a junkie who can't shoot up, a slut who can't fuck, an addictive personality who can't do anything once because she can't do anything at all except this and bygodimgonnafuckinmakeitmatterifitkillsme— Hell, I even recovered gracefully when I accidentally mispronounced "budge" as "bulge." That's the kind of thing men in the Castro will notice. I left at a quarter to nine, got an oversized burrito from the taqueria at the corner and went to the studio. Lauren was arriving just as I was driving away. See? Toldja she'd be there.
After working on kittypr0n for a couple hours, I went home. Didn't sleep right away.
[Holy Titclamps] manages to avoid being either tasteless or particularly sensationalist. In places, for example Sherilyn Connelly's anti-death penalty opinion-piece IF I AM MURDERED, it is actually quite earnest. But mostly a vein of sardonic humour runs through it. Of the fiction a highlight for me was Alvin Orloff's...But enough about Alvin. (Kidding, pal!) At first I read that wrong, thinking it said a vein of sardonic humour runs through my piece—which would be odd, since it's one of the more humorless things I've written. I don't read it aloud often for that reason. Now I realized they're actually referring to the overall issue. Still, "earnest" isn't bad, and they spelled my name right. Can't ask for more than that. 10:09pm It may seem obvious, but sometimes the only way to win really is not to play. I've learned my lesson well... Oh, man. This is what I get for not looking at a calendar. Wicked Messenger 4.11 is on Easter. For some reason, I though Easter was in May this year, but since I don't really give a shit, I never looked it up. Of course, Easter Sunday means the Sisters' annual Dolores Park shindig. Their 25th Anniversary Celebration, no less. So we may either get runoff from that, being all of three blocks away—and even a tiny fraction will be a big success—or everyone will be too pooped and we'll tank. Either way, I'm glad I haven't actually printed out any fly0rs yet, because they need to be reworked a tad.
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Wednesday, 17 March 2004 (suspended grounds) 11:01am Took the bus this morning for the first time since I got this job. I'd forgotten how nice it can be to just sit back and read on the way to work, especially on a line as cushy as the Golden Gate Transit. Of course, I had to take the Muni to get to it, and the GGT's cushiness comes at steep price of $2.85 one way. I made a disturbing discovery, though. Exiting Civic Center station, I saw the bus at the stop, so I sprinted the rest of the way. Turned out it wasn't my bus—I'd missed it by five minutes and had to wait another hour—but that wasn't the disturbing part. I was winded. From running, like, maybe ten to fifteen seconds. It actually hurt. It evidently doesn't take long to get out of shape. Not good at all. I won't be sprinting for buses much more in the near future, though. Got my car back today, as promised, and for the amount quoted in the estimate. Which is still painful (good thing those fuckers at Visa decided to extend my limit, probably because I've finally started racking up debt again—I was so underpaid when I started this job, I had no choice), but at least it's done, and with as much work as there's been over the last six months, I should never have car troubles ever again. It works that way, doesn't it?
The weird thing is, the car unpleasantness hasn't adversely affected my mood,
which has been absurdly good lately. Maybe I'm beginning to appreciate sunlight.
In the negative column, it's a lot more work. Not necessarily more difficult, but more of it. I don't wanna do more work. I'm happy with the level I'm at right now. This is not me being lazy, as I work plenty hard away from the office. I may also wind up on a computer which can be seen by anyone who enters the room, and that would suck greatly. Then again, said computer's sound may not be as dodgy as this one's, I might even be able to wear headphones. (Although my system usually chokes on streaming audio, I've actually been able to listen to Drone Zone for more than a few minutes at a time today. Bliss.) Pros and cons abound. Then there's the clients. I answer the phones, but generally don't deal much with people on the phone. This would involve a lot of actual phone time; My Boss emphasized the communication aspect. One of the reasons he claims to think I'd be a good fit for the position is my fluency in English. I am pretty good at faking sincerity, or at least hiding disdain. There's something heartening about the fact that he doesn't mind me representing the company in that manner, being the big huge obvious queer that I am. (After all this time, though, if he or anyone else in the company has clocked me as a tranny, they've never so much as hinted at it. Not to get all binary, but I think that means I'm passing as female. How nutty is that?) Still, dealing with clients. Icky.
When I picked up my car, the receptionist who'd complimented me on my pants yesterday
mentioned the Emily sticker on the bumper. We bonded.
(witness the new model) (you can always be replaced)
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Tuesday, 16 March 2004 (all static and desire) 9:03am Beautiful weather we've been having lately, really gorgeous. So, naturally, my car continues to spit coolant like a gutshot Vulcan. I nursed it to work this morning and took it to one of the eighty mechanics on the same block as my office. The receptionist complimented me on my pants (red plaid bondage), which I hope is a good sign. I hate how, once again, I'm feeling like I have a child in the hospital. Mind you, my only real concern is how much it's going to cost me; otherwise, my attachment to it is purely for the convenience it offers. I'm an American. Sometimes I can't deny it. Figures I'd be busy the next couple days. Car or no, I have to be back in San Francisco by six tonight to work on kittypr0n; given AccesSF's draconian new cancellation policy, I can't afford to miss it. Tomorrow's the real marathon, though. Michelle's RADAR Reading Series is at six, featuring Tennesesee Jones and Carolyn Connelly, an m2f tranny writer from New York. (Same last name, and her first name not only rhymes with mine, it's a very similar to my mother's. In other words, yes, I've noticed.) Lauren's featuring at Smack Dab at eight, and I have another editing appointment at nine. Wheee. I'm so glad things have slowed down now that the play is over. Just about done with the booking for Wicked Messenger 4.11: Burlesque Aid. The admittedly convoluted title is me indulging my fondness for wordplay, and a reference to the show being a benefit for Big Burlesque's Heather MacAllister. She was recently hospitalized, and still isn't doing entirely well. I definitely have slam poet Karuna Tanahashi, comic Dattner, and Larry-bob's new band. I'm awaiting confirmation from writer Derek Powazek and The (formerly Cantankerous) Lollies, a burlesque troupe. Both are looking positive, though. Sweet.
Art Deco, 1910-1939 at the Legion
of Honor. Another terrific-looking exhibit which I'll probably miss.
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Monday, 15 March 2004 (humidity) 10:10pm Oh, that's right. It's the Ides of March. I'd forgotten. That would certainly explain the way the day's gone so far. Including (but not limited to) having to call the mechanic again, because my car simply cannot retain coolant. It has been suggested that possibly my mechanic sucks, but I'm more inclined to blame the car. Still, where are Tom and Ray when I need them? Coincidentally, cars.com is a few doors down from my office. I doubt they come around here.
The man was right, you know. Everything is broken.
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Friday, 12 March 2004 (the subtle flavor in the air) 3:20pm More people are angry about faggots and lezbos getting to Make It Official than about entire school districts having to lose libraries, sports and music programs because of budget cuts. Man, fuck this country and its fucked-up priorities, okay? How about a Constitutional amendment to ensure that schools are well-funded? Right, right, that would be too much like socialism. Ooooooh. Can't have that. Kerry won't fix things, you know, and calling Bush's attempt at addressing the problem half-assed is overly generous. Nor will Schwarzenegger, or Newsom. None of them. It's a multi-headed beast they wouldn't care to battle even if they could. Sickening, utterly sickening.
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Thursday, 11 March 2004 (a thousand quiet mountains) 11:14am Tuesday morning, the Hall of Justice. (Which is across the street from Annie's Cocktail Lounge, where we occasionally go for Karaoke.) I'm going through the metal detector. It beeps. I step back, and the grumpy cop points at the item in my pocket. I pull out my ID and put it on the table. I walk through again, and it beeps. I say that it's my boots, as I have nothing else on my person. After a few seconds of awaiting further instructions from Officer Crankypants, I start to ask what he wants me to do and he grouses, "Well, go! Don't just stand there blocking the way!" Of course. Because if I'd simply assumed that he wanted me to walk away with asking, and I'd guessed wrong, he wouldn't have gotten pissy or anything. This morning, The Boss is telling me to add a section to the company site. Since I've had nothing to do with it since it was taken out of my hands last year, I'm not sure exactly how involved he wants me to be. So I ask: "Do you want me to do the coding?" He gives me his patented god, you're useless! look and says, "There's no coding. It's HTML." I'm pretty sure my eyes were closed as I explained it to him.
...i'll sit on the equator 1:47pm The post-mortem. The play went well. I keep thinking about everything that went wrong, all the ways it could have been better, but none of that matters now. It's done, it was what it was, and I'm proud. I actually pulled it together, made it something good and entertaining and maybe, just maybe, a little scary and suspenseful. I don't know. I hope so. People tell me it was, but people tell me a lot of things. There was a certain point, right after the proverbial curtain rose, when I had to sit back and let it happen. The cast was on stage and the audience was in their seats and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about any of it. The chips will crumble and the cookie will fall where it may. Not every line will be delivered as written, but that's okay. Even when I'm doing spoken word, I seldom stick completely to the page, and I pretty much rewrote my big monologue in Night of the Living Dead, so I can hardly blame anyone else for doing so. Besides, as live drama goes, it sure as hell ain't Chekhov or Mamet or even the guy who wrote the play Bob Crane was performing when he died. Still, for regional, borderline underground theater, it wasn't half bad. Saturday night in particular; the tech elements went smoother, and the final scene was spectacular. Figures that only Friday night was videotaped. The cast really brought so much more to it than was in the script. There was actually a bit more than I'd originally envisioned, but it was suggested and worked out by the actors (Lynnee and Jon in particular), so I was okay with it, provided they kept it safe. I was probably a little more worried than was necessary, as I'd just finished reading Outrageous Conduct, the story of Vic Morrrow's death during the filming of Twilight Zone: The Movie. There have been other Twilight Zone revivals since then without anyone seriously injured, so there was no particular need to worry about a curse (were I inclined to believe in that sort of thing, and I'd like to think I'm not), plus I wasn't using pyrotechnics or low-flying helicopters, so the overall decapitation risk was fairly minimal. Jon did scratch his back pretty bad during rehearsal when he was shoved into a screw sticking out of the stage right wall (I'm fairly certain I wrangled with said jutting metal at least once during Night of the Living Dead), and Lynnee nicked his finger while rehearsing with his knife, but, again, in both cases these were moves which were suggested and worked out by the actors themselves. I was ultimately responsible if anyone seriously injured themselves, but it's not like I was asking anyone to do anything genuinely unsafe. The one bit of improvised came on the second night, Jon throwing a can across the stage at Seeley. While everyone involved was startled, it greatly added to the tension of the scene. Seeley wasn't actually hit, and thought it was a great idea. So, yay. Again, it just had to be Friday that was taped, not Saturday, didn't it? On the other hand the Rod narration was better on Friday, and Lynnee also thought his performance was better, so it evens out. Anyway, though I wasn't onstage, it's not like I was totally passive during the performances. I ran the sound as well as the strobe and blacklight, and I helped Ty with the timing of a few of the trickier lighting cues. Still, though both Erin and Maddy suggested I should join the curtain call, I elected not to. It just didn't feel right. The audience never saw me on stage, and the majority of them would have no idea who I was, so why did I deserve their applause? It was gratifying enough seeing my cast of rock stars up there, even if they were in danger of getting crowded out by the eleven (11) people in Blue's episode. Never got the opportunity to watch that one all the way through, but I'm sure every character was crucial. I'd made a point of having a small cast—in addition to keeping the play tight, from a purely practical standpoint it was fewer cats to herd—though that could just be my own aesthetic, which is subtle and minimalistic compared to Blue. Or maybe I'm just a hack who lacks vision. At K'vetch on Sunday, Lynnee asked me if I was sad that it was over like he was. I said that while I wished we could have had a few more shows, I wasn't feeling sad. Of course, he asked me this while I was amping up for my feature reading, when I hadn't yet lost any of the creative adrenaline. For the most part, I'm happy with how the reading went. I should have known that the low lighting would make it difficult to read from a chapbook, but I attempted it anyway, and as a result I felt like I stumbled through a piece which I've read zillions of times before. (e) and Matthue both said it was my best delivery yet, though, so I guess it wasn't that bad. Or I just cover really well. It wasn't until Monday that the sense of what do i do now? really set in. By Tuesday, I was actively depressed. Facing a possible week of jury duty didn't help, either. It felt like a study in contrasts. In spite of the responsibility of the play and all the attention that required, I felt an extraordinary sense of freedom. Maybe that's what creativity is. Even having such limited resources didn't stifle that feeling; working within those boundaries was actually rather intriguing. All topped off by featuring at K'vetch, which was like a homecoming of sorts. The darker part of my brain, the region which has gotten me into so much trouble lately, keeps saying yeah,or lynnee was just really desperate to fill the slot. But it's not like I was the only person he could have asked. So it means something that he wanted me there. There had actually been a bit of controversey over the fact that the two features, myself, and Lynnee's mom, were both of the caucasian persuasion. But, to quote Lynnee, "only in San Francisco would a septuagenarian Berliner fashion maven and a six-foot tall goth tranny babe be considered not diverse." Anyway, by Tuesday, that sense of freedom was gone, replaced by being recruited into doing something I really didn't want to do, of being under someone else's control. A horrible, horrible feeling, and a far different one than just, say, having to deal with The Boss. I know, it's my civic duty, I respect that, but I do vote, and...it was just awful being there.
Especially during the selection process, when we were sitting in the (surprisingly
comfortable) jury seats, getting watched and grilled by the lawyers. The prosecutor was something of a tightass,
complete with a bow-tie, and the defender was a smooth-talker who got his client's name wrong. Spending any
more time than necessary with those people would have been excruciating. Thankfully, my leftist feelings about
about drug laws and police power, and my relative bravery in espousing them (it's a good thing I'm comfortable with
public speaking, even if speaking off the top of my head directly to a judge is a smidgen unnerving) made me an
unsuitable juror. I have no idea if the purplish hair, shiny black pants and silver scarf tail entered into it.
Probably not in this town.
[California Attorney General Bill Lockyer] and the Alliance Defense Fund, a conservative group that says a marriage should be between a man and woman, said the court's action was urgently needed because thousands of newly married gays might otherwise think they enjoy the same rights granted other married couples -- such as the right to receive the other spouse's property in the absence of a will.Sure, yeah, I can see how urgent action would be necessary. I mean, come on, what's next? Medical visitation? Insurance benefits? Filing taxes jointly? Won't somebody please think about the children? Where will the madness end?
Shoot. I was going somewhere else with this, then I went went back and made the silly In the News reference, and the other thing totally
slipped my mind. I hate it when I do that.
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