The first time at a TGSF function in...okay, a few years. Next confession: I'm here for the open mic. Not really all that interested otherwise. Every so often I get the impulse to go, see what it's like now. I wonder, is this me being condescending? No, that isn't the word. It's just that...I don't know. I haven't felt like I've needed this for some time. I've transitioned downright successfully, and don't feel the need to surround myself with others like me. And they are like me, no question. I am trans. To the straight world, the people who voted Bush into office, I am in a man in a dress. (YMID, as may be, but all the same.) No matter how much I pass, that is never going to change.

So why am I here, then? To be a rock star, of course. To work a crowd. To be loved. Why do I do anything? I have Star presence, damnit. Mark Mardon said, so it must be true. you're such a dirty dirty rock star, yeaaaaah.... dirtydirtydirty

That I'm nervous is important, too. I seldom get that heart-poundy feeling anymore. I need to savor it when it does happen. Every feeling out of the ordinary must be pursued. So much of the rest of the time is just so...flat.

what else is there? when do i stop? do i have to stop? can i just keep going and going and going and going and going? i want to burn out, i want to fly and scream as my outer shell strips off and disintegrates behind me in a flame of exposure

The subculture of the culture of plastic surgery. Who's getting what done by whom and when. The same initialized names over and over: Doctor Em, Doctor Zee, the vaguely filthy-sounding Doctor Oh. (Wasn't that Motley Crue album?) It's one of things I tend to forget about; surgery is just not a part of my life. What's more, if this was any other group of people, I'd want to scream WHAT ARE YOU PEOPLE DOING TO YOURSELVES?!? In this context, though, I can't say I don't see it. I understand the need to change your reflection (fucking mirror references!), and if I felt it was necessary, well, that's what I would get done. Perhaps I'm an anomaly in this context?

(later)
Yep. Kicked ass. I needed that. I need that at least once a week. Please? May I?

Sometimes I think this is a good epoch in history to be a tranny, that we're on the verge of being accepted without derision. Other times, I'm not so sure. With increased visibility comes being that much more of a laughingstock. When I was growing up, gender blurring was only an occasional theme in the media. Is this progress? (Answer: no, it isn't.)

I trained with my soon-to-be predecessor for three hours today. Lots of information flying about, not all of which I absorbed, but I wasn't expected. There's nothing I can't handle, once I learn the rhythms of the job and the quirks of the software. Though the computer is an HP Pavilion, the main software is a DOS program. Not that a windows version isn't available, but, for whatever reason, it isn't used. No biggie. It actually makes me nostalgic.

Whether or not I'll be able to go online is still uncertain. My predecessor hinted at being able to, but she isn't so big into it herself. The system has nice enough speakers, and while the boss lady prefers quiet, we sit far enough away from each other (and with enough solid matter betwixt) that I can probably play my silly ambient music without it being a problem. Hell, the M line runs by so often, she'll probably think that's what she's hearing. If it does present a problem, then I'm fine with silence. I'd rather be in a quiet office than one with music piped in. (Especially this time of year. This morning at the LGBT Center's Three Dollar Bill Cafe, I heard one employee tell another that he wishes xmas music could be played all year long. His coworker was as aghast at the idea as I was.) Besides, she's out of the office much of the time.

To quote one of my favorite lines from Ghostbusters, the neighborhood is like a demilitarized zone. Well, okay, it's not that bad, but I doubt I'll be going for too many lunchtime strolls, either. "Economically depressed" comes to mind. There are no check-cashing places, which is the most obvious sign of a neighborhood gone to pot, but there are two pizza places, three salons (one which calls itself as unisex), a dry cleaner, and a laundromat which seems to be hangout for the area's disaffected youth of all ages. Immediately across the street is a self-storage facility, and the office is sammiched between a church and a tile vendor. Best of all—in the most ironic sense of the word "best"—is the liquor store a block away with a large sign next to the door reading thusly:

These premises are not to be used for nuisance activities such as loitering, littering, verbal harassment of passerby, sale of acohol to minors, public urination, lewd conduct, gambling, excessive loud noise, disturbance of the peace, public drunkenness, or drinking of alcohol outside the store and sale of norcotics [sic]. These premises are being watched by the San Francisco Police Department. By order of the court, violations of these conditions could subject you and the occupants of this location to criminal and/or civil penalties.

There were a few interesting comments. One person asked me if I'd written the material myself. I don't think I've ever been asked that before, but typically I read in more lit-oriented surroundings, so I'm not surprised. Someone else compared my writing to Augusten Burroughs. They assured me it was a compliment.

Perhaps my mother's right; she insists that I look fine. She must have really meant it, because she said my name: Sherilyn, If You've Put On Weight, It Doesn't Show At All! Not that she has a problem with my name (and I don't think she's referred to me by my birth name since I came out to her nearly six years ago), but you know how parents usually are. They don't say your name unless you've either screwed up or they really want you to listen for a change.

The last day of the relative freedom of unemployment resulted in me getting at least one small project done: a tour of the Haight for Mars, the girl I met at the rehab clinic in San Diego. She's fascinated by San Francisco in general and the Haight in particular, so I thought she might appreciate it.

I did watch (well, mostly listened to) A Clockwork Orange today. Haven't seen it in years. Man. Such a bummer that Noona's plans to make it into a play fell through.

Meanwhile, a friend wrote to inform me that in last week's Bay Area Reporter, a columnist wrote thusly:

Sherilyn Connelly blew me away she was so dynamic and gorgeous and a real Star presence.

Probably a paraphrase given the grammar and punctuation, not to mention sans context, though I'm guessing it has to do with the JT LeRoy reading. That seems much more likely an event to be covered in a fagrag like the BAR than Porch Light the previous night—and I was a lot of things at the Pins and Needles show the prior evening, but a "real Star presence" is not one of them.

Maddy's right, though. That's a goddamned blurb, is what that is.

The new job starts tomorrow. Time to not suck.

Despite the ominous start, the news is good: I'll be working part time up until our New Orleans trip, on which we leave two weeks from tomorrow. It'll be a trial period, and if I don't completely suck, I'll be full time after that. So I have to be sure not to suck.

Part of the reason for the tentative start (aside from avoiding prolonged suckitude) is, as she says, not wanting me to have to pass up another job that I might like better. I assured her that my door isn't exactly being knocked over by potential employers. What's more, I like the isolation angle of the job, which seems to be turning other people off. I didn't ask if I'll have an internet connection. If I can at least play music, I'll be okay. In theory, when my actual work is done, not being online will (hopefully) be an impetus to actually write, of which I've done woefully little in these past few months. It's become very difficult for me to concentrate on creating words while sitting at this desk, beyond chatting and emailing. No, really, I do have a work ethic. Honest.

The trial begins at eleven on Thursday, after a long-scheduled appointment with The Nice Lady. I briefly considered canceling the appointment, but I think that would be a bad idea. It's been three weeks, and whooboy, do we need to talk. I'm certain to get all sobby with her, but what the heck. I'll have an hour to get myself presentable before I have to be at work. That should be fine. And if I don't completely have myself together...well, edge play is where you find it.

My potential new employer wrote on Friday evening to say that she hasn't yet checked my references, but that she has another interview Monday, and will be making a decision. So maybe I'll hear from her today, maybe I won't. Covers the bases, I think.

2:23pm

It's windy and gray.

3:13pm

before the sparkle in my eye
turns to strichinine
while this beating heart is still a valentine
i'm going to ride this thing until the wheels fall off
'coz girls like me
we always get what we want

Watching the velcro-wrestling lighbulb-chewing madness enfold, and being a part of it, renewed my happiness about living where and when I do and being who I am. I'm nothing special, all is not perfect in my life and the sea may be changing in the near future, but I still feel privileged to be involved in this world of artists and performers, gods and monsters, creators and instigators. It saddens me to think of all the great stuff I missed during the late nineties when I hardly ever left the house.

In '95 or '96, I was invited to a multimedia sex show at the Artists Television Access called Fuckerama. The Ex was in Fresno that night, so I went. If she'd been in town, I probably would have stayed at home, since she wasn't interested in it. As I say, we didn't go out much.

Anyway, it was like entering a different world. I don't even mean the event itself, though that was certainly beyond my experience in a lot of ways; it was the first time I witnessed fisting, for example, and hopefully not the last. Just getting out to the ATA at 21st and Valencia, a corner I'm at frequently these days (the show last night was just around the corner at the 12 Galaxies, which itself is as San Francisco as it gets) was not unlike traveling to another planet entirely. It was an alien culture which was neither threatening nor inviting, but simply indifferent to me. Which is how it should be, I suppose. If you wanna make your mark, you gotta make it yourself. Neither that world nor any other will miss you if you don't bother.

Much of what I love probably falls under the category of "performance art," which most people sneer at. Fuck 'em.

After the show, Pirate Cat Radio's head honcho told me that he might be getting a regular Sunday night club at the 12 Galaxies, and he'll be neeing DJs. Doing it weekly would be impractical for a variety of reasons—committing my Monday nights to the radio show is tricky enough— but I can totally see once a month.

In order to unlearn monogamy and liberate our sexuality, we need to uproot the arbitrary limitations to our thinking and seeing that have been imposted on our minds by previous philosophies. When we manage to get bigger than our programmed judgments, we become able to see beyond: beyond worrying about how do we look, how's our performance, all our beliefs that we are not really okay. When we learn to transcend those conditioned responses that limit our actions, our thinking and our very awareness, we can free ourselves to be fully conscious of all the wonderful variety and diversity that there is in the world right now, right here, in the present, available to us.

—Dossie Easton and Catherine A. Liszt, The Ethical Slut, pp 266-267

Odder still, he claims that when he tells people that he works for Access SF, they often say "Oh! Is that the channel with the cat show?" I'm pretty sure we're still the only cat show, so I guess they're talking about us.

Sometimes I'm tempted to let our contract expire, not even bother broadcasting it anymore. A lot of that's because we seldom get feedback. It's difficult to muster enthusiasm when you have no reason to believe anyone's paying attention.

But, remain on the air it will. (Pardon my Yoda.) We cranked out twenty-two episodes, which is twice a month for almost a year without a repeat. Not a bad body of work, if I do say so myself, and I'm quite proud of it. We haven't produced any new episodes in longer than we'd care to admit, for reasons ranging from logistical to a certain lack of inspiration. We may never make another new one.

I'm not sure what else can be done with the show at this point. Between you and me (and Oscar, who's asleep on my arms as I sit on the couch, typing away at the laptop), the show peaked with episode sixteen. It's by far my favorite, the one where everything really clicked, the most representative of my vision of the show. I had a hunch it would be tough act to follow, and in truth, every episode produced after that felt somewhat wheelspinny. Again, though, we produced eleven hours of a cat show, and while there is of course a great deal of familiarity (it's primarily our two cats in our tiny apartment), I think every episode was unique, and I can always point out something new we tried. So there. Neener.

In any event, kittypr0n hasn't been our primary creative outlet for some time.

sometime after midnight

I was among a handful of DJs at a Pirate Cat Radio Listener Appreciation Party tonight. Damn, but doing it live is a lot of fun, even if your audience is a bunch of straight people too stiff to dance.

Every time I think that I'm starting to move away from the goth look (say, by going blonde), I get the urge to do something utterly kinderbatty. For the last few nights, including the benefit for Heather McAllister on Wednesday and the event at the Jon Sims Center on Thursday, I've started doing the raccoon thing, heavy black eyeshadow. It's comforting, in an odd way. It must still look natural on me, since nobody's said a word about it, not even people who didn't know me when I used to do it regularly. Indeed, I don't think I've seen anyone this week whom I knew in '99, with the possible exception of Maddy. Go figure.

This is not me getting my hopes up.

sometime after midnight

After hearing her read at the benefit for Heather this evening, not to mention discussing fashion and proper shopping strategies, I think I want to be Kate Braverman when I grow up.