My Face for the World to See (Part II): The Diary of Sherilyn Connelly a fiction July 1 - 10, 2003

Thursday, 10 July 2003 (sumac) 9:45am There are blue sparklies all over the back seat of our car from the dress Danielle wore last night. There's also some on our kitchen floor which will probably be swept away before too long, but the sparklies in the back seat will no doubt be there for a very long time to come, like the chunks of safety glass we still find from the time the car got broken into four years ago. When Danielle was putting the dress on, she predicted that the sparklies would get everywhere. Violet immediately replied, rather brusquely, that they wouldn't. Of course, Danielle was right. Violet's almost reflective tendency to contradict Danielle confirms for me not only his stage mother role, but simply his mother role—since, as we all know, mothers can be like that sometimes, telling you you're wrong for no other reason than an apparent disbelief that you could possibly be right about something. Still, though, Danielle needs him to play that part for her every bit as much as he needs to play it. Lord knows there are worse forms of codependence, and they've been through those, too. Anyway, it went very well, I'd dare say. After the sad spectacle of the night before, Danielle was definitely back on, and I think we both kicked much ass. Coincidentally, we closed our sets with pieces which were very much hot off the presses; I'd finished mine at work earlier in the day, and Danielle banged out most of hers at our apartment shortly before we left for Sacrifice. It wasn't the first time I've read something shortly after writing it without a chance to rehearse—I seldom rehearse at all, though I probably should—but there was so little direct light that I could barely read the printout anyway. Sacrifice isn't set up for readings (ours was the first), and the majority of the lighting came from candles and indirect sources. The one actual lamp behind me was the blacklight, which doesn't count. The low light probably didn't do my eyes any favors, but, well, I'm all about the ambiance. It looked neat, and hopefully set something of a mood. Anyway, as a result I was really winging it on that one, trying to remember the words I'd first come up earlier that day without it sounding like either a cold read or simply improvising. I do feel like I stumbled a lot, on that one and the others, but nobody else seemed to think so. The "Sherilyn" chant towards the end was a bit much, but, hey, positive energy from an audience is always good thing. (e) says I had them in the palm of my hand, and she knows how that works. Speaking of whom—how Danielle and I would each be introduced was one of those details which had simply slipped our collective mind, since there were so many others to deal with. (Another slippery detail was testing the sound system, and thankfully Anderson Toone stepped in. While soundchecking, I discovered that the instructions "Just keep talking into the microphone" can be very difficult to follow.) Certainly nobody was more qualified than Violet to introduce Danielle, and (e) agreed to introduce me, and as such start the show. I opened for Danielle Willis, and was introduced by (e). Damn. Damn. And those are the good kind of "damns," I should point out. It was just so...well, multisyllabic non-swear words fail me. I'm trying not to think too much about whether or not I'm worthy of these honors, and instead am simply rolling with and appreciating them. My throat was definitely feeling dry and hoarse by the time I was done, and as such my voice was slipping (I'm not sure, but I think I may have gone on for over half an hour, considering that Maddy had to switch out the tape in the camcorder before I was done) but, as I said before, it was a good kind of a hurt, the kind that comes from slightly overexercising a muscle. And, is so often the case when feeling the burn, it was offset by the endorphin rush. As you would expect of a group of people who had come to hear Danielle and/or myself, the crowd was a queerjunkiepoetwhoregoth melange. They were a beautiful sight. Afterwards, Weaselboy and I discussed the possibility of starting a spoken word event at Jezebel's Joint. He said he could definitely get me a night a month, which would be perfect—any more often than that would be way too much pressure. I have no idea what form it would take, but I've been feeling the need to organize something, so I'm intrigued. Besides, I've had it in my head for a while now that I want to do a reading with Lauren Wheeler and David West, and they've both agreed, so at least I have a good idea of what the first one will probably be like. Talullah Bankheist of Whore Church also made me an offer entirely too scary to pass up: performing onstage with her at the 8th Annual San Francisco Drag King Contest, of which Anderson is one of the producers and performers. There's been talk of Danielle doing Joey Ramone for the show, but it also happens to be the day that she's supposed to head back to Cleveland, so it'll depend. Anyway, I'm uncertain of the details for Tallulah and I, but from what I gathered, I would be a debutante society girl-type and she would be a lecherous old man. And, somehow, there will be music involving Jim Backus. As I said, a very scary offer. So, of course, I had to say yes. 3:54pm Aside from the occasionally scratchy throat, I'm actually feeling better today than I did yesterday. Getting five hours of sleep last night instead of three apparently did wonders. While I appreciated the energy of that bouncy girl with the violin during the reading, I really wish on general principles she hadn't given Danielle that prescription downer. On the other hand, the net result was that Danielle wanted to go straight back to Violet's after the show (we were also taking Tristan home, and I so wish I could have gotten a picture of Danielle practically asleep in his arms in the backseat, looking for all the world like he was holding Catherine from How Loathsome), so I made it to bed before midnight for a change. And at least she didn't give it to Danielle before the show. Last | Top | Next

Wednesday, 9 July 2003 (the morning of the sixth night it all ends) 8:52am Norman was not there, but it's almost a mixed blessing. If he had actually cared to go, Danielle might have gotten there on time. Instead, he got pilled up early in the afternoon and spent the rest of the day crashed, leaving Danielle to fend for herself in getting across the Bay. Which wouldn't have been an issue at all had she gone out to our apartment and gotten a ride from us as planned instead of going AWOL. It's nontraditional, but that's the Vampire's way. She's a free spirit, and we're lucky to have her. Overall, last night didn't go nearly as well as Sunday. In addition to arriving late (while I was reading in the open mic, in fact) she just didn't seem as present. Indeed, she could barely keep her eyes open most of the time—having no other evidence, I'm chalking it up to lack of sleep—which didn't do her any favorites when she read photocopy of a story of hers which had been published in a book called Noirotica. Unfortunately, being a copy from a paperback the text was way too small for her, making the reading fitful at best. Still, though, if she was going to have on off night, better it was in front of the small crowd last night than the packed house that was K'vetch. On the plus side, she was sufficiently irritated at Norman for flaking on her (it's turtles all the way down, you see) that after we got back into town we went by their lovely Tenderloin motor court so she could gather her stuff and move out. She consequently spent last night at Violet's apartment, and he won't be letting her out of his sight today, so I'm confident tonight will go much better. On a more personal level, my throat's feeling much better today. I'm aware of it when I was swallow, but I can speak normally and I wasn't coughing up blood by the time I was done last night, so, once again, I'm sure tonight will be fine. 2:43pm Good lord, but I'm tired. I don't require much to begin with, but evidently I haven't gotten enough sleep lately. That probably won't change tonight, and still being ever so slightly sick doesn't help much. But, as it must, the show will go on. And if it doesn't, it won't be on my account. Before she read last night, Danielle asked me for a couple favors. The first, meant as a joke, was if I could read for her. (She was, as I've mentioned, a bit on the bleary side.) I don't recall the second one, but the first put an interesting idea for tonight into my head: her and I each reading a (short) piece of the other's. Boy, I'm just all about the gimmicks, aren't I? It's probably not something I'm going to pursue, especially if her condition hasn't improved since last night. But the thought is there. sometime after midnight My throat is sore once again. But in a good way. Because it was a good night. Last | Top | Next

Tuesday, 8 July 2003 (the resolution) 9:12am I should know better than to tempt the Universe, because it can never resist. My throat started feeling sore yesterday afternoon, and was actively hurting by the time I went to bed. I've fought it back with as much non-sugar-based stuff as I can find, and it's actually feeling a little better today. If it's still bad tomorrow night, then I guess I'll just deal. I hope the phone doesn't ring too much in the meantime. The fact that the last time this happened was shortly before a big reading is not lost on me. I figure it's either psychosomatic, that even though I'm looking forward to it the anticipation is causing my body to get ill in the most ironic way possible, or it's just plain old stupid coincidence. Both seem plausible. 4:06pm Ugh. It's looking like Norman might be at Danielle's reading Berkeley tonight. Must be a slow day for crack in the City. If he had to show up anywhere I almost wish it had been at K'vetch, since I'm sure the crowd would have made him uncomfortable. Oh well. I just hope I'm not asked to give him a ride back to San Francisco, because I really don't want him in my car. Last | Top | Next

Monday, 7 July 2003 (lathe speaks) 6:07pm Tara spells it "K'vetsh," but I prefer "K'vetch." I should point out that the money Danielle owed me, wasn't a big deal to me at all; as I said, I'd forgotten I'd given it to her. It just signified to me that she was mindful and really was getting her shit together. Danielle and Violet arrived at our place around four in the afternoon to print some stuff out and get ready for K'vetch. It was the first time I'd really seen Violet and Danielle interact with one another. At Alvin's last year, when we met them both, they were each somewhat distracted, not to mention their collective bloodstreams were a bit more polluted. Now, though, they reminded me of nothing so much as a couple that's been married for years and have bickered through most of them. In truth, though blood/play partners for many years, they were never actually a romantic couple, which Violet says is why they're still such good friends. Actually, it's almost more like Violet is a devoted but perpetually exasperated stage parent. Even off the drugs, Danielle can be a little flighty—I didn't know her back in the day, but I'm guessing this is nothing new—though to an outside observer Violet can also come across as more frustrated than would seem justified. I don't think that's necessarily the case, though. They've been doing this for a long, long time, and it's because they (platonically) love each other so much. This is the first time I've spent any time around Danielle while she was clean, and the difference is noticeable. She gave Maddy and I free passes to the Mitchell Bros. O'Farrell theater, and even offered to come along and show us around. Oh hell yeah. On the way to Sadie's, we picked up (e). I worry about her. I wish I could do more. We hadn't been at Sadie's for five minutes before someone came up to Danielle with a copy of Dogs in Lingerie for her to sign. Just goes to show. I monopolized the jukebox before the show, as I am so rudely wont to do. My gay boyfriend Horehound, he who took me to see The Cramps and exposed me to Lux Interior's crotch, told me he can always tell when I've done so because the music's so great. Dawwww. He also said that "Helter Skelter," which was playing at that moment, is the only Beatles song he would associate with me. I'm fond of most of their music, but still, I was touched. As usual, I went on first, taking what Tara referred to as the pole position. (Which still brings to mind the video game; if not for that, I would have never known it was a racing term.) It was definitely for the best that I went on early, since between there being three features—Danielle was added earlier in the week—and a longer-than-usual open mic list, a lot of people didn't get to read. When I went onstage, Danielle said "Sherilyn is sexy" in a sing-songy voice. That woman is such a trannychaser it ain't even funny. Horehound and I, while generally positive (stop snickering) but not necessarily prone to flowery sentiments, both agreed that the love in the room was thick. The reactions to both of our pieces proved that, I think. (e) brought some finger puppets. Her and I enjoyed them entirely too much during a rather boring reader, and we sometimes giggled louder than we should. But it helped improve (e)'s mood, so it was a good thing. Quite coincidentally, a photographer from the Bay Guardian was there, taking pictures for the upcoming Best of the Bay issue. Seem K'vetch is getting Best Open Mic (or something to that effect), thanks to Michelle Tea being on the Guardian's panel. Hey, this town is all about who you know—it was because of Annalee that how kittypr0n got one last year. Anyway, the guy was set up in the back room, and was finished and gone by the time the show actually begun. I didn't get my picture taken, but I hope Danielle did. Norman was not present. As he told Danielle, he was only going to be out here for a week and a half and didn't want anything cutting into his—and I'm quoting Danielle quoting him—"sleaze time." In other words, he doesn't want to be sitting around listening to bad poetry when he could be out smoking crack and banging prostitutes, his twin raison d'etres for tagging along in the first place. While it pisses me off that he doesn't give a damn about her writing career, I really hope he keeps that focused. Danielle slayed 'em dead, she did. Not bad at all for her first time reading aloud in this century. Whether or not I had any right to is a matter for some debate, but I felt all kinds of proud while watching her, and was happy to have been able to help make it happen in my own small way. Something else that was really heartening was the fact that she was actually sitting still and listening to the other readers, unlike the big fidgety bundle of nerves she was at ForWord Girls, not at all caring about what was happening on the stage. (Okay, yes, (e) and I misbehaved a little, but that's...um...different. I mean, come on! Finger puppets!) Pretty much up until she walked into our apartment earlier in that afternoon, I wasn't entirely certain that any of this was going to come together. But now I knew everything was going to work out fine. Everything was working out fine. Wednesday is going to be fantastic. I finally got to meet Anders Toone, after our paths had surely crossed in meatspace more than once. He's one of those people who's done so much in their lives, and is still going so damn strong, that it really drives home how much time I've wasted. (Just my own personal interpretation, mind you.) But, you know, better a late start than none at all. His wife Erin, a terrific photographer, said some extremely kind things about me which I won't repeat, because even I get sick of how I seem repeat every compliment I receive. Not that I'm sick of receiving them—not by a long shot, I'm still a Validation Whore to the nth—but listing them seems tacky after a while, you know? Well, okay, she said I'm photogenic. I'll leave it that. The Tamale Lady spoke. What she said was a little garbled to me; it might have had something to do with her retirement, but I hope not. I don't always buy tamales from her, but it would be sad to not see her around anymore. It was the first time Danielle had heard me read. Back at the apartment after the show, for no reason other than to set my mind at ease, I asked in what I hoped sounded like a joking tone if she still wanted to share a bill. Of course she did, she said. She loved my writing. That Violet vouched for me was probably all she needed to know—in the unlikely event that she'd given it any thought whatsoever—but I needed to hear her say it. She's just a person. Seeing her sitting cross-legged on our kitchen floor petting Oscar certainly humanized her, as it would anyone. And I consider her a friend, as she does me. Still, though, every so often I can't help thinking holy shit i'm going to be reading with Danielle Willis, how did that happen? So, yeah, I still feel outclassed, like I'm a lightweight lacking in rough edges. And one who mixes their metaphors, no less. Violet says that one of the things he finds refreshing about my writing is that I don't have a history of drug addiction or sex work or the like, since they've been done to death, and all too often by people who aren't very good writers to begin with. Although I'll bet they mix their metaphors, too. On the other hand, Monique tells me that the story I read in Berkeley week before last, one involving me and a lot of vomit, made her nauseous. Considering that her boyfriend Steven regularly uses blood and feces (among other things) in his art and it doesn't bother her at all, I'm counting that as high praise indeed. I was very, very happy last night. I so wish I could spread the feeling amongst the people I love, some of whom need it desperately. Last | Top | Next

Sunday, 6 July 2003 (fuzz/locusts) 11:09am Danielle was supposed to have gotten into town yesterday, but as of nine in the evening, Violet hadn't heard from her. She called him on Friday afternoon from Wyoming; I have no idea how long a drive that is by Greyhound, but I'm willing to believe it would take well over a day. Hopefully she got in late last night and immediately called Violet, who will then be calling us in a while after they wake up. There are other possibilities (such as her getting in late last night and not calling Violet, or being unable to shake Norman), but I'm trying not to think about those. Keeping the faith and all. 1:09pm Violet just called. Danielle has in fact arrived, and was able to successfully ditch Norman, the leechy trick with whom she was sharing the SRO when we met her last year. Norman is not to be confused with her boyfriend Ixe, although, by some cosmic irony, they're both from Ohio. That's why Danielle and Ixe moved there last year, to be near Ixe's family and get sober. Still, though, what are the odds? The little vampire has to live in that one? (Norman is one of the few times I use "vampire" in the pejorative sense. Both Violet and Danielle have fangs and drink blood, but I trust them. Norman, not so much.) Neither Violet nor I were happy to hear that he'd be traveling out here with her, or that he'd paid for her ticket. I wish I'd known that ahead of time—I didn't even think to ask exactly how she was getting out here—because I would have paid for it just so she wouldn't have to be (further?) indebted to him. Anyway, he came out here not so much to follow Danielle as to help himself to the wide array of cheap drugs and sex available. Which is fine, provided he keeps his distance from her—or, at the very least, keeps his distance from her when we're around, and doesn't travel west of Twin Peaks. So far, so good, I guess. her albatross is light and blue it hangs from a thin silk thread it glows from within it dazzles and blinds it is her life her blood her scars her world her death she screams and nobody sees or hears beyond the beauty around her neck Violet and Danielle should be over in a few hours, and then it's off to K'vetch. 6:04pm Danielle paid me back the ten dollars I'd forgotten she owed me. My faith is restored. sometime after midnight Best. K'vetch. Ever. Last | Top | Next

Saturday, 5 July 2003 (hard left) 10:47am There was a message on the sfgoth mailing list about a month ago asking if there was any interest in a girls-only poker night. I responded (privately) in the affirmative. There were, of course, the predictable "funny" replies to the list along the lines of whether a boy can be there if he wears a skirt and makeup, how you define the difference between a boy and a girl, etc. To the latter, one of the list elders said (though not in so many words) that what you have between your legs is what defines your gender. I stopped following the discussion at that point. I missed the first couple nights, but was finally able to go on Thursday. One of the regulars wasn't going to be able to make it, and since the primary point of the no-boys-allowed rule was because her boyfriend is insanely jealous, one of the other regulars was able to bring her husband along, the aforementioned list elder, who I've known since I entered the goth scene—which, of course, was when I'd only been on hormones for a few months and was a long way from figuring out what the hell to do with myself. I guess that means I shouldn't be surprised that he referred to me with the male pronoun. It was only once, and I immediately corrected him. But it was still once more than anyone else there did, and he was the only person I already knew. Indeed, I'd never met the girl who was hosting it. Since I got there a good long while before anyone else showed up her and I talked quite a bit, but me being a tranny was never mentioned. She didn't ask, and I didn't see the point in bringing it up. Quite frankly, it can get old. I doubt that I passed to her—as a rule, I assume that the more someone interacts with me, the more likely they are to read me—but in the unlikely even that I did, or that she'd simply had her suspicions, well, he nicely put that to rest. And even if it was tongue-in-cheek or just to stir up trouble on the list, the fact that he'd previously suggested that since I was born with a penis I am therefore a boy added a little more insult to injury. (No doubt Summer could explain why it's appropriate to refer to me as a boy, just like she did with Gwen Araujo.) I've noticed pronoun slips tend to happen more with boys than girls, and the longer I've known someone the more likely it is, which is reasonable. I'm much more irritated when people who haven't known me for very long do it. My family or longtime friends, while it can still sting, they've all earned the right since they knew me Before. My mom tries her best and I know her intentions are sincere, and I've come to terms with the fact that my dad is never going to get it right. But if you met me after I stopped wearing the white makeup, well, then, you really need to try a little harder. Generally speaking, people I've met over the last year tend to get it right, which I'm going to call a sign of progress. I'm trying to be more sanguine about it, but it's difficult sometimes. Anyway, aside from that (and the simple presence of his boy energy—regardless of the fact that I can piddle standing up, I do think my energy is female), it was fun. If he isn't there next time, I'm sure it'll be even more fun. 6:57pm Although Petaluma somewhat inexplicably had their official fireworks display on the Third, things went well last night. It's always nice to see c0g, Ump was there as well, and many things got blown up real good. Last | Top | Next

Thursday, 3 July 2003 (new groove loop) 8:43am It occurs to me that this is going to be my first official three-day weekend in almost two years. I'm not particularly excited one way or the other because when you're unemployed, every weekend might as well be three days, and I haven't gotten back into the five-day work week mindset yet. And, unfortunately, we don't have any plans for tomorrow yet. 12:57pm And now we do: we're driving up north tomorrow for a barbecue with Melissa, c0g and his old deathrocker pals, most of whom I probably haven't seen since his mother's party four years ago. The reading next week made it onto Larry-Bob's Queer Things to do in San Francisco list. For some reason, that makes me happy. Last | Top | Next

Wednesday, 2 July 2003 (slo drone) 11:38am A representative from Marin Office Supply and Furniture Center in San Rafael will be calling me back in a while regarding wall dividers. Look at me, I'm bein' all adminny an' stuff! The few days of rest haven't begun just yet; last night after work I went to Berkeley for Monique's open mic. There was a temptation to give it a miss, especially since Maddy was staying home for logistical reasons, but the attendance has been sparse enough as it is. Monique isn't making any money—it's purely a labor of love, as these things so often are—but I still want to support her as much as I can. I got out there before her and Steven arrived, so I sat with some of the other regulars, mostly locals of the "weird old hippie" variety. (Berkeley and all.) Nice enough folks, one of whom asked me how Danielle's doing; seems they have a history together, back in Santa Cruz. Of course. Everyone has a history with Danielle, or at least a story or two. I know I do. Steven even has a few which don't involve her porking him with a Jack Daniel's bottle, and really, you'd think that would be plenty. Steven read this time, and befitting his rather passionate delivery, the amp died after literally a syllable. It's almost like it knew it was unnecessary; the people across the street at Cody's could probably hear him just fine without being amplified, let alone with. Against my better judgment, I signed up to read after Steven. I read my piece from Holy Titclamps into the resurrected microphone, and it seemed to be well-received, though I've found I'm a little uncomfortable reading it because of its grimness. Grim is fine, but while there's some irony there aren't any laugh lines, and I for better or worse I still use that to gauge reactions. Steven told me he really liked it, and that meant a lot. I was worried that he wouldn't, since on the most superficial level it goes against the Fifth Satanic Statement, but if you dig a little deeper it's more about distrust of the government and the legal system, and I think that's what he responded to. He also said he wished he'd thought of the title first. Afterwards, I went with Steven and Monique to Raleigh's, a thoroughly evil (though not Satanic, and believe me, there's a difference) sports bar which happens to have pitchers of beer for seven dollars and a beautiful back porch. Among other things, we talked about body image issues, and mine as they relate to why I eat and drink the way I do. I commented that among the reasons I could probably never be a card-carrying Satanist is that I can't get past the first Statement—I'm no good at indulgence, primarily because I'm so concerned about keeping my weight down. (There are other reasons, too, but all roads do lead back to Rome.) I do occasionally eat more than I should, and of things which aren't exactly healthy, but for the most part I keep it pretty modest. I does love my tofu, you betcha. Steven asked me how I define indulgence. Though it sounds Clintonian at first, it's actually a very interesting question. Can abstinence from certain/most pleasures be considered an indulgence? Is doing what I do to get my body the way it is a vice in of itself? I don't pine for alcohol or cigarettes or meat or cheese or sugar (which I'm lumping together as "vices" for the sake of argument); can I really be said to be denying myself things I don't want to begin with? What the hell are my vices? What's left? I do acid and 'shrooms when I can find them, which is hardly ever, and I do them as responsibly as possible. Is not actually abstinence because I'm ultimately indulging my vanity? 4:23pm Occasionally someone will call and, not immediately recognizing my voice, start rattling off the names of the male employees. Oh well. I'll get used to it. Last | Top

Tuesday, 1 July 2003 (ouroboron) 8:39am I've been trying to find time to write about Pride weekend, something with a little more depth than "And then the Klingons attacked, and then we went to red alert..." In the meantime— Until I saw an ad for it on the side of a bus this morning, I was unaware that a Hooters has opened in San Francisco. I'm glad Ritt didn't go to the trouble of getting me a shirt from the one in Omaha like we'd briefly discussed. Of course, since I don't eat animal flesh and I'm not turned on by large breasts, I'm probably won't be going to the trouble of getting one, either. 9:06am After I picked up Holy Titclamps on Saturday at the Center, I realized that the piece I submitted—the first time I've been published since I changed my name, not counting the chapbooks—is incredibly morbid, even by my standards. (It's also choppy and the language is somewhat stilted, but it's appropriate in context.) Then I remembered that when Dylan recorded his first album at twenty-one, he covered such uplifting songs as "In My Time of Dying," "See That My Grave is Kept Clean," "Man of Constant Sorrow" and "Fixin' to Die." So it's a proud tradition. From the Center I walked to Pam's apartment, where Maddy was waiting for me. At Church and 16th a familiar-looking butch started walking next to me and struck up a conversation. She said her name was T-Money (Tammy, for the uncouth) and was in town from Kentucky for Pride. She looked familiar, I realized, because she looks like a lot of other dykes in this City. Which is one of the reasons I love it here, especially in June. Our people-surfing went a lot better this year; unlike last year, we never lost our trail. We were at Pam's for about an hour when Allegra and Rachel arrived. The four of us wandered around the park for a while, then headed over to (e)'s once the Dyke March started to organize itself. From (e)'s we watched it go by. I struck by the surrealism of how many people in the March (I keep wanting to say "parade," but that word feels all wrong) were taking pictures of us. Isn't it supposed to be the other way around? Aren't they the spectacle, not us? Of course, I'd probably feel differently about it if I was on the street like last year. Allegra and Rachel left for the Pink Saturday party in the Castro right after the March ended, and a short while later we followed suit with (e) and Susan. It was ultimately just another big street party, nothing we haven't seen before. Thankfully, though, since it was lacking the Drunk Straight Guy factor like at Halloween, we were able to make it through the most crowded parts without getting the life squeezed out of us. So that was definitely an improvement. I dozed on the muni ride back home; I was crashing slightly from the pot brownies we'd brought along. Thankfully, they were nowhere near as as strong as that very first batch. This had seemed like as good a time as any to imbibe, being out with my friends and vast numbers of fellow queers on the streets of my adopted hometown. Not much chance for the paranoia to kick in. The fact that I'm newly employed helped, too, since that's the major anxiety the THC has latched onto over the last couple years. I still don't see myself smoking at home again any time soon, though. When I'd bought the brownie mix that morning at the Noriega Market, the clerk (who knows us well) asked what our plans were for the day. I said we were going to the Dyke March. "Oh," he replied, "So you're making the good kind of brownies!" From the looks of eyes, he'd already had a few himself. We'd originally planned on staying home on Sunday and giving the Bud Light-sponsored official Pride festivities downtown a miss, but (e), Lynnee and Meliza were all going to be performing at the new Out Words Readers and Writers Village, hosted by Kirk Read in MC Hammer pants. So we slathered on the sunscreen and hopped on the outbound Muni. Again, I tell ya, the things we do for friends. It was worth it, of course, as I never tire of seeing any of them. We weren't there the entire time—we followed Lynnee to the Nectar stage for a while to see her girlfriend perform—so I don't know if anyone ever commented on the sign behind the stage: LAWN CLOSED FOR LAWN MAINTENANCE. Because, you see, if the sign didn't specify it, nobody would know what kind of maintenance the lawn was closed for. I would have guessed that maybe it needed a new fan belt, or perhaps it had a freon leak. But, no, it was for lawn maintenance. Even though Pride on Sunday mostly lacks the looseness and anarchic quality of the Dolores Park and the Dyke March on Saturday, I'm kinda glad we ventured out there anyway. It's still more than most people get in the rest of the world. We were about to go home (partly because it had gotten very cold) when we ran into Pam and Liz, and eventually found ourselves having dinner with them at the Thai place on Castro. Though they're no longer a couple, they're still the best of friends, which is heartening. With a few obvious exceptions—Maddy's ex-husband being a big huge one—that's the way it should always be. (Spoken like someone who's only ever been in two serious relationships, huh?) It was after nine when we parted company with them, and though we were both burnt out (but, thankfully, not burnt), the evening wasn't quite over yet. We took the Muni back home and drove out to Sacrifice for Rocco and Anastasia's post-Pride club. I guess I've definitely gotten over my apprehension about staying out late on schoolnights. Pride Weekend was over on Sunday, but Pride Month still had one more day to go, capping with Matthue's twenty-fifth birthday party on Monday night. It was a perfectly manic yet low-key way to end things. And, now, a few days of rest before Danielle arrives in town... 1:29pm Remember when Dennis Miller was cool? What the hell happened to him? Violet has made some terrific fly0rs for my reading with Danielle next week. I haven't had a chance to scan any yet, but here's one in the women's restroom at Sacrifice. It fits, I think. Last | Top | Next