The Shell station around the corner from my office here in Sausalito charges $1.65. They also offer a car wash, but the gas costs the same either way. And although I pulled into the self-service lane this morning, an employee rushed over and unscrewed my gas cap before I had a chance to object. (When I did object, as Kelly can testify, I did so rather vehemently. It bothered me. I don't like being served in the first place, especially things I can do for myself.) While it isn't in the most affluent part of town, it's a fair sight moreso than Oak and Divisadero, where the gas costs sixty cents more and I'll just bet the employees don't unscrew the gas caps of cars in the self-service lane.

Fucking oil companies. Fucking station owners. Fucking someone.

4:11pm

Well, damn. I'm webmonkeying again. Never expected this to happen. I'm getting paid less than a quarter of what I used to get—and I'm still answering the phones and watering the plants—but it beats not getting paid at all.

11:14pm

Speaking of getting paid, the word "hooker" has been used around me a couple times this week. Once was at the office, and on another time on a mailing list populated my oldest brother and his friends. In both cases it was men making jokes about another guy picking up one up, and intended as a (friendly) slam.

It got me to thinking how that's the one term I've yet to hear anyone use to describe themselves. Danielle seems to prefer the wider term sex worker, probably because she provides a broader range of services that just sex per se. Tallulah uses both "whore" and the more casual "ho." I'm not sure what word Zenyasha would use to describe herself, but I'm guessing "whore." I've also heard "prostitute" a few times—Danielle, of course, said I'm "beautiful enough to be one," which considering the source is way up there on the compliment scale—but never "hooker."

My best guess is that it's because of the negative connotation. Not that "whore" has a positive connotation, since conventional wisdom tells us that sexual promiscuity is a Bad Thing, but it doesn't necessarily have the predatory implications of hooker: to hook, to ensnare. If a whore is a woman who'll have sex with anyone (whether or not for money), then a hooker is a woman who sets out entrap a man. I think that's why so many men use that term; on a subconsious level, it frees them from the burden of responsibility. They didn't have any choice—they got hooked and reeled in.

Philosophically, it's not too far from the argument that if a woman is dressed provocatively, it's her own fault if she gets raped. No, I'm not suggesting that every man who uses the term "hooker" thinks that rape is justifiable, any more than when I say "Oh my god" it means I actually believe there's a god. Far from it. Both are simply venacular. I'm just saying that I think there's a connection on some subconscious or linguistic level, that the origin of the word is possibly based on a fear of female sexuality.

Or not. I'm really too tired to be trying to form a coherent thought about anything.

you better watch out
what you wish for
it better be worth it
so much to die for

I read the latest draft of my Camp Trans piece in the open mic. Some of the new stuff really works, and some older parts are getting cut, mostly side jokes which hurt the momentum. It's all about the editing.

12:39pm

You loved me as a loser, but now you're worried that I just might win
You know the way to stop me, but you don't have the discipline
How many nights I prayed for this, to let my work begin
First, we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin...

I was on the dance floor, feeling rather proud of myself for having navigated through what Julie said was one of the busier crowds in recent memory, when a short blonde drunk girl came up to me and said I was her "evil but good-looking twin." As I say, she was short and blonde, two things I am not, and only one of which is even a possibilty. Nor was I drunk, but I was stoned, so we met halfway. After a moment of small-talking she identified herself as the girl who'd also worn a Lexington Club shirt the last time I went to Death Guild. She said she saw me that night and said to herself, "There's my evil but good-looking twin." I pointed out her to her that "evil but good-looking twin" was redundant since she looked very good herself, and therefore it went without saying that I must be too, being her twin and all.

Stoned people have no business engaging drunk people (or anyone else) in semantic discussions. I know that now. She looked at me for a few moments, said "You're my evil but good-looking twin," and walked away. I realized then that it might have seemed like I was flirting. I don't think I was, but then again, I'm never sure what qualifies as flirting. I've been told that I do it without even realizing it, and I've been told this for years. (I think The Ex was the first to make the observation.) Intentional or otherwise, after all this time I still must not be very good as it, since it never seems to work.

Later, a slightly fey boy in jeans a t-shirt told me that I was gorgeous and made him wishhe'd dressed up. I thanked him for the compliment, but the more I thought about it, the less I was sure what the rest of it meant. Was he saying he wished he'd put a little more effort into his own appearance as a boy since the girls were going to so much trouble? Or was he a queen out of uniform who read me as a fellow traveller? And, the really odd part was, I didn't feel very dressed up at all by my own goth club standards; I was dressed similar to how I'd been on Friday when the guy thought I was a nurse. Buetz, bondage pants, and the Final Girl shirt, which if it hadn't been a birthday present would have long since paid for itself by now. And, between the fact that I made the shirt a cutoff and the pants are much looser than I realized when I bought them, entirely too much of my midsection was showing. (Intentionally entirely too much, of course.) In any event, it was certainly the most butch I've ever dressed at a goth club, at least since that first night when Summer took me to Shrine before I started transitioning and I had to wear the same clothes I'd worn to work. And that was a zillion years ago. So I'm just accepting the compliment part and not ruminating too much about the rest of it.

So, overall a good night. The absence of certain friends was made up for by the presence of others, and that's what it's ultimately all about. Best of all, it's across from the Fifth and Mission Garage, so I may even go more than once in a while.

I've also been polishing/rewriting my new piece. Well, it's not entirely new anymore since I read the first draft on Tuesday, but it has my attention these days. (That, and my latest bit of Bad Goth Poetry for the group.) Saturday's going to be an important night, I think; it's the first time I've been invited to perform somewhere. The Adobe thing I pretty much orchestrated myself, and the reading with Danielle was also ultimately putting on a show with some friends. Not a damn thing wrong with that, and I hope to do it again soon. But this feels, and I really really really hesitate to use the word, more professional. (Although the only thing I'm doing professionally right now is assisting administratively. Everything else is just a hobby.)

All the same, I'm not particularly scared or nervous about the show. I just want to do my best.

12:32pm

I need to do my best in my artistic pursuits, because I'm failing so spectacularly in my professional life.

I asked for first class tickets. The Boss won't fly coach, at least not for more than an hour or so, citing leg room issues. Can't blame him for that, particularly when we're talking about a traversing the continent. I doublechecked a couple different times, and was told that they were first class. Since it was a "hold" and not a "reservation," it had all been done on the phone, nothing on the computer, nothing I could look at and print out, and boy, how Gen-X is that of me, not feeling it's real until I see it on a screen?

So. The American Express Reward Points get transferred over to his OnePass account. 135,000, the amount I was quoted for the flight that I have on hold—the flight which, I'm told, is first class. I call this morning to buy the tickets for real, using the 135,000 points. The tickets are bought. Irreversibly.

Guess what?

They're coach.

I am so fucked.

1:24pm

Okay. I can breathe again. Or, at least, walk normally.

The seats are first class, for real. For some reason nobody can determine, they just happen to be showing on the website and email as being coach. But, no, we have been assured, they are not. Better yet, I was able to have the downright angelic person on the phone speak directly to my boss and tell him they're first class, even though the confirmation email and website says otherwise. So if anything goes wrong with them, it will not be my fault. Relief. Much. And I have Embeth to thank for helping me keep it together. She talked me through it all on ICQ, having been in similar situations and possessing quite a few angelic qualities herself.

Best of all, unlike almost every other call throughout this whole mess, I wasn't called "sir" once. I must sound femmey when panicked.

2:35pm

Death Guild tonight? Why, yes.

sometime after midnight

you can always afford to lose a few points. pay it no mind.

Chupa told me about it the night of my reading with Danielle. Nothing was certain then, and we hoped the deal might fall through, but no such luck. The new owners may keep Chupa on, but then again, they may not. Shoot.

Oddly enough, neither Ixe nor Tristan's boyfriend M look anything like my three actual brothers (or, based on the one picture I've seen, the half-brother I've never met). Funny how that works.

don't talk to me about being alone...

7/25/03
8:05am *sigh* Well, how the hell was I supposed to know there wasn't a pharmacy? Nobody told me that. "The basement? There's no basement in the Alamo!" She said to come here at this time and day for a one-time emergency refill. And here I am. I get the feeling that the transgender clinic may be sufficiently set off from the rest of the services that the regular staff doesn't know much of anything about it.

So, it's going to take a little longer than I'd anticipated. Good thing I'm not picking up Kelly, so she won't have to be late on my account. They're going through the numbers slowly. I wonder how much time I lost from fussing over parking.

10:45am Y'know what? Nobody is fucking asking you to "go for that." Piss off. Which is what I want to say to the crackheads sitting next to me, who are reacting with no small amount of distaste to the tranny who just walked by. Y'all have got absolutely no room to talk. At least she has all her fucking teeth.

Okay, this is taking much longer than I'd anticipated. I'm surely ticketed by now, no question. Should have parked in the Civic Center Garage. I have no excuse, really. Cardinal Rule: everything takes longer than you expect. It's not as if I didn't know that.

I worry that I've slipped through the cracks, or that I skipped a step. I'm pretty sure that everyone who was here before me is gone. So. I should be front of the line...right? Yeah? Does that make some kind of sense? Is this thing on?

If I don't get out of here until after twelve, I might just call in and say I'm not going to work. There wouldn't be much point.

I wanted to know, didn't I?

11:15am Finally, my name is called. And now I'm a in a room. Above the doorknob is a piece of tape with the words "turn knob" and an arrow pointing to the right. Necessary information.

Interesting that person calling my name (pronouncing it correctly, I might add) was out in front by the triage waiting room, but I'd been instructed to wait furher in, outside of primary care.

This is one of those times in which a cell phone would be nice.

I wish I'd introduced myself to her. It sounds like she has some fascinating stories. Not that I haven't already heard a zillion dope fiend adventures, but still. And I could have complimented her on what she was wearing, of course.

12:00pm At least I brought a book this time. Finished it, in fact, the quarter of Dan Savage's Skipping Towards Gomorrah. What pisses me off is that I forgot (well, left in the car) my larger notebook with the Good Vibes applications. I could have had them all filled out by now, since the majority of it would copying from the old one. Oh well. I'll have to find time this weekend, like during the editing appointment tomorrow, the one which I'm so not canceling.

The person I was told to see has probably left by now.

12:15pm This is the kind of person I am: it took me an hour to even consider using the phone in this room. I called my office; hardly anybody's there, and those who are seem to be muddling by just fine without me. I tried calling Maddy, but got the voicemail, so she's either not home or the calls come through as unavailable.

(Someone just came in and told me they have a 12:15pm appointment but nobody's around. I told him I'm not an employee. He apologized and said I look like a nurse. Buetz, bondage pants, Exotic Dancers Union tank top and makeup, and I look like a nurse? Jesus.)

The cord between the handset and the cradle of the phone has a short. I'm sure it's very annoying for the people who work here, and I'm equally sure there's no money in the budget for that sort of thing. Next to the phone is a PC which I strongly suspect has internet access, but I'm going to give them another hour before I investigate. It's probably dialup, if at all.

Although I haven't eaten in five hours, I'm not hungry. No doubt I'll tear into the lahvosh when I finally make it back to the car, but for now, I feel like I'm in a holding pattern. Using the restroom sounds very nice, but I just know that when I do, someone will come by. And I don't dare leave my stuff in here, since, y'know, I don't want to lose any of it.

A pair of doctors were talking outside the door a couple minutes ago. They've since moved on, though I just heard some murmuring: "...male to female..." Whether it was them and they were talking about me, I don't know. If so, however, how much discussion do I require? They're gone altogether, though a (real) nurse just stuck her head in. Didn't say anything.

I do believe I've slipped through the cracks.

Danielle should be getting on a bus very soon, if all goes well. And since when have things not gone well?

Since he's the most qualified person I know, I asked Anders if an MTF tranny doing Marilyn Manson would qualify as a drag king act...

12:45pm Okay, here's my theory. I heard the triage nurse mention to a coworker that she normally doesn't do triage. Therefore, not sure what do with me and my request to see Lynnette so I can get a refill, she put me into the regular system. Thus, when I finally saw a doctor four and a half hours later, he said getting a refill was no problem at all. The regular triage people probably know how to fast-track these things. Alas, the one I got did not.

So, I eventually got a prescription for a premarin refill. The catch, as those who have come before me know, is that to get it for free it has to be filled at the Rite Aid at Market and Van Ness. The triage nurse had said something about a sliding scale if it was taken elsewhere, but I couldn't get an answer as to what the bottom end of that might be. Odds are nobody has ever asked.

Before going to the Rite Aid I went back to the car, which had of course been long since ticketed. Oh well. These things happen, and with all due respect to the people who refer to meter maids as Nazis (which is to say, no respect whatsoever), it was my own fault. Next time I'll park in the Garage, no matter how long I think it'll take.

Anyway, like all of its ilk, the Rite Aid in question is a thoroughly foul place, brightly lit with pop music playing. A circle in Hell of its own, although the cock rings and the penis enlarger were a nice touch, a reminder that civilization (and not, say, Fresno or the Midwest) awaited outside. They said the prescription would be available after six that evening. I asked how long it would be kept on the shelf, and was told twelve days. I got the impression that was a question which wasn't asked much, either. So I suppose I'll be going back there in the next week—I'm not quite out of premarin yet—and again many many many more times before I die.

sometime after midnight

the preceding has been a rhetorical ventilation and does not require interaction.

It's a good thing I have a week to obsess over what I'm going to read. I'll need it.

11:21pm

On the shelf next to the prescription drop-off window at the Rite-Aid at Market and Van Ness? Cock rings. Gawd, I love my City so much.

Danielle, Violet and I at the Drag King Contest on Sunday. Someday, I will learn to stand up straight in pictures. Be sure to check out the rest of the pictures, featuring lots of talented people with very good posture. (Why, yes, they're Posture Kings!)

10:31pm

No kittypr0n editing tonight. Instead, we went out to dinner with Danielle, Violet and Tristan. Danielle's heading back to Cleveland tomorrow on the bus—the airline ticket fundraising didn't quite pan out—and isn't looking forward to the three-day trip or the destination itself. But she also acknowledges that she isn't ready to live here again, either. Too many people offering her temptations which she isn't quite strong enough to resist. She's planning on visiting again for her birthday in October, and moving back for real next March when her lease runs out. We'll see how it goes, I guess. For now, though, she's asleep on our couch.

sometime after midnight

She needed the nap because she still had a long evening ahead of her, including packing for the trip and drinking Maddy's blood. The latter is something they'd been talking about since before Danielle arrived, and it took this long for them to finally get around to doing it. Danielle says it wasn't very salty, meaning Maddy's diet isn't too high in sodium. That's good news.

Violet and Danielle were originally planning on going to my reading in Berkeley, but instead went to a Junko Mizuno signing with Ted and Kelly. I would have done the same if I were them; Violet and Ted are both huge fans (Violet used one of her pictures in the original handbill for the Sacrifice reading), and Junko doesn't make it to the states very often. The timing was all wrong for Maddy to make it to Berkeley, and she wasn't really feeling up for it. Besides, she doesn't have to be at every reading. She can't be, really. Reading in rooms without any familiar faces is something I've done before and something that will happen again, so I might as well get used to it. It can be rather exciting, really, since there's never any telling what the reaction will be. And, though I've never encountered a hostile crowd, I suppose it will happen eventually.

In any event, Steven and Monique were of course there, as was Jennifer Bennett, who'd never heard me read before. (Nor I her, and she read a couple great pieces in the open mic.) It went well, I think. I'd managed to scrape together some new material, including the prose poem for the writing group tonight. (So, yes, that's right, I'm now officially writing bad goth poetry! I even used the word "pain!" Knock yerselves out with that one, kids!)

Monique told me after the show that I read for over half and hour, maybe upwards of forty minutes. I had no idea; evidently I lose track of time very easily. She didn't mind, and had even encouraged me towards the end when I'd asked her if I had time to do a couple more pieces. Steven said that I had the audience in the palm of my hand, similar to (e)'s comment about my performance at Sacrifice. Yay. I'll settle for simply not being boring, but that's pretty cool, too. I was also more conscious about my body and gestures while reading, trying to bring my body into it more. (e)'s influence, no doubt. She's as human as they come, but I still want to be her when I grow up.

Going straight home sounded nice, but instead I went to Steven and Monique's to pick up Steven's piece for the Panty Waste show on Friday. I got back into the City a little after ten and dropped it off at Balazo, where Chupa and Ricky Lee were still putting the show together. Though it was fascinating to watch (backstage always is), I was underfoot, so I headed out. "Home" and "bed" were ringing in my ears, but instead I went to Annie's, where a karaoke excursion had been suggested earlier in the day. I was already out, Maddy was long since asleep, Danielle was going to be leaving town in a few days, and so on and so forth.

Ted and Kelly arrived just a few minutes after I did, and the pointy-toothed couple shortly after them. Danielle had never done karaoke before, and indeed had the inherent hipster's distrust of it that we all share, but gave it a try. Ironically, her first song was "Me & Bobby McGee," which had been Maddy's first song as well. And it turns out they both have great C&W voices.

The fifteen year-old boy in me wanted to do Faith No More's "Epic" and the fifteen year-old girl was leaning towards No Doubt's "Don't Speak," but the thirty year-old sum of their parts was in no condition to sing at all. While my throat was nowhere near as raw as after Sacrifice, it was still a bit on the scrapey side; I'd vocalized enough for one evening, thank you very much. My leg was also starting to hurt, probably from exhaustion as much as anything else.

The comparative sharpness of Violet and Danielle's fangs was somehow brought up, and to demonstrate, they each bit me on an arm. Not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to be able to tell that Violet's are sharper. It makes sense because they're smaller, while Danielle describes her own as "Chimpanzee fangs." Violet was reluctant at first, playing the adult as he so often must her (my personal favorite line of his was "Danielle, you have to remember that not everybody is insane like you are") but when he saw that I was willing, his eyes practically widened. I can only imagine the willpower it took for him to go easy on me. I'd briefly considered telling him not to worry, but, quite frankly, a bleeding arm probably wasn't really what I needed, and I really don't know the communicable disease factor in armbiting. Although the scar would have been hella cool.

We finally left at half past one (Ted gently admonished me for not having gone home earlier, and he was right), and as I was giving Violet and Danielle a lift back home, we saw Zenyasha on the street near Civic Center. Danielle wanted to circle back around to her, but Violet, back to playing the adult, told me to keep going. More to the point, that it was perfectly okay if I didn't, that it was already a late enough night for me as it was and that even just taking them home was above and beyond. Although I kinda wanted to talk to her myself (she never did return my call, which I guess is what I get for choosing low priority), I'm glad he said that, because ultimately all I wanted to do was go home and get at least a little sleep. Danielle pouted for a few minutes, as is her wont when she doesn't get her way, but she got over it. Zenyasha was probably working anyway.

Not as tired today as I'd expected. It'll catch up with me when I finally get home tonight.

1:54pm

Okay. Reality check.

I still sound like a boy on the phone. No way around it. I've been called "sir" and "mister" way too often lately to believe anything else. When they already know my name I usually get "miss" or "ma'am," but very seldom otherwise. Whenever possible, I correct them, but it isn't always possible, particularly if it doesn't come up until the end of the call.

I'm going to have to learn to live with it. No tranny passes entirely, and there are surely those who do perfectly fine on the phone but not so well in the world. This is just the way the chips are falling for me, and least I am doing pretty well in the world. And while I don't like the use of the male terms, that is where I came from, and I can never entirely get away from it. Maybe I need to learn to accept that more.

Besides, it's not like I'm in anything resembling deep stealth. Being a tranny is a frequent subject of my writing (though not the only subject, thankfully), and there are strangers who know my birth name, because I made the conscious decision to speak about it in public. (I don't regret it, and will almost certainly do so again.) An argument could be made, then, that in getting upset about "sir" or the male pronoun I'm trying to having it both ways, especially when dealing with straight people who don't really understand any of it to begin with. It's not an argument I would make, but I can see where someone else might.

Evidently nobody on this end of the phone has a problem with my voice, though, since I've been asked to record the new voicemail greeting. It can wait a day or two until my throat is up to the task.

4:13pm

Reverend Michel's pictures of Danielle as Joey Hormone, and many other people as many other people, are here. (And don't miss Anders rocking out with The Woodyz.)

sometime after midnight

The writing group seemed to like my Bad Goth Poetry. (e) used the phrase "a shiv to the ribs," and considering that's how her stuff hits me...wow. Yeah. (Sophomore slump, here I come.)

The Boss is out of town until tomorrow, though he called yesterday. He's continuing to go remarkably easy on me regarding the other, bigger ticket problem. I'm still not getting quite enough slack to really fix things, but I gotta give him credit for his patience. Presumably that means that my job is still secure. And why it shouldn't it be? It's not like I'm expensive, and I get more things right than wrong, so there's no point in canning me. But I've been here a month now, so in theory I might possibly be getting something resembling a raise soon. For the time being, one of the my philosophies has been to take a page from Tallulah or Danielle's book: it's all just a trick. The difference, of course, is that I didn't get the money up front, so to speak, and even I know that's a mistake...

1:04pm

I managed last night to not think too much about being potentially responsible for getting a coworker lost in a Florida swamp. For starters, Maddy and I went to Balazo to drop off her contributions to Chupa's Panty Waste show on Friday. Chupa really liked them, saying they're the darkest pieces she's yet received, which is no small compliment. Of course, Steven hasn't brought his stuff by yet, but there's no shame in being second in darkness to a Satanic Priest.

Maddy's artwork has resulted in some ridicule and flaming from a site which specializes in that sort of thing. Ah, that's the beauty of the internet, isn't it? You can trash other people from a safe distance. Though I haven't read any of it, I'm told there's even been snarkiness about me being a tranny. How pathetic is that? I mean, jeez, I'm a goth who does spoken word, and that's the best they can do? That I have a dick? No wonder they put so much effort into ripping into other peoples' thoughts: they don't have an original one in their own heads. Anyway, I wonder if any of them will have the intestinal fortitude to come to the show and criticize Maddy to her face. I doubt it. They're probably not so brave in the real world, certainly not as brave as Maddy.

Afterwards, I dropped Maddy off back at home and went to the Canvas Gallery's Lit Night to see (e) read. It's the closest a poetry/spoken word event has ever been to my part of town, across the street from Le Video. The low energy level of the audience (commented upon by the performers before her as well) made her even more nervous than she would have already been. I did what I could to help her along, even if the geography of the space prevented me from joining her on most of her smoke breaks. She guestlisted me, so it seemed the very least I could do, and of course I would have done it anyway. A few people asked if I was her girlfriend, which I think is a sign of job well done.

When (e) finally went on she killed, as she always does. Brought them to life and then killed them, more like. Her performance gave me the inspiration necessary to polish and tighten up the new piece I've been working on for tonight. Ruminations and pictures from another of the performers are here.

you're asking for it when you exist in public. when you go amongst the jackals, you can't expect them not to rip you to pieces.

At least with the sfgoth group I was just one more. The tourists, even those who live in town, were having a field day with us. The standard issue jokes about goths not going into the sun or smiling were flowing like mad, and, as usual, the slightest degree of snarkiness in return from us resulted in a lecture about being more accepting of other people. you're freaks! roll over and behave, and don't talk back when we make fun of you! My personal favorite, from an older gentleman at the next table over: "I was being goth before you were born!" Uh, no, you weren't. Nice try, though.

Then there was the howler. Literally, it was a guy who would, every so often during the walk, howl at us. From a relatively safe distance, of course. He probably only would have done it up close if he'd had enough friends with him to make sure he didn't get his eye jabbed out by a parasol.

Other than those standard annoyances, the kind of thing you grow accustomed to if being yourself means not looking like everyone else (although, by the logic of the millions, being with a dozen or so people with a similar offbeat aesthetic somehow makes you less of an individual), it was fun. We somehow managed to make the two-hour walk take four hours; the after-walk ceremonies were over and the cleanup had begun by the time we reached the end. In addition to the fact that I like walking, I'd always envisioned at it as more of a social thing anyway. Ump was missed, but I got to hang out with Timbre, which is always nice. He so needs to get to know Lynnee.

I spent the latter half of the walk with a bouncy fourteen year-old kinderbat, one only just stumbled onto the scene. It took me a while to realize that the guy who always seemed to be trailing behind or off to the side was her father. Better to chaperone her than not let her participate at all. (I considered introducing myself to him, but decided that would be a little too much like I was going to date her or something.) I think she's going to fit in just fine, although probably not everyone is going to be as nonjudgmental as me about the fact that she's writing a vampire novel.

My legs were sore when it was over, but I wasn't feeling too beat for how far I'd walked. All the same, I wanted nothing more than to just go home and relax for the rest of the day. Instead, I trudged back to the car and drove to Violet's to pick up him and Danielle.

12:29pm

Don't you just hate that sinking feeling where you realize you may have fucked something up really bad? Like, when someone will be flying into Tampa when they should be going to St. Petersburg? Thankfully, the airports are all of thirteen miles from each other, but the car reservation is in St. Petersburg, and all the directions I got from Yahoo! are based around St. Petersburg, and all that time, on the itinerary, right there in front of me, it said Tampa. And it shouldn't have. It should have been St. Petersburg, but for some reason (probably idiocy) I got them for Tampa. Thankfully, it isn't the boss—although I still haven't fixed the snafu involving his tickets—but still. Whoops. Big whoops.

1:03pm

I may have been the one who'd been walking the sun all day long, but Danielle had the nap privileges. She dozed in the back seat, then slept for an hour at our place. I'm no longer starstruck by her—I think that ended at ForWord Girls last year—but there were still a few moments of Jesus Fuck, Danielle Willis is asleep on our bed! Violet, on the other hand, said we may want to burn the sheets. He said it in that tone which I've come to know well, one which sounds like pure snarkiness but which masks pure (platonic) love. In any event, she was fully dressed in what appeared to be mostly clean clothes—her Joey garb—so no immolation is necessary.

I've always hated waking people up, probably because of my fear of being annoying, and what's a greater nuisance than something which interrupts your sleep? And you never know how some people may react, even when they're expecting you to do it. I sat down on the bed gently, put my hand on her shoulder, said "Danielle, it's time to get up—"

—and she awoke with a start, though I think I was more startled than her. Years of sleeping in dodgy situations, I'd imagine, has resulted in an ability to wake up at a moment's notice in case anyone tries to do bad things to her. "Oh," she said, remembering where she was. "Hi, sweetie." We talked for a few minutes before she actually got off the bed, but it didn't take her long to get fully conscious. Not as long as it usually takes Maddy or Mina, anyway. The fact that Danielle operates on a slightly different level of consciousness probably helps.

Although Danielle's preference was "53rd and 3rd," that was no less obscure than "Bonzo Goes to Bitburg," so "I Wanna Be Sedated" was the final decision. There wasn't really much she could do in terms of practicing at our place without a mic stand, so I spent a lot of the time obsessing over what I was going to wear. I decided to switch gears from the comparative high-femme of what I'd worn the first half of the day to more of a boy look in the form of my plaid bondage pants and the shirt I'd bought at Michelle's garage sale last year. My hazy logic was that we were going to a drag show, so if I dressed too girly I might be read as a boy doing drag, but if I dressed more like a boy, I might be more likely to be read as a girl doing boy drag. (Of course, it's a completely accepting environment anyway, so it's not like it would really matter, now would it?). And the quasi-punk motif was because Danielle was doing Joey Ramone. Of course, Joey probably never wore a denim jacket on stage, but verisimilitude isn't everything.

Of course, it wasn't long after we arrived that I began to wonder if my logic hadn't been hazy so much as dim, since I was feeling very underdressed. Danielle assured me more than once that I looked just fine, and eventually she asked, in so many words, what my deal was. I told her the truth: it's difficult to remember, from moment to moment, that I'm no longer like I once was, so I tend to get more anxious about my appearance than I should. She understood.

After The Woodyz performed (with Anders rocking the mic for a few songs), the contest began. Danielle and I headed back stage, and Violet remained in the audience. Maddy stayed at home, as she didn't feel up for the large amount of standing the evening would entail, and isn't so big on drag shows, be they king or queen.) I assumed the stage mother role with Danielle, one which Violet was more than happy to relinquish for an evening. I was a little worried at first that Danielle would find me too clingy, since I was determined not to let her out of my sight, but she told me she appreciated having me watch over her. She knows she needs it, and she trusts me.

Of course, being a self-described pig and trannychaser, it's no skin off her back to have someone like me sticking close by. One of the acts used "Just What I Needed" by The Cars, a song to which I can't help but dance. (I couldn't see what was happening on stage anyway, plus the stage manager Melinda was dancing every so often as well, so I didn't feel guilty about it.) I noticed that Danielle was watching me rather than peaking around the edge of the curtain like she'd done for most of the other acts. When I commented on it, she said, "Well, yeah. It's almost pornographic." Not bad for wearing pants, even if they are fetishy pants.

Anyway, we rehearsed as best as we could, finding her a microphone stand and getting Joey's pose just right, or at least as right as we could do from the pictures we'd looked at online earlier in the day, fixing her hair, the whole nine yards. The only issue I could foresee was the fact that the person running the sound has a history with Danielle. (Of course she does. Everyone in the City does, it seems—except for Maddy and I, and I think that's also part of why her and Violet like us. We're pretty and baggageless.) It's a bad history, unfortunately, something involving a sugar daddy they shared. The net result was that there was no guarantee that the music would be cued up properly; I wanted the song to begin when Danielle walked out on stage and put the mic stand down. Nobody expects perfection from a lip sync, but still, I wanted her to be ready when the words began. (I took my stage mother role very seriously.) Unfortunately, when I spoke to the girl, as soon as she realized who I was talking about she turned and walked away from me, while I was in mid-sentence. Yay drama! It kinda makes me wonder how many other peoples' shitlists I'm now on because of my association with Danielle. Reminds me of when I first got into the local goth scene and became friends with c0g, who'd (intentionally or otherwise) stepped on just about every toe around.

And there were a few false starts when Danielle (billed as Joey Hormone, "Back from the dead to sniff some glue") finally went on, but otherwise it went great. I think. I didn't really get a good look, though I tried to take pictures. Danielle had fun, though, and that was really the whole point of the endeavor. It wasn't about winning, but simply having a good time. It wouldn't have been worth it otherwise.