My Face for the World to See (Part II): The Diary of Sherilyn Connelly a fiction July 21 - 31, 2004

Saturday, 31 July 2004 (voluntary entropy) 9:07am Back on stage as Karen Carpenter last night in Zippy. A good show. The audience laughed at more of the obscure jokes than usual, and I got a round of applause after my first appearance. That was surely in response the well-written scene itself more than anything to do with my performance, but it still felt nice. Because I'm an utter whore for that sort of thing, in case you hadn't guessed. So is anyone else who willingly gets on stage. I don't care how noble your stated intentions are. Maybe you really do think your words can change the world, but that doesn't mean you don't want the (proverbial or otherwise) blowjob, too. Anyway, after the curtain call I usually go backstage and change out of my costume. Last night was different: Lynnee's One Freak Show was immediately afterwards our play, and he wanted to interview me on stage in character. A terrifying idea, since character improvisation is not my strong suit. Naturally, I agreed. Not having attended Zippy yet, it was the first time Lynnee had seen me in Carpenter mode, what with the white dress and brown wig and relatively light makeup. (I do cheat a little on the makeup, I must confess; the final touch is the Morbid Makeup white face powder from Hot Topic. Real old school. Hell, it's one I bought in '99 but never used.) He seemed suitably blown away, as did a friend of his who came to see his show and didn't realize at first that I was still in costume, asking "Did you give up the goth thing?" Not too soon, but at least now I know it can be done. Lynnee talked about women's body images, the media, that sort of thing. We hadn't prepared much, so I didn't know what directions he wanted me to do, but I did the best as I could. I felt like I was floundering and falling flat, but I did get some laughs from the small but enthusiastic audience. Then he did a very cruel thing: he asked me if I would sing. I'm still not entirely comfortable singing in the play, even with full music and my voice being processed through the effects thing, never mind a capella without any effects at all. Once again, it was an opportunity too scary to turn down. I took a swig of water, spit some of it out against the wall (didn't Karen Carpenter used to do that?), and belted out the chorus of "Superstar." Since that's all of the song I sing in the play, I never memorized the first verse. It's probably just as well. After the show and a late-night taqueria run with Lynnee (it's weird being in those places knowing that you're one of the only sober customers), Maddy and I returned home to find a couple messages on the voicemail from her father. Seems her paternal grandmother is in the hospital. By the time of the second message, which would have been right about the time I was noshing on a burrito at Farolito's at 24th and Mission, her condition had improved. But still. Troubling news. I'm reading at Ladyfest later this afternoon, and the final show of the first run of Zippy is tonight. (The extended run is the second and third weekends of August.) Other than that, there's no telling what the immediate future holds. 11:43pm Jesus Fucking Christ. Can I call a do-over on the last twenty-four hours? There were a few good things, but mostly it's been an emotional rollercoaster, one of the kinds where they remove all the fun parts and keep the ones which make you want to puke your guts out. I just found out that Corrinne is trouble with her bosses at the rehab clinic, who claim that Lynnee and I "glamorized" drugs. If she wasn't already leaving for another position, they'd fire her. Fuck me gently with a chainsaw, how clueless can they get? And that's just what I learned in the last twenty minutes. Even without that, July 31, 2004 would still be one of the harsher days in recent memory. For me, anyway. I don't know about you. Last | Top | Next

Friday, 30 July 2004 (relating to the ultimate purpose) 1:05pm If I still had a cell phone—and I'm glad I cancelled the service, since the fees would be seriously painful right now—I would really, really want one of these. I might be inclined to actually use the phone. 2:11pm ...And Beyond the Inifinite, Part 1. The smart thing would have been to have left San Diego on Friday morning, to get a headstart and beat the worst of the traffic. In theory, I could have even been back in San Francisco in time to see (but not be in) Zippy. That was the original plan, and if we hadn't been asked to speak at the class, that's exactly what we would have done. But we weren't going to refuse the request. Anna Joy drove, and we picked up Michelle and Rocco at their hotel, arriving at the Toussaint Teen Center at a quarter past one. The class consisted of a little over a dozen kids, in their mid to late teens. I recognized a few of them from Siren the night before, including Mars. Corrine had them each introduce themselves and say a word or two about why they write. We (Lynnee, myself, Anna Joy, Rocco and Michelle) all did the same, and answered questions. It felt odd to be on a something resembling panel with people like Lynnee and Michelle, as though we were colleagues or something. In spite of the fact that Lynnee and I had been nanotouring together, I still don't feel at all up to his or Michelle's level. I know I'm not. Still, to the kids in the class, I suppose I might have been close. There was a lot of discussion about a 'zine which they're putting together, a final project for the class. Most of what Corrine had shown us the night before would be going in it. The title was undecided and still a subject of much debate. No surprise there. I have a hard enough time with them myself, let alone deciding by committee. Michelle was due at a Comic-Con signing and Anna Joy was her ride, so by two it was just Lynnee and I. (Anna Joy said she'd come back for us.) Corrinne suggested we read some of our work. I decided probably the most San Francisco-centric story I have, about a particularly harrowing bus ride on acid, one which I'd consciously decided not to read the last few nights because it presupposed a basic knowledge of the City's geography. Though she's never been, however, Mars is fascinated by San Francisco. She asked if there was still "life in Haight-Ashbury," which is an interesting way to put it. Sometimes there's entirely too much life there for my taste. Anyway, I figured she would appreciate the fact that the story is partially set in the Haight, and it also fit in nicely with the theme of writing about drugs without glorifying them. Before I started to read, Lynnee asked, What Do You Have There, Sherilyn? Thankfully, I picked up one what he was doing pretty quickly, especially by my standards. it's a chapbook. What's A Chapbook? well, i'm glad you asked... Reading the story to the class was one of the more fulfilling things I've ever done. Being there at all was pretty special, of course. For as much as that week had been about Lynnee and I being rock stars, this felt like we were actually doing a little bit of good. What a concept. When I finished, I gave the chapbook ("Substance") to Mars. She asked me to sign it, which always surprises me. As I kneeled in front of her desk, trying to think of something profoundly witty and or wittily profound to write, Corrine discussed the story with the class. She made a couple pronoun slips. I'd decided to let the first one go, but gently corrected the second one. She apologized sincerely, and I accepted it. None of the kids seemed to pay it any mind. Lynnee then read from the beginning of Godspeed, also very much set in San Francisco but still quite accessible. They loved it, of course. He had three or four books which he hadn't sold, so he gave them to the class. They got snatched up pretty quickly. Seeing how disappointed Mars was that she didn't get a copy, I went to her desk and promised her that she'd get one eventually. (And she did.) Inspired by Lynnee's generosity, I offered up the stack of chapbooks I had left. I suggested that if anyone was worried that maybe something they wanted to write about was a bit too personal or embarrassing, they should read the first story in "Sublimation" to see just how high (or low) the bar on self-disclosure can get. Who knows. Maybe I inspired one of them into getting something off their chest that had been weighing heavily. It's a nice thought, anyway. Anna Joy picked us up, and now the smart thing would have been for her take us back to her place so we could hop in his car and head northward. (She was disappointed that we weren't going to stay in town for the reading she had that night with Bucky Sinister and Michelle, but understood our reasons for leaving. As it turned out, I think she would have been happier if she'd left with us.) Instead, we had lunch at a fish taco joint she'd been raving about. When she suggested it, neither of us objected; there was a similar place in Hollywood to which Lynnee had wanted to hit but didn't, so this seemed the next best thing. Goddamn, it was delicious. I even discovered that the really good hot sauce at the taqueria with the killer vegan soyrizo burritos at 24th and Valencia is chipotle sauce. Mmmmm. Good to know, because I need more condiments in my life. Corinne's college thesis was about cutting, Anna Joy informed us. Corinne herself has never engaged in it, but she's obviously fascinated by it in others. Not surprisingly, it's something many of her students do. Lynnee pointed out that it's something I could have talked to them about, and I suppose that's true (even though I've never written about it in-depth), but it's not like it was brought up while we were there. Besides, there were a lot of things I could have talked about but didn't, mostly for time reasons. (The gender issue, to name but the most obvious one.) Anna Joy suggested that there were surely similar programs and classes in San Francisco. Something to look into. So, full and slightly tired after a large meal, Lynnee and I hit the road at half past three and began the roughly two-hour jaunt to Los Angeles. Last | Top | Next

Thursday, 29 July 2004 (not unconcerned but not alarmed) 9:50am Lynnee's One Freak Show opened last night. The turnout was, um, less than stellar. Like so many other underattended events at The Dark Room, those of us who were there felt sorry for those who weren't. I'd say they really missed out on something special, and in a way they did, but they still have a few more opportunities. Being at the show, I missed hearing John Edwards' acceptance speech live. This is why Our Lady of Switching Packets provides us with things like transcripts: But today, our great United States military is stretched thin. We've got more than 140,000 troops in Iraq, almost 20,000 in Afghanistan. And I visited the men and women there, and we're praying as they try to give that country hope. Like all of those brave men and women, John [Kerry] put his life on the line for our country. He knows that when authority is given to a president, much is expected in return. That's why we will strengthen and modernize our military. We will double our Special Forces. We will invest in the new equipment and technologies so that our military remains the best equipped and best prepared in the world. This will make our military stronger. It'll make sure that we can defeat any enemy in this new world. But we can't do this alone. We have got to restore our respect in the world to bring our allies to us and with us. It is how we won the Cold War. It is how we won two World Wars. And it is how we will build a stable Iraq. Huh. Okay. I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say that a Kerry-Edwards administration will not end the occupation of Iraq. How will "we" build a stable Iraq? By strengthening the military. I'm well aware of just how stretched thin and undersupplied the current troops are, but I seriously doubt this will result in improving conditions for individual soldiers, especially given the likelihood of a reinstated draft. I also gotta give his speechwriter props for invoking the Cold War. Very clever, since the popular myth is that Reagan won it. Can't hurt to be associated with Ronny right about now. And here's one for the philosophers: how many times can you double Special Forces before they just aren't special anymore? (If someone else wants to make the "Very Special Forces" joke, go right ahead. I ain't gonna.) Last | Top | Next

Wednesday, 28 July 2004 (the mystery of iniquity) 10:20am San Diego... The drive from Orange to San Diego was the beginning of the end of navigational luck. Anna Joy had given me directions to her place over Lynnee's cell earlier in the day, but I'd done it with a shaky hand and didn't quite trust my scrawl. We called her when we got closer, and she assured me that I got it right in the first place. Believe me, it was wise to second-guess myself. Though we arrived well after midnight, Anna Joy stayed up to meet us. (Her spouse Ali was out of town.) Her and Lynnee were still talking when I finally went to bed. It's fascinating watching the two of them together. They're like an old married couple—or, more accurately, an old divorced couple who still care deeply for each other, even if it doesn't take too long for them to remember why they broke up in the first place. I don't sleep much to begin with. I sleep less in someone else's bed. And I sleep even less that that if I'm sharing the bed with someone with whom I'm not physically intimate, like Lynnee. (I dig butches, and I've seen some trannyboys who make me feel downright hetero, but he really isn't my type. Besides, he's more like an older brother at this point, and, well, can you saw "Ew?") After about five hours, I was up and around again, which is about two hours longer than I managed in Flipper's guest bedroom. God. Both people we stayed with had guest bedrooms, and with very comfy beds at that. I need to not get too used to it, since there's surely couch and floor-surfing in my future. Thursday morning, of course, sucked. Discovering I'd left behind the laptop cord (among other things), Anna Joy missing calls because of me tying up the phone lines and somehow running late for her teaching gig at UCSD as a result, and just a general sense that things had peaked the night before and the downhill slide had begun. Turned out not quite to be the case, but there would be a certain roughness to the next forty-eight hours which Lynnee and I managed to ride out nicely. Part of the problem was that we had no idea what to do with ourselves; San Diego doesn't offer quite as much to look at as Hollywood (which itself is overrated), and certainly not within walking distance of Anna Joy's house. We considered venturing into Tijuana, but the timing was all wrong, as much as I would have liked to get vicodin for Maddy. Anna Joy's horror stories about the border guards didn't help, either. Doesn't mean I'll never go, but while still on his first cup of coffee Lynnee suggested I could go by myself. Um, no. Then again, there's a lot to be said for not doing much of anything. Lynnee told me this was one of his most relaxing trips in a long time, since I let him sleep as late as he likes, nor do I rush him when he finally does wake up. Evidently his bandmates are much more likely to roust him out of bed early and drag him around. I wouldn't have guessed them to be morning people. Anna Joy suggested La Jolla, which features less pharmaceutical drugs but more seals. It seemed as good a way to spend a few hours, so we left in the early afternoon, her handwritten driving instructions as our guide. Problem was, she accidentally said to go east on a certain highway. In California, the ocean is towards the west. We'd gone about five miles before realizing we were headed in the wrong direction. Five miles as the vulture flies, that is. As the car drove, those five miles took an hour. At first we figured it was that Southern California traffic we'd been learning to adore so much, and that La Jolla was a remarkably popular destination, even for a Thursday afternoon. Nope. The traffic was backed up because of an accident in the median. It wasn't even an especially spectacular accident, but by god, as Americans it is our birthright to slow down to gawk at the misfortunes of others. If we don't, then the terrorists have already won. It struck me that even though it had been on Tuesday night, the Parlour Club gig felt like it had been ages ago. Lynnee said time has a tendency to warp while touring. I get that. By the time we reached La Jolla, the gas gauge was on empty. We managed to find a station in time—we even called AAA to ask for the nearest one, just in case—but damn, disaster was clearly determined to strike. Like when I called Maddy on Lynnee's cell at the station. Well, I don't have one of those things, so I didn't know you weren't supposed to use them near a fuel pump. No sparks and/or explosions, obviously. We eventually found a place to park, saw the seals (and a squirrel!), went down into a cave, got stared at (cf. squirrel picture), and marvelled at the very whiteness of the area. And, of course, the galleries. La Jolla clearly needs more brown people serving white people as they walk past galleries. Somehow, following the same instructions we'd used to get to Anna Joy's house the night before, we exited the freeway in the wrong place. Still not sure how that happened, except that it simply had to happen. We made it back to Anna Joy's in one piece, ate, cleaned up and ventured back into the world. I had a feeling our luck was finally about to run out, but we made somehow made it to David's Coffee House on time. Even got rock star parking in front, as we had the night before in Orange, and would probably have in Hollywood had we not walked to the Parlour Club from Flipper's. Because, well, you know. The show itself took place in the back patio area, and it was packed, as as host Abby Schwartz assured us it would be. Siren's open mic is women-only (men are allowed and encouraged to be in the audience), and although Lynnee and I were invited, I still couldn't help but feel nervous. I've never personally encountered the famous feminist/lesbian prejudice towards transsexuals, but there's always a first time, and I can't help thinking it seems more likely to happen outside San Francisco. Even beyond the fact that I was born with and still possess a penis, while Lynnee was born female, he identifies as a boy. (When he has to pick one or the other, that is. Otherwise, he's both and neither.) Some might say we're odd pair to feature at the one-year anniversary of a show whose mission is "to provide a safe space in which female artists may inspire and support one another via the expression of the creative arts." As I looked over my pages, I was beginning to get a sense of what a grind touring can be. And, really, I use "tour" in the loosest sense of the word. Three nights in one half of a state? Please. That isn't a tour. It's a minitour, a microtour, a nanotour. Real tours last ten times as long and are a hundred times more grueling. Was I already feeling just the slightest, teeniest bored with the material, all fifteen minutes of it, that I'd already read two nights in a row? Imagine an hour or longer, kiddo. I didn't want to read anything different, though. I was happy with my little set, and nobody but Lynnee had already heard it. I could only hope he wasn't finding it too tedious. Stronger than any sense of self-doubt or repetition was the sense of i don't want this to end. it feels like we're only just getting rolling. do we really have to go home tomorrow? A woman named Corrine introduced herself. A former student of Anna Joy's, she teaches a writing class at a shelter and rehab clinic called the Toussaint Teen Center. A few of her students were reading in the open mic, in fact. Were Lynnee and I still interested in speaking to her class on Friday, as Anna Joy had suggested? We assured her we were. Michelle and Rocco, in to promote Rent Girl at Comic-Con (among other things), would also be joining us. Lynnee said he could tell I was nervous before I went on. It was probably only obvious to him. It was the most immediate, intimate crowd so far, with the front row just a couple feet away from the microphone. Anna Joy arrived from work a few minutes after I began, and made her way up through the audience to take an extreme front-row seat on the ground, practically at my feet. I was terribly flattered that she went to so much trouble, when she could have just as easily stood at the back of the audience near the door. Having recently gotten hitched herself, she laughed hard at certain parts of my piece about getting married. She's obviously been getting the same junk mail. Guess what? They loved us. Much merch was sold. Not so much of mine, actually, but definitely Lynnee's, and that's okay. The audience was very generous when the hat was passed around, and I always make more from that than actually selling stuff. They got the "processing" joke. There'd been a few obvious laughs in Hollywood (Guin and Ryka), and a polite smattering on Wednesday (they parsed it from context), but this audience really got it, as only an alt-fem crowd would. My favorite bit of praise came from a very small woman who appeared to have been in a fairly nasty accident, possibly but not necessarily involving fire. Only one of her eyes was still functional, and neither of her hands appeared to be fully fingered. After she said how much she liked my set, I returned the compliment, telling her (truthfully) that she was my favorite of the open mic readers for a simple reason: she was loud. Even from inside, where the sound was muffled, her voice was audible. She clearly wanted to be heard, and made sure she was. I respect that. After we talked for a while, she said I was "beautiful and complete," and gave me a long hug. That was pretty nice. Michelle and Rocco didn't get into town until well after the show. Along with Anna Joy and Corrine, we congregated at a wonderfully sleazy 24-hour diner. (The place Anna Joy had originally wanted to take us, which she described as staffed by bears (i like sunbears!), was closed.) It was frequented by all manner of tweakers and, evidently, inbred folk down from the mountains. Kinda reminded me of certain places in Fresno, actually. Anyway, Corrine showed us the writing of some of her students. A lot of it was really damned good. Rocco seemed particularly impressed by the work of a girl named Mars. Corrine said she'd like us to speak to her class about how it's not only possible to write about one's experiences with drugs (and other heavy stuff) without glorifying them, it's completely okay. Memoirism without shame? That, I can talk about. Last | Top | Next

Tuesday, 27 July 2004 (all her might) 1:30pm Only a couple hours left until the end of an unexpectedly short work week. This feels so weird. Until I find another job (yeah, right) or my hours here are returned to normal (please refer to previous parenthetical interjection), at least I'll finally have time to exercise again. (Bet you were expecting another "yeah, right," weren't you?) 2:25pm Everything still feels very...flat. Last | Top | Next

Monday, 26 July 2004 (a dream upon waking) 6:19am I'm hosting Lit at the Canvas tonight, which will feature Scarlet Harlot, David Henry Sterry and Lady Monster, among others. Lynnee's show at the Dark Room starts this week. Zippy has been extended to the second and third weekends in August. I just sent off the contract for I Do/I Don't. Jennifer Blowdryer is interested in me contributing to a book she's editing. Ryka really wants me for her show in November, and there's a good chance I'll be able to build another microtour around it. And even though I have to go back to work this morning, work isn't all that bad, really. My Boss will surely continue to pretend I don't exist, and I have several zillion gigs of music on my hard drive, and I get to leave at half past three, and...it pays the rent so I can't complain, even if last week felt like my real career. The sadness I'm feeling right now will pass. 12:10pm As I'd been warned might happen, my hours have been reduced significantly. More significantly than I'd expected, in fact: I'm now working two days a week. My Supervisor actually managed to talk My Boss out of reducing me to none days a week, as had been His original idea. I guess that's a good thing. I'm not as upset about this as one might expect. While it does suck—steady income good!—it doesn't feel like my world collapsing in on itself, like when I lost my CNET job. Things are going to be tough, but Maddy and I can handle it. More time to look for another job, write, maybe even find some way to combine the two concepts. Yeah, yeah, I know the odds are against it. Just trying to be positive, y'know? Visualize, actualize... 2:05pm Orange. As you may have guessed, Orange is in Orange County, famed as the birthplace of Richard Nixon and home of the John Wayne Airport. The Ugly Mug is on a block which strongly reminds me of The Tower Distrct in Fresno, a bastion of self-styled hipsterism in the midst of conservative country. Ironically, it's part of Old Town Orange, complete with a town square and everything. (According to myth, town squares were where people congregated before malls rendered them irrelevant.) (I mean, really, would you rather go somewhere that has a boring ol' gazebo, or an Orange Julius? I rest my case.) As Lynnee and I ate at a surprisingly good Japanese restaurant, I read an article in the community newspaper about collecting syrup dispensers. The venue itself is a house. Literally. The stage and couches of the main performance area used to be the living room, and there are rows of chairs in what probably used to be the dining room. I wasn't entirely sure that was the case until I used the restroom, and realized I'd been in houses exactly like it in Fresno. Pretty cool, actually. They used the guns picture for their July events Calendar. Lynnee wasn't quite digging the small-town vibe as much as I was. He gets understandably nervous when it isn't an obviously queer-friendly crowd, and was worried that we wouldn't be well-received. (I think I'm still too new at this to have developed that anxiety. The villagers haven't come after me with the torches and pitchforks just yet.) So, we asked the group of people sitting on the porch what the audience is usually like, what they expect, that sort of thing. Not that it really mattered. A short, very cute Girl with dark hair, bangs and glasses—my type, Lynnee observed—told me that although she worked at the cafe, this was her first time actually coming to the show. so you read the bios for lynnee and i and figured we looked too interesting to miss, huh? Actually, I'm Here Because I Think You're Really Hot. oh. wow. thank you. i'll try my best to make it worth your while. A really stupid thing to say, but, I was a tad floored, y'know? A perfect stranger (and a hottie at that) made a point of being at the show because she thought I was attractive. Again, wow. No pressure. Even though the crowd was mostly comprised of straight boys (as Lynnee had predicted it would be), I wasn't nervous at all. They'd either dig me or they wouldn't. It helped that they had no idea what to expect, and probably no particular ideology regarding gender or sexuality. If I was completely alien to them it would become obvious fast, since I'd been opening with a story about drinking Maddy's blood. Seems like a good litmus test, and I haven't lost anyone yet. I did try to edit out, or at least explain, some of the more obscure San Francisco references. There were at least two whompers in the audience, but I did not edit my material accordingly. Very little of what I write (or read aloud, anyway) is family-friendly in the first place. With a little advance warning I can compensate, but otherwise I tend to plow right ahead as usual. None of it is shock for shock's sake. Well, okay, maybe a little... As usual, I closed my set with the biblical necro-erotica piece which had inspired Vaginal into singing "Hosanna" from JSC the night before. (If I read it at all, I kinda have to close with it. Anything after it would be anticlimactic.) The girl approached me and said, That Was...One Of The Most Incredible Things I've Ever Heard. Really. I Almost Had An Orgasm In My Chair. What can you say to that? I thanked her for one of the best compliments I've ever received. It was right up there with Carol Queen fanning herself off. Nobody else admitted to quite as strong a physical reaction, but they loved us all the same. Plenty of merch was sold and signed, and there was much chatting up. I got asked twice how long I've been reading in public, oddly enough. I talked for quite a while with a Long Beach bookstore owner who expressed interested in carrying Lynnee's Godspeed, as well as my chapbooks. She also wants us to do a reading there. Cool. (I'm not jaded enough yet to hate bookstore appearances. Give me time.) We briefly considered going out to said bookstore to drop off a few books, but it was getting late and we still had to drive to San Diego. Besides, Lynnee figured it would be just as well to mail them from SF and hang onto the dozen or so copies he still had, since we had a gig Thursday night and there was no telling how much merch we'd need. He was quite right about hanging onto them, but not just for that reason. sometime after midnight Lit at the Canvas was a success, and I got many compliments on my mad emceeing skillz, including some from folks who are no slouches in that department themselves. The evening got off to a less than promising start, however, as I discovered upon arrival that not only had we been moved into a distant corner (due to complaints from the laptop crowd, no doubt), but we weren't going to get the use of the resident mic and speakers. Thankfully, pity was taken and we were granted amplification. The new location actually worked out nicely, and it was a nice change of pace not to get dirty looks from pasty guys buried in their iBooks. Meanwhile, for financial reasons, I'm strongly considering canceling the next Wicked Messenger. My income stream has dried up in a big way, and while the show has always been a labor of love, renting The Dark Room for that evening is not an expense I can justify. I have no reason to believe people are going to suddenly start attending. Last | Top | Next

Sunday, 25 July 2004 (singularities) 9:47am Yep. That would be two articles about Zippy so far, in the Chronicle and the Weekly, which fail to even hint at the show-stopping presence of a certain weight-obsessed guardian angel. No biggie. Lynnee and I made it into Vaginal Davis' blog, and that's what matters: Guest hosted the UnHappy Hour. Nice intimate crowd came to hear spoken word peformances by the great Lynn Breedlove of Tribe 8 fame. Lynn is hysterical. She only read a bit from her novel Godspeed, the rest of the time was her stream-of-conscienceness monologue----brilliantine. Her goth tranny friend from San Francisco Sherilyn "Fenn" Connelly was also quite good, she read a very amusing teen Hosanna tale and another remin about Danielle Willis, the vamp writer i remember from the zine years. So there you go. I won't get mentioned in articles about the next production at The Dark Room, either, since I'm not likely to be in it: Duck Soup. As in, the Marx Brothers movie. As in, one of my favorite movies and easily the greatest comedy ever made. Unless they decide to do some seriously nontraditional casting, there simply isn't a role for me. What, Margaret Dumont? I don't think so. 11:02am Hollywood. Small crowd at the Parlour Club on Tuesday night, composed largely of friends and allies. In spite of the neato fly0rs, the actual promotion of the show left something to be desired. Then again, I know you can promote a show like mad and still be ignored. Never any telling. Of all the people I told about the show, only one (1) showed up, Ryka. Hadn't seen her for a while, and she was looking quite good. She invited me back in November to perform at a quarterly event she hosts called Transgiving. I'm going to try my best, and hopefully Lynn can make it too. We've come to the conclusion that we're a pretty good team, both in terms of traveling and performing. I need to not be so hung up about the people who weren't there. So he doesn't give a shit. He couldn't even be bothered to tell me he wouldn't be there, to pretend like it matters to him, if only to reciprocate for being such a supporter of his music when I was a teenager. But that's different, isn't it? That's rock and roll. You know, the good shit. Not boring stuff like spoken word or, god forbid, poetry. (Neither Lynnee nor or I do poetry, but pick pick.) Is that news? Was I not aware of this before? No, it isn't, and yes, I was. Guinevere Turner came to see Lynnee, but she liked my work, too. When I can actually distinguish faces in the audience, I select three or four people as gauges for how I'm doing, and she was into it. Even left with some chapbooks. We moviegeeked in unison, as Lynnee was trying to remember that movie with Angelina Jolie and the Mini Coopers: "Actually, that was Charlize Theron in The Italian Job." She laughed and said we should go on a game show together. Also in the audience was Deadlee, an openly gay gangsta rapper. At first Lynnee and I were a little suprised to see this hardcore thug guy come in and watch the show, until he introduced himself. That's the beauty of it, really; I wonder how many people refuse to believe he's queer. He has his own very gay club—no fagz allowed, though. Heh. Him and Lynnee talked about doing a track together. There's a lot more drinking at spoken word events in LA. Before the end of the evening—hell, before the show even began—everyone but Breedpal and I seemed sloshed. Hey, if that helps them enjoy it more, so much the better. Teetotaler or not, the inebriation was contagious. I talked to Ryka after the show, who admitted to being a little on the schnookered side herself. Before long I found myself thinking, i am way too baked to be having this conversation. Except that I was not, in fact, baked. Although I had some marijuana biscotti in my bag, I remained straight throughout the entire trip. I just felt stoned. After my set, Vaginal (in boy mode, sadly) led the audience in a chorus of "Hosanna" from Jesus Christ Superstar. If you've seen me read recently, you know why. Looking for puppy gun at a novelty store earlier that day, a woman asked how tall I was. She said her first son was really tall, and she was planning on having another child, and...naturally, suspecting that she was reading me as male, I went into heavy spin mode. "Oh, you should see my mother, or my sister for that matter. I'm the youngest of four tall girls." Is that being in stealth, even though that very same evening I spoke about being a tranny? Is it ethically questionable to fib on occasion? The Hollywood sign was visible from the street outside Flipper's house. I have to admit, I thought that was pretty cool. When we left town on Monday, Lynnee discovered the danger of letting me buy the road snacks: I go for the white food. Not food for white people, per se, but literally white food. Lavash, rice cakes, tofu, popcorn—even the blue corn tortilla chips were spiritually white. Lynnee wisely brought hot sauce, and we used the better part of a bottle on the popcorn. I think he was surprised my taste for it, even though I originally got the idea from him at K'vetch. (I don't much care for Tabasco brand, which means I'm not turning into my father, right? Right.) During the readings, I used the anecdote as an intro to my piece about drinking Maddy's blood. All things considered, Lynnee and I didn't eat as badly as I'd feared. We stocked up on veggies and stuff at a store on Tuesday afternoon and fended for ourselves as much as possible after that. Lynnee likes to cook, which helps a lot. On Wednesday afternoon, after visiting with some old San Francisco friends of Lynnee's who'd relocated to Los Angeles (and they are legion), we wandered down Hollywood Boulevard. Man. Tourist hell, and yet as seedy as I've heard. The "celebrity impersonators" walking about only increased the weirdness factor. The Marilyn Monroe and Charlie Chaplin vague-a-likes struck me as hypocritical more than anything else, seeing as how Hollywood betrayed them both. Why not just go all the way, with Fatty Arbuckle or Frances Farmer? It makes about as much sense as Elvis impersonators in Vegas. Lynnee was all excited about the idea of seeing a movie at Grauman's Chinese Theatre. I was initially intrigued for historical reasons, but my enthusiasm dropped sharply when I discovered that it had become a googolplex. That just hurts. Still, I didn't want to let him down, so I said yes. Thankfully, I, Robot was just starting, sparing me the mental and emotional indignity of White Girls. At eleven dollars a ticket, though, even a restored print of Eraserhead introduced by Lynch himself would have been painful. The custodian in women's restroom at Grauman's was giving Lynnee the extreme hairy eyeball. Same shit, different year. Finally, he grabbed his pecs (breasticles to you) and said, "What? Whaddaya want? I got tits! See?" We left without further incident. We arrived in Hollywood around midnight on Monday, so the traffic wasn't too bad. The drive to Orange on Wednesday evening was our first real exposure to the famed Southern California traffic. It would not be the last. 6:46pm I don't want to go back to work tomorrow. Last | Top | Next

Saturday, 24 July 2004 (arc descents) 1:52pm Lynnee and I got in at half past four this morning, after a thirteen-hour drive from San Diego. (According to Yahoo!, the trip should have only taken eight hours. It was not the smoothest part of the week.) Tired, alert, fulfilled, hungry, happy to be home, sad to be home, forever changed. Returning in November, we hope. Longer, surely fragmented report to follow. Last | Top | Next

Thursday, 22 July 2004 (above the border) 11:44am Experienced friends have suggested an inevitability of touring is accidentally leaving something behind somewhere. I'd hoped that the fact that I was going to be gone for barely a week and only be staying in two places—hardly even qualifying as a tour—would greatly reduce the chances of that happening, but, well, I am a tard. That little detail changes everything. We're at Anna Joy Springer and Ali Liebgott's house in San Diego, and I'm using Anna's laptop instead of my own. Why? Because it has XP? No. (It's refreshing, though. I like our PowerBook with Mac OS X well enough, but I simply prefer Windows. It's more intuitive for me. Deal with it.) (Actually, what I'm really missing is the Linux Mandrake 9.2 on my computer at work. It's a sweet ride.) (Which does not mean I'm missing work. Far, far from it. Don't wanna go back.) Because she has a cable modem? No, although the 1771.6 kpbs transfer rate is making me seriously squishy inside. No, it's because I left the friggin' power cord for my laptop at Flipper's house in Hollywood. It'll be easy enough to pick up on the way home tomorrow, and I know Lynnee won't give me any shit about it given his own not-so-ancient history of misplacing things, but still. Fuck. I am Megatard. Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair. Other than that, things have been remarkably well. So well, in fact, I worry that our luck peaked last night with our rock star turn in Orange—they loved us, and I received one of my greatest ego-strokes ever—and it's all downhill from here. Certainly Thursday has gotten off to an ignominious start, what with me discovering my lack of a power cord, and then Anna missing a call because I was bogarting her phone (I didn't know Lynnee's cell was deep in his bag, and being a normal human being he was still asleep), and...feh. No. I'm not going to think like that. We have less than thirty-six hours left, and they are not going to suck. We're going to make the most of them, and have another great show tonight. Neener. I'll be writing about these last few days soon enough; I'm still scrawling details into my notebook as fast as I can think of them. Ideally, I'd be already typing them out into something quasi-coherent, but, well, as has been established my personal laptop time is of course limited, and...have I said feh yet? However today and tomorrow may go, the first three days of this little adventure rocked. So I'll consider it a success no matter what. 2:14pm Found on Anna and Ali's fridge. The original author is unknown. (But I'll bet someone reading this can tell me.) Solace I know, I know, it's tough. I know. It's tough. I know. It's tough. I know it's tough. I know. I know. It's tough. I know it's tough. I know. It's tough. I know. Anna says it's the greatest poem ever. I am inclined to agree. I wish I'd written it. sometime after midnight Tomorrow (that is to say, in about ten hours), Lynnee, myself, Anna Joy, Rocco and Michelle will be talking to a class of teenagers in drug rehab. Nutty. The afternoon itself was questionable, but Thursday evening at Siren was terrific. I think Lynnee and I will be doing this again. Last | Top | Next