My Face for the World to See (Part II): The Diary of Sherilyn Connelly a fiction May 11 - 20, 2001

Sunday, 20 May 2001 (saturn return) 8:02am It went well. A tad awkward at first, for spatial reasons as anything else, but eventually we all settled in comfortably. They loved Maddy's lasagna, as I knew they would; it was a particular victory for Maddy as they're both rather picky about these things. (Her liberal use of large chunks of garlic probably helped.) The Ex also commented a few times that she loves the way the place looks now. Like I've told Maddy more than once, it's certainly better than it's ever looked before. I especially made The Ex's day when I told her she could help herself to the laserdisc collection. I'm not sure how many were left, maybe thirty or forty. I'd pulled a few aside that I want to hang onto which aren't on DVD yet, but even then, it was a bit difficult to watch them go. I mean, it made sense; our machine is dying, we've pretty much moved onto DVD, it opens up space in the living room, and perhaps most importantly, she was thrilled to get them. Nobody said purging is always easy, I suppose. And I really wish I'd thought to show Maddy Toys while we still had the disc, though... Meanwhile, the proposal to add sex-change benefits for city workers was approved. Okay, it was three weeks ago, but I was in Kansas at the time. Kinda distracted, yknow? Anyway, one can only assume that the city coffers will be sucked dry by freeloading trannies. Kinda like how when Bush was elected back-alley abortions suddenly increased, or when copyrighted materials were blocked from Napster Metallica's albums shot to the top of the charts. Foregone conclusions, right? Last | Top | Next

Saturday, 19 May 2001 (disappear) 7:43am So now we know: "pot stickers" and "dumplings with szechuan sauce" are indistinguishable from one another, at least at the place from which we normally order. At least they cost the same. In any event, I ate way too much of both (among other things) last night, and will probably eat a bit too much of Maddy's lasagna tonight. But I'm going back to the gym tomorrow morning, so that makes it okay. On that note, the dermal anomaly on my upper arm has mostly gone away, at least to the extent that the friction from exercising shouldn't make it worse. I can only conclude it was an allergic reaction to Kansas. If you've ever doubted that the internet has replaced xeroxed pamphlets as the primary medium for cranks, then you have yet to visit healmax.com. Granted, I came across it on public access cable, which is no less appropriate. Remember: PORZAC causes Murder! 3:12pm We're not stressing too much about it. Well, maybe just a little. The Ex and her boyfriend should be here sometime after 4pm. It'll be the first time she's seen the place since November '99. As such, we've been on something of a cleaning jag for the last week—not coincidentally when Maddy's stuff arrived in the mail. I swear, though, this apartment probably hasn't looked this clean since before The Ex and I moved in almost exactly six years ago. My discovery of the wonders of vacuum cleaner attachments this morning certainly helped. Wow, you mean you can actually get into corners and along walls? Cool! There are nooks and crannies in the place which almost certainly haven't been touched since before we moved in, if then. Of course, Maddy would like to keep it looking this way. I'm sure it will. *cough* By the way, the above misspelling of Prozac is not a typo on my part. Last | Top | Next

Friday, 18 May 2001 (she just wants to be) 9:43am Being an alumna of San Francisco State University's Cinema Department, I received a cheaply photocopied invitation to the Film Finals tonight, wherein the students—some of them, anyway—show their wares. I've never been to one before, actually, and it doesn't look like I'll be starting with this one. I'm not even sure if any of the movies I worked on have ever been featured. I doubt it. Anyway, in the first paragraph of the copy they point out that the Cinema Department was recently named one of the nation's top film schools by none other than Entertainment Weekly. I couldn't be more proud. 11:38am Okay, it's super-official now: The Fidget Queen's leaving. Just sent out his goodbye email to the department, in which he twice refers to himself in the third person. Seems fitting, somehow. Anyway, there it is. The snorting, sighing, snot-smearing coke-addict-sniffling gadfly of my workplace is finally going away. And, of course, he hasn't been nearly as much of an irritant since I was moved into my own office, but I've had visions of us becoming cubicle neighbors once more when the company moves later this year. (I don't expect to get another office at the new place. Obviously I'd like one, but I'm not getting my hopes up. I know a fluke when I see one.) But, you know, there's probably be someone even worse waiting in the wings. There always is. 12:19pm Considering that we've been back from the Midwest for two weeks, it's a bit late to use our safeword ("Saucer Section") and just head to Vegas. It isn't stopping Maddy and I from seriously considering going in June, though, on the weekend of my birthday. Granted, on the morning of my birthday we'll be catching a 6:35am flight back home, but still... 1:20pm Displaying a basic grasp of calendar mechanics which I appear to lack, Maddy has pointed out that we would be returning the day after my birthday. Duh. If we were to go, that is, which we probably won't—I'm rapidly talking myself out of it. It just would feel irresponsible, especially these days. Hell, Terminal just lost his job, and I know he's much more qualified/skilled/valuable than I am. That's the really scary part: if I wind up back on the job market, I'll be on the bottom rung. (If I may mix my metaphors.) 5:13pm Besides, we probably wouldn't be able to score any hallucinogens within the next month anyway. Not that they're necessary to enjoy Vegas, but damn, it sounds like such fun... Last | Top | Next

Thursday, 17 May 2001 (all the way to reno (you're gonna be a star)) 9:25am Maddy saw Monty Python and the Holy Grail for the first time last night. I envy her, because it means (unlike me) she wasn't surrounded by people like this as a teenager. 10:28am Okay, this has been bugging me for a while now. Ignoring for the moment that she has no business telling Mr. DJ his job (OF COURSE he's going to put a record on! can you wait three seconds?), is Madonna's goal dancing with her baby, or is she attempting to incite revolution amongst the bourgeoisie? Part of me wants to ask The Fidget Queen, if only to see his look of utter incomprehension. Which wouldn't be too different from his usual expression, I suppose. It might be a little difficult, though, 'cuz I don't think he's around anymore. He wasn't in the last few departmental meetings, he wasn't in the cc list of recent message about a new one next week, and the teletubbies and furbies are gone from his cubicle. So, presumably, is he. The most recent wave of department-specific layoffs was done without any kind of formal announcement, and I suspect that were I to ask I wouldn't get a straight answer. Not that it matters. Better him than me, in any event, although I'm not quite as happy about him being gone as I would have expected. Not that I'm upset about it, mind you, but damn, it woulda come in handy when I was still in earshot... Meanwhile, Brian has been dropping hints to the effect that he has a position for me at a company he's about to join. While I appreciate him considering me, I've pretty much already talked myself out of it; too many people I know have switched jobs recently only to crash and burn. Barefoot is the most obvious example, and Brian was none too happy at the place he went to last October, the one that's downsizing him now. I'm starting to feel like something of a survivor here, and I don't want to give that up, not yet. Not to mention I've got mad vacation time stored up... 12:51pm Nope. TFQ is still there, even if his sense of decorum appears to have mellowed out. Maybe he's getting ready to move elsewhere soon. Or not. 4:52pm And, by all means, Bid With Confidence. Last | Top | Next

Wednesday, 16 May 2001 (i've been high) 9:55am Last night's zapping session was only two hours (long enough for Reveal and The Dirty Three's Ocean Songs), which may be record time. For clearing my face, anyway; used to be we could go six hours and he'd barely have half of it done. But there just ain't much left to get, really, and the majority of it is around my mouth. And since that's the area most prone to scarring, we've gotta take it easy. The closer you get, the longer it takes. Not that I have the foggiest idea how long it's taken so far. When I first started going in mid-'98, I had about 45 hours done over the course of (two? three?) months, and my face was just barely completed. At the time I was keeping careful track of the length of each session, even fretting over whether rounding a 2 hour, 45 minute session to 3 hours would be compromising the integrity of the figures. When I got back into it in early '99, I stopped counting entirely. I guess my priorities shifted a tad. If I really wanted to find out, I suppose I could go through my old journal entries and do the math, since I'm pretty sure I mention it every time I go. Ballpark, though, I'm going to say 400 hours, which is about average. I knew going in that it would be a long, long, long, long, long time. And after the very last time a follicle goes to its electrical death, there's still the healing time to consider. Phil says that it'll probably take another year or so for the more apparent damage to clear up. I mentioned that I was going to be asking my new endoc to recommend a dermatologist, and he suggested that I should wait. Call me impatient, but I'd kinda like a second opinion on this one. 1:25pm Then again, I've always hated ballparks: assuming I kept an accurate count in my journal, altogether I've had 194 hours of electro. As for how much I've spent on it...well, I could have paid off my car by now, or perhaps my student loans. We'll leave it at that. 3:58pm So there's...um...a "session" involving John Shirley going on this Sunday at Cafe DuNord. Has to do with madness, or something. Even after reading the description I'm still not entirely sure. Which is fitting, somehow. Looks like it could be fun, if I can convince myself to leave the house on Sunday night. Last | Top | Next

Tuesday, 15 May 2001 (the lifting) 9:58am I don't get to play the excited fan too often, but I was at Tower when they opened this morning to get the new R.E.M. album Reveal. I even broke down and got the more pricey "limited" edition, figuring that they can use the financial support. Besides, they've said they won't be touring, so it's still cheaper than concert tickets. The clerk apparently wasn't aware that the album came out today, since he asked me if I'd heard it yet. I automatically said "No," since by that point the album had technically only been available for fifteen minutes. In fact I got it off the usenet a few weeks ago, and I suppose it couldn't have hurt for him to know that us music-stealing types are still known to purchase it now and again (and, in fact, I buy as much new music now as I did before). Still, though, it felt like an incredibly stupid question. He redeemed himself a bit, though, when he commented that customers often seem surprised that the employees haven't heard everything in stock. I know that feeling well, since I often had to pretend to have seen certain movies to get people off my back in my video store days. ("You'll love Big Business! Lily Tomlin and Bette Midler are comedy gold!" Well, I didn't lie quite that blatantly, but...) Anyway, the one thing that bothers me about the album is the cover, which I'd like a lot better if it didn't remind me so much of Steely Dan's last album. I'll have to ask Michael about that. 2:56pm So a few years ago I was approached by a coworker of the Ex's to review movies for her college newspaper. Apparently I was in a very amenable mood at the time, because I said yes. Either that, or I just wanted to get her off my back. She was a MEAN; NOT NICE person who openly resented The Ex for getting promoted above her, causing The Ex no small amount of stress. She was also quite large and unpleasant looking, and on more than one occasion while trying to work up the courage to begin transition I found myself fearing that I'd end up looking like her. The vanity was there even when I didn't have a damn thing to be vain about. Funny how that works. Anyway, I hadn't realized at the time that there was an online version of the paper, and though the site hasn't been touched since '99 (note that the year is apparently 19101), my reviews of Rush Hour and One Tough Cop are still up. Yeah, I know—what the fuck is One Tough Cop? Hey, it wasn't my idea. Re-reading my review of it was certainly more entertaining than watching the movie in the first place. They completely fucked up my punctuation, though. Honest. If you've ever had someone else publish your writing, you know how it is. Which isn't to say I don't make my own share of typos... Another Boring, Self-Indulgent Pseudo-"Coming Out" Story Part Three: Grinding to a Halt A pointless history lesson...an audience with the Sister and another exercise in poor taste...the gum that tastes like rubber...getting intimate with someone's groinatological area...Neve's hair...the only reason I envy Republicans...    The drag queens were pissed off. They were pissed off at the repression, the brutal treatment by the police, by the refusal of the more "mainstream" gay community—whatever that was—to recognize them as deserving of civil rights every bit as much as those who wanted to assimilate seamlessly into straight society.    The straw which many believe broke the proverbial camel's back was the death of gay uber-icon Judy Garland. The rioting which followed her death almost certainly would have come along sooner or later, as gay black poet Langston Hughes' musings about the fate of deferred dreams suggests. However, to use the standard and very cliched (partiuclarly in this case) fire metaphor, Judy's death was the spark which really got the fire started. Even the most self-loathing, closted, wannabe-straight dittohead Republican Christian queer has to admit that the Stonewall Riots were the birth of the modern gay movement, and that the drag queens were on the front lines. Even Harvey Milk, who would become the template for all gay leaders (well, politicians anyway) to follow, recognized their potential and made sure they were on his side. Lesbians not so much, but that's the sad truth about societal change: men are usually first in line. Being progressive doesn't necessarily mean you aren't sexist. It certainly makes the queens' achievement a lovely irony.    These were thoughts crossing my mind as we abandoned our post at about 11:45pm and headed for Pasqua's, a coffee place kitty-corner from Harvey's and across from the Lady Di tribute. Though I hadn't been aware of it while she was alive, Diana was very much the gay icon, probably on par with Judy. On first glance, it seems obvious: she was a goddamned PRINCESS, for Christ's sake, and one with allegedly impeccable fashion sense. (I personally never cared for her style all that much, but my tastes are different than most. To put it mildly.) More importantly, though, among her charitable work—but less widely reported than, say, that landmine stuff—was much involving the gay and AIDS community. She was involved with AIDS from very early on, while it was still treated as simply a "gay disease" and before it became a fashionable celebrity cause. With Diana gone, Susan Sarandon is among one of the only celebrities for whom the cause is more importantly than any impact it has on her star status. (For those who haven't guessed by now, I worship Susan.)    Still, I wondered, was this progress? How would La Miranda, the fiery queen who essentially lead Stonewall—and whose characterization in the film "Stonewall" was, imho, *extremely* flawed—have felt about this? Certainly we didn't get any trouble from the police (most of whom were turbodykes), but we weren't out just to be fabulous, either, which was arguably La Miranda & Co.'s primary intention. We were out to try and slow the transmission of a disease which never should have been allowed to spread to such an extent in the first place. The blame for this can be laid almost entirely at the feet of the Reagan Administration, but the gay community itself was tragically if understandably reluctant to face the facts about the epidemic. Check out Randy Shilts' brilliant book And The Band Played On for a remarkably in-depth look at the early days of AIDS and just how many people screwed up on how many levels. His equally brilliant Mayor of Castro Street has some fascinating insights into La Miranda. Now, on with the fucking story, already.    The plan was to take a 20 minute coffee break, go into Harvey's and The Midnight Sun to distribute condoms, then call it a night. The Midnight Sun is one of the maybe half-dozen bars in the Castro, and like most it has no windows and an ID check at the door. I go into very few bars since I don't cruise and I seldom drink, so I'd never seen the inside.    We'd been sitting in Pasqua's for a while when a Sister of Perpetual Indulgence came in. I can't speak for anyone else, but I'm rather in awe of the Sisters. I mean, they're IT, y'know? The queens to end all queens in both attitude and political action—they held the first AIDS fundraiser back in '82 (give or take a year) and haven't slowed down since. And they wear Catholic nun habits, which pleases my long-abandoned Catholicism no end.    After making her presence known, she came over to our table. I felt certain that she was going to take one look at me and say, "Honey, you *so* don't belong here. Who are you trying to kid?" If anyone was going to recognize me for the poseur I am, it's a Sister.    Instead, it was a cheery "Hello, girls! How are we this evening?"    "A picture!" Jimbo practically shrieked. "I've got to have a picture!" He handed off his camera to me, and I promptly gave it to Pepper, who snapped a couple of them. I considered asking to have a picture taken with the Sister as well, but that was right about where my courage expired. Besides, I sensed she had other things on her mind.    I was right. "Do you want to hear the first Lady Di joke?" the Sister asked. I stayed up all last night thinking of it." Mind you, Di had been killed less than a week before. The Sisters move fast.    It went something like this: An reporter asks Nancy Reagan what she thinks about the Lady Di tragedy. "Oh, it's awful. I'm so jealous!" Understandably confused, the reporter says, "Jealous? Why are you jealous?" "Because she'll be first to wear the fall Versace line!"    Is it any wonder I look up to the Sisters so much? She then proceeded to request (nay, demand) the room's attention, and after making sure we were all aware of how hard the employees work, she carried around the tip jar. I'm telling you, Catholics and their damn collection plates. All I had to offer were condoms and 'lubes, which I decided to hang onto.    From Pasqua's we went back to Harvey's. Condom distribution is just what it sounds like: you distribute condoms. If I have a problem with getting peoples' attention, then I loathe the concept of handing out something unsolicited, particularly inside a business. Harvey's obviously had no problem with it and everybody knew who we were (even if we hadn't been standing outside for a couple hours), but still it made me uncomfortable. I would've been uncomfortable regardless of how I was dressed.    My pitch was a paraphrase of the old graffiti classic: "Condoms! The gum that tastes like rubber!" Overall, some reacted well; some were in- different; some gave me looks which dared me to try, which probably resembled the looks I give people trying to talk to me on the street.    One fellow happily accepted my offer, the only problem being he was standing with a beer in each hand. I couldn't exactly expect him to put the glasses down on my account, so I did the only logical thing: I put the condom in his front pocket. I'd like to think that La Miranda would have approved of that, if nothing else.    While Harvey's at least has a certain drag connection, hence we weren't too out of place, I didn't feel at all welcome in The Midnight Sun. Nobody said anything (I know, hon, they wouldn't), but it was packed wall to wall with clones who I sensed were just barely tolerant of queens. Pepper and Jimbo made a full circle, but Number One and I only lasted a few minutes.    Long enough, though, to catch a segment of Saturday Night Live featuring Neve Campbell on their large screen. It surprised me a bit; not so much that the bar would have such a huge projection screen—the main gay bar in my hometown of Fresno, the Express, has one as well—but that they'd be showing SNL. It was a spoof of the movie Scream, which I hadn't yet seen, but what mattered was that it gave me an opportunity to marvel at how beautiful Neve is...and, oh, that hair, I *love* her hair. Based on that segment, which was followed by one anonymous techno video or another, she's an incredible dancer, too.    It was midnight, time to call it quits. We made the trek back to SA's headquarters, and to my surprise, The Ex and Louise were waiting patiently in front. I'm not certain why I was surpised, but I was.    Pepper and Number One proceeded to remove their makeup and get back into their regular clothes; in spite of the degraded state of my own makeup, I decided to keep it on for the drive home, though I did take off the dress and put back on the skirt and t-shirt I'd arrived in. Dressing down, if you will, and I still figured that there was no reason to shy away from the more causal drag.    Now, here in the big city we have something that you more rural bumpkins might not be familiar with, a concept called "desensitization." It's what allows us to walk down the street and utterly ignore the people starving at our feet. Being the commie pinko leftist that I am, I feel a certain amount of what our more conservative brethren snickeringly refer to as "liberal guilt," but I manage. (It beats conservative guilt, in which case I wouldn't be able to do any of this at all because I'd be too worried about the laws of nature or God's will or my own uselss male ego.) I'm know there's a system at work which is much larger than myself, and certainly not one I created. Do I exploit it? Yes, I've used it as much as I can to get where I am today—which isn't far, and I've never made over 10K a year—but I can't recall the last time I fired someone, took away their home or ended social programs, either.    It's a different ball of wax when you're dressed up, though. It's impossible to ignore the class disparity. I'm frustrated that the damn nylons keep rolling down, and they have to scrounge for their next meal. Granted, it's not the same as zooming by in my Range Rover while yakking it up on my celphone (again, the dress was $15, not exactly high-class), but my conscience is still troubled. Even though what I was doing was for a good cause, like that makes any difference.    We just had to make it back to the car. (That's the cure for middle-class paranoia in an urban setting—if we just make it back to the car, honey, we'll be all right.) The Ex had parked a couple blocks away out of sheer necessity, and it could have been a lot farther away. But, alas, a couple guys had set up shop right next to where we were parked.    You know the drill—walk quickly, looking either straight forward or focusing on something else, no direct eye contact. Usually during the day I'll be wearing my walkman for that extra level of isolation. (It won't always be on becuase I want to be aware of my surroundings, but the headphones will be on to discourage people from trying to talk to me. Works on the same principle as The Club, in a really sick way.)    Ha. No such luck. One of them insisted on holding the door for me as I got in. I wasn't worried, exactly—I might have been in makeup and a skirt, but I'm still 6'2" and more beefy than I care to admit, and he was neither of those things. I assured him that it wasn't necessary, I could get in just fine on my own, and his response slayed me:    "I don't want you to mess up your dress. Besides, you're parked in my living room."    And that's my story. Last | Top | Next

Monday, 14 May 2001 (ends of the earth) 8:17am Guns! 12:16pm The best stuff on the web is usually at 20kbps. 5:06pm Have I been to Shrine of Lilith in recent memory? No. In spite of my apparent utter lack of loyalty, am I still bummed that it's leaving the Maritime Hall? Yes. Conventional wisdom tells me it's a sucky venue, but I've always like it, for sentimental reasons as much as anything else. After that it's moving to Jezebel's Joint, deep in the heart of the Tenderloin. No parking and high crime—my, that's a strong incentive. Meanwhile, Shrine's last night at the Maritime is June 16, so I guess I know what we're doing for my birthday. I wonder if I can use this to lure Lee out of hiding. Somehow, I doubt it. Last | Top | Next

Sunday, 13 May 2001 (eye) 8:17am Although it's not really about coming out, is it? More like going out, which is a different matter entirely. But that's what I named it at the time, so that's what it's called. After one of our more comparatively upbeat therapy sessions yesterday morning (for as much as Maddy's mother stressed us out, our relationship didn't appear to suffer—and the shrink couldn't help but point out that she'd never seen my bare arms exposed), we ate entirely too much at the sushi buffet in Japantown and then went shopping for a new bookcase. Successfully, much to our surprise, and our shelf space in the living room is now doubled, giving a home to the books and tapes which Maddy mailed back from Kansas plus the ones which I'd had boxed up. Well, books, anyway; most of my videotapes are still in boxes, 'cuz we still don't have that much space. And, even so, we've both been doing a lot of purging. Our goal is to not have to rent out storage space; if it's not something which can fit into our closet, and/or we only even feel the need to get to once or twice a year, then it's not worth the effort or expense to keep. Still, though, the packrat gene we both share is tough to to get around. Later this afternoon, the landlord will be putting in screens in the window so we can actually air the place out once in a while. It's almost getting to be like grown-ups live here. 4:30pm Then again, maybe not. He's about three and a half hours late, and he hasn't called like he said he would. Bummer, 'cuz we were hoping to get it done before next week; The Ex and her boyfriend are coming over for dinner, and since Maddy's making her seriously nummy lasagna, a little ventilation would be a good thing. Alas. The impending visit does partially account for why we've been so focused this weekend on cleaning/rearranging the apartment, with a particular focus on unpacking the recently arrived boxes of Maddy's. Of course, even if we weren't having company, having the boxes sitting around for longer than absolutely necessary would drive Maddy nuts. If the landlord doesn't make it today, I suppose it would serve us right, since we completely flaked on a party at Miguel's last night. It wasn't intentional, and we'd wanted to go, but when we finally got home yesterday afternoon we just kinda launched into getting the new bookcase set up, and the next thing we knew it was 10pm and we were exhausted, so we smoked a little, ate dinner, watched a couple Powerpuff Girls episodes, went to bed...and realized this morning what we'd done. I am going to feel so embarrassed explaining this one: "Well, y'see, we got new furniture, and..." 6:32pm He finally arrived at half past five, and we now have screens in the windows. Yay. Meanwhile, Maddy's getting to witness my first serious fit of hiccuping in a very long time, the kind where my body jerks around. I keep waiting for her to sneak up behind me and say "Boo!" It works, right? I did try the bag trick. Didn't work, plus it made me miss doing Whip-Its. Oscar simlpy insisted on pushing up against the screen, so we had to put him in the bedroom for the time being. (The oven's on, y'see, so we need the windows open for ventilation.) It reminded of why I don't think I'd be a good parent—I feel sorry for him, being shut away like that. Reminds me too much of being disciplined when I was growing up, I guess. Mind you, it didn't happen often. Once was usually enough. Shit, that reminds me. I should call my mom. That's the most the Hallmark shareholders are getting out of me. 8:20pm Yes, I called. Another Boring, Self-Indulgent Pseudo-"Coming Out" Story Part Two: The Slow Stuff Between the Exposition and the Climax What the hell is Drag Outreach, anyway?...the gauntlet (not to be confused with The Gauntlet)...the apple-lined portrait...straight into it... scrutiny...Pepper's boots...    A good cast is worth mentioning at least once, so for those unfamiliar with the players: The Ex is my girlfriend, my fiance, my SO, my imzadi, the other half of what I am. Louise is one of my closest friends, both an indirect catalyst and vital element of all this. Most people like me aren't lucky enough to meet someone like her. She's Obi-Wan to my Anakin Skywalker. (What that says for the future, I don't know.)    Then there's the other queens. Pepper Spray is the team captain, the head queen by any standard. Pepper, although tall (taller than me, and I'm 6'2) opts for what I suppose you could call a more "realistic" look, i.e. less blatantly flaming. That's all reserved for Jimbo, your (stereo)typical flaming genderfuck drag queen. None of this covering- up-your-five-o'clock-shadow-with-makeup or trying to act credibly feminine for him. And god bless him for it. Even if you don't like that sort of drag queen (and you know who you are), you couldn't help but admire his energy. If you get a kick of out of that sort of drag queen (and you know who you are), you couldn't help but admire his energy.    Unfortunately, I can't begin to remember the others' names, so Number One and Number Two will have to suffice. Unlike myself or Pepper, Number One arrived fully dressed (as did Jimbo, more or less), a thin drink of water in a slim black dress and a platinum blonde wig. Didn't talk much, and seemed to approach it like more of a job than anyone else. Number Two didn't show up until we were almost done, actually, but more fit my perception of the "cross-dresser in his late thirties" rather than a "drag queen," whatever either term means. (This isn't meant to sound like a judgment, mind you.)    StopAIDS (http://www.StopAIDS.org, duh) is a non-profit organization with a fairly simple goal, to reduce the transmission of HIV amongst self-identified gay and bisexual men in San Francisco. From the literature, the description of outreach is to "engage gay and bisexual men in 15 min. safe-sex interventions, and invite them to participate in a StopAIDS discussion group." In practical terms, this involves surveying them on the street about their sexual habits: have they had anal sex in the last six months (first question), was a condom used, other forms of sex, questions along those lines both general and specific. Drag outreach is generally considered one of the more effective forms because people (and when I say "people" I mean aforementioned self- described gay and bisexual men; this is not discriminatory, it's just that there are organizations specific to the straight and lesbian community as well) often find it easier to discuss these things with a drag queen. How embarassed can you be talking to someone who looks like that?    First, you have to get to the people. SA's headquarters at Market and Sanchez are a few blocks away from the corner of 18th and Castro, where it actually takes place. I've never timed it, but it's maybe a five or ten minute walk. Frankly, I think that even if SA was located on that corner the walk would still be part of the ritual. A sort of warm-up, if you will. To either get used to all the attention or to soak it all in, depending on your point of view. Jimbo was definitely in it for the latter.    Our first stop was at a Peet's Coffee on Market, apparently where Pepper works. Pepper and Jimbo went in; Number One and I stood outside for a minute, then figured what the hell and went in. One first of many, I suppose: after being out in public for the first time, going inside a public establishment, and not an explicitly gay one for that matter.    I've avoided talking about "what it was like" being outside in full femme, mainly because I haven't the foggiest idea how to describe it. I just was, that's all. The only thing I was genuinely nervous about was the actual "outreach" aspect, soliciting people to take the survey. I hate it when people try to talk to me on the street, and I'm to this day not crazy about being the one doing it. As for being out dressed, it provoked no particularly extreme emotions, high or low. I guess if a word must be assigned, it's "natural." It felt no more or less natural than the way I'm usually dressed. (Here's where it gets reeeeal confusing.) Which isn't to say I didn't enjoy it—I did, a great deal, and it's something I intend to make a habit out of. But it wasn't particularly sexual, which it is for many people and as I was somewhat expecting. Perhaps the more visceral pleasures, so to speak (I don't mean sexual, either, though I'm not quite certain what I *do* mean), will begin to develop after I've lost more weight, done it for a while longer, and in general gotten better at it. I still have a long way to go.    A shop with a window full of mirrors is strategically placed on Market along our route. Naturally, we stopped and primping ensued. Not that I had the foggiest idea what to do, so I just kinda looked at myself. Not much different from the mirror inside SA. My reflection, nothing more.    The usual place for drag outreach is the southeast corner of 18th and Castro; wasn't going to happen tonight, as it was the location of the Lady Di tribute by the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence. (If you're not familiar with the Sisters...oh, girl, you're beyond my help. :)) Flowers, candles, banners with zillions of messages and signatures, the whole nine yards. What I found most interesting was a large chalk portrait of her on the sidewalk—lined with green apples. I was informed that they were there simply to keep people from walking on the picture. Fair enough, but darn it, I wanted there to be a deeper connection. Alas, no. Apples were used for no reason other than they worked.    So, we were across the street on the southwest corner, in front of a club called Harvey's, one of the few with windows. As appropriate a place as any, since they hold drag shows regularly and a local cable show called Electric City (http://members.aol.com/cheaptv/electric_city.htm/electriccity.html) is more or less based from there. Did I say windows? Big windows. Like, the walls are mostly windows. We had an audience from all sides.    My base of operations was the perpetually overflowing garbage can next to the bus shelter. Again, as apporpriate a place as any. Besides, I needed somewhere to occasionally put my condom-filled purse (not mine, but SA's; like the bra, it was a detail we never got to in planning) and the clip- board with the surveys. Jimbo was also carrying a football-sized inflatable pencil—really, could I make this stuff up?—and brought enough for all of us, but thankfully Pepper and Number One both declined, making it easier for me to do so.    I'm four-eyed. (Wham! For some of you, your mental image of me just changed.) I'm not blind without my glasses, but just nearsighted enough to where it's not good if I'm without them. I tried to go without them for about two minutes, but it just didn't work. *sigh* And why can't a drag queen wear glasses, I ask you?    I also took my hair down after a while. Louise and The Ex (whom, I might add, I didn't see at all while I was out) suggested that wear most of it back in a ponytail, leaving enough hanging in front to frame my face. I had it like that until I got tired of seeing my reflection in Harvey's window without my hair all around my face. What's the point of having long hair if it's tied back, particularly when you need as much help as you can get to appear feminine? It was a little windy, but there can be something kinda seductive about brushing hair away from one's face. I have no idea if it worked for me, but I gave it a shot.    The hardest part of it all, predictably, was getting people's attention. Jimbo had no problem whatsoever getting right into people's faces, and I'll be damned if it didn't work every time. That was a bit beyond my level of courage (and not to give myself too much credit, but I think I was courageous enough just being out there), so I opted for more of the hawker style which I'd been shown in training: calling out when people walked by stuff along the lines of "Sex survey! StopAIDS project!" Etc. Every time I did so, I tried to add something on: "Fun and painless!" "Firm yet gentle!" "Intimate yet personal!" "Green yet velvety!" "Join me at the trash can and we'll rap!" I tried to change it every time, even though nobody would notice. I tend to babble like an idiot when I'm nervous, so it wasn't hard.    It didn't take long, actually. (Pepper commented that I was much more into it than most on their first drag outreach.) And, wouldn't'cha know it, the first person I spoke to was as straight as the day as long. Nothing wrong with that, but it's useless as far as the statistics go. I suspected that a lot of the reason he stopped was just to see what it'd be like to talk to a drag queen, though he was quite open and didn't seem uncomfortable about the subject. Though he was a little shocked when I described the concept of rimming: "You mean putting your mouth up to the booty-hole?" Toe-MAY-toe, toe-MAH-toe...    The second guy won my heart right away: he said he liked my dress. I resisted the temptation to tell him where I got it and how much it cost ($15). I don't think I could have imparted the information with the necessary style.    Then again, "style" was something I was sorely lacking. I don't say this to be self-deprecating, but rather as a simple fact. I was just myself. I didn't have the mental energy necessary to adopt any kind of persona, if you will. And that's not necessarily a bad thing, I guess, but what better time to have a little fun? Something else to work on; I guess if I had a role model in that regard, it'd be Kelly Michaels. If you don't know who she is, imagine a Madonna impersonator with a very noticeable southern twang.    Anyway, we also got into a guessing game of each other's age. Another first: I stood back and let a guy study me closely. He guessed 23. (I'm 24, for those of you playing along at home.)    Yeah, I'll admit it: I'm a little miffed that he was the only person to comment in any way on my appearance. I was at least hoping for someone to say they liked my hair, 'cause it's *real*, people, it ain't no wig, but nooooo—all anyone could comment on were Pepper's boots. I kid you not, someone driving by actually yelled out that they loved her boots. Sure, they were nice, but hey! Have I been growing this mane for the last nine years for no reason? Sheesh!    (Sorry. Had to get that out.)    Owing largely to the Di tribute, it was a slow night. I only spoke to three people in the roughly hour and half we were out there, though Pepper assured me that I definitely kicked ass for my first time and on a night like that.    Number Two finally arrived just as we were calling the survey portion of the evening quits at 10:45. But, the night wasn't quite over... Coming Up: A pointless history lesson...an audience with the Sister and another exercise in poor taste...the gum that tastes like rubber... getting intimate with someone's groinatological area...Neve's hair... the only reason I envy Republicans... "Three burned-out blue bulbs." Say it five times, fast. Last | Top | Next

Saturday, 12 May 2001 (negative 3) 10:21pm In late '97, when my denial about my gender issues was crumbling faster than my relationship with The Ex, I found the excuse that I'd been looking for to do drag in public. It goes without saying that what I do now doesn't qualify as drag, but those were different times. Anyway, I had a few friends I wrote to about these things... Another Boring, Self-Indulgent Pseudo-"Coming Out" Story Part One of Three: The Beginning Hiding years of neglect in 88% nylon/12% spandex...skirting the issue... evolution schmevolution...the strongest mirror in the whole wide world...    Louise was sick.    I wasn't too surprised. She hadn't been feeling well the last couple days, and fate being the tricky thing it is, the timing was correct. But, like I kept telling myself: if any of this was easy, it wouldn't be worth the trouble.    After the false alarm of two weeks previous, Friday 9/5/97 was to be my first night out with the Drag Outreach team from StopAIDS. Everything was just about ready: I'd scored on a none-too-shabby long green velvet dress from Ross Dress for Less (referred to in some circles as "Cross-dress For Less"), my hair was still a lovely shade of reddish purple, and we'd conducted a single though remarkably encouraging makeup experiment a couple weeks before in which apartment's mirrors remained uncracked and the clocks continued chugging right along, thank you very much. Faithful, almost daily attendance at the evil corporate gym I'd just joined (the one with Niki Taylor in the ads, if you wanna talk about unrealistic role models) combined with a healthier diet and more exercise in general over the last month or two brought my weight down to 230 from its peak (I think) of 250, not bad for starters. My gut was/is still noticeable, but not quite as much. They say the key to getting in shape is motivation, and doing full drag in public without wanting to look like Divine is one doozy of a motivator. Jaunts to Mervyn's for hose and Unusualia for a girdle helped pick up the slack, not to mention drive home just how much more work would be necessary.    Still, in my mind Louise was the most crucial element, being responsible for my makeup and hair (the hair, of course, had been colored a while back). She was quite ill and would've had every right to bail, but god bless her, she hung on. I'm just too damned lucky.    After work The Ex, Louise and I swung by Mervyn's to track down a decent pair of pantyhose (plus size 3, opaque black, not easy to find), then went home to chow down and get ready. Miraculously the nylons fit, a bit snug perhaps, but that's the whole damn point. Not seeing any point in taking them off only to repeat the laborious putting-on process when we got to StopAIDS, I kept them on, and at The Ex's suggestion I put on the long skirt I'd bought for $4 a few days before at a thrift store to, as she said, "Get the feel for it." Fair enough. I kept it on for the trip out to the Castro; again, I didn't see the logic of taking off a skirt to put on pants which would in turn be replaced by a dress. If I was going to be doing full-blown drag later in the evening, why not a more casual form beforehand? It wasn't like I was afraid what anyone would think. That much was obvious.    We arrived at SA at 8pm and Louise got right to work on my makeup.    Now, the last and only other time Louise made me up, there were a few advantages, the most obvious being it was in our apartment and therefore a relatively controlled environment. (When I say "our" apartment, I mean The Ex and I. Louise doesn't live with us, she's just over a lot.) There were no particular time concerns, she had a certain freedom to experiment, and perhaps most importantly we had a healthy supply of grass. Louise requested that I smoke a bowl to relax, since I'm inherently tense and jumpy. I was nicely baked while she made me up—a lovely experience all around.    Tonight, though, we were at SA's headquarters; Louise had to perform a miracle in an hour (according to biblical myth it took a supposedly all- powerful superbeing six days to create the world—you do the math), balancing my desire to look as feminine as possible with the reality that regardless of streetlights it'd still be somewhat dark and therefore subtlety wouldn't do the trick. I have *nothing* against flamers, I love 'em all, but it's not me...I just wanna be Elizabeth Hurley, is that so much to ask? :) Anyway, I'd also signed a contract stating that I'd be completely sober during any SA activity, which meant no grass. No problem there, actually, since I wanted to be as aware and in control as possible.    I admit, I was surprised by just how calm and relaxed I was during the makeup process, despite what should have been a state of extreme mortal terror. Hell, for the whole evening I wasn't anywhere near as nervous as I'd originally anticipated (which is a good thing), but particularly while I was being made up. Holding my eyes still for the application of eyeliner and mascara isn't exactly something I've had a lot of practice at, either.    Y'know, I severely hate to use this word because of how much homophobia and gay-bashing it's been used to justify, but let's face it, the application of eye makeup is unnatural. I don't give a shit if you're male or female or somewhere in between—eyelids, lashes and the blinking motion at least partially evolved to protect the eyes from the kind of intrusion presented by that damn pencil. Beauty is all about defeating evolution. Maybe that explains why creationists like Tammy Faye Bakker wear so much fucking makeup. But I digress. (And the less I think about Tammy Faye as related to the concept of "beauty" the better, 'cause associating the two depresses me in ways I can't begin to express.)    The solution to the darkness issue? A word which chilled me to the bone: glitter. Gold glitter, that is, as it'd been determined that gold is a color which'd work well on me. Around the eyes. Fine. A bit more flaming that I'd had in mind, but fine. Beggars and choosers and all that, and there was no denying the fact that Louise knew exactly was she was doing. (She's done drag makeup before.) The stuff was much heavier than I anticipated, though. La de da.    When I was as made up as I was gonna get, I went into the bathroom to change—to take off the skirt and put on the dress, essentially, taking care not to damage the makeup. I was already wearing the hose, so next on was the girdle. The two combined really did make a difference; not a huge one, but it was obvious where the undergarments ended and I began. The one missing item, which some might think to be the most obvious, was a bra. As it happened, between the cut of the dress and the fact that I kinda have breasts to start with it was unnecessary to wear a bra simply to stuff it. At least, it would be okay for the evening. I didn't have a particularly feminine shape, but my primary goal was more not to look like I was pregnant. (Still a long way to go, indeed.) Though I didn't have any women's shoes, Louise had thankfully talked me into digging out the shoes I wore during my awful time working at The Good Guys!, given their fascist anti-tennis shoe policy. They were remarkably comfy with the nylons, and looked worlds better in this context than my Asics.    I emerged from the bathroom in full regalia to no particular fanfare or attention. Understandable. To the others present I was just another queen, and not a particularly special one at that. A first-timer, yes, but everyone's been a first-timer.    Still, there was that all-important first moment of looking at myself in a long mirror. Well, there I was. I'd been wanting to do this for a long, long time, and now I was doing it. This was about as real as it could get. None of this closeted, "I'm a pillar of the community and I can't ever let anyone know I have these shameful unnatural desires" heavy Christian guilt bullshit. Nope, I was about to go onto a busy street in full drag and talk to people about their sexual habits. And if you're a drag queen in the Castro (which isn't as common a sight as you out-of- towners might think), there's about a 99.9% likelihood that people are going to assume you're gay. Hell, if you're walking down the street in jeans and a t-shirt, it's 99.8%—and I couldn't care less either way.    The reflection was still me. Me on a different level, but still me. Perhaps only the name was changed: Sherilyn Sarandon Manson Buffalo Springfield. (Fenn, Susan, Shirley and a horribly forced Neil reference.) Or maybe that'd been the name all along and I just finally began to fit it. Who the fuck knows?    The moment arrived: it was time to go out... Coming up: What the hell is Drag Outreach, anyway?...straight into it... the apple-lined portrait...Pepper's boots...scrutiny...an audience with the Sister...the gum that tastes like rubber...Harvey's, the Midnight Sun and Neve's hair...and more...maybe... Part one of three. It's funny how much more detailed I was in my writing before my current daily grind. I also feel a little guilty about the Tammy Faye-bashing (see The Eyes of Tammy Faye and you'll understand), but apparently I've never been above picking on easy targets. Last | Top | Next

Friday, 11 May 2001 (shine like it does) 7:21am I have to admit, I kinda wish I'd watched at least part of an XFL game. It looks like it would have been campy fun of the variety you only get when men revel in their manliness and, not suprisingly, make asses of themselves in the process. 9:05am The wastebasket in my office didn't get emptied last night. It's happened occasionally over the last few months, and I always wonder if it's a subtle form of revenge from the janitor for me reneging on buying the laptop. If so, hey, right on. Fight the power. 10:53am Probably the only thing more impolitic than being a Star Trek fan who likes Voyager—a little troll recently explained to Maddy and I why the show sucks, yet we continue to enjoy it (clearly, more aggressive intervention is required, like back in high school when that kid tried to talk me out of listening to Pink Floyd)—is one who also likes Star Trek: The Motion Picture. You may recall it as being "the really slow one that everybody hates because it sucks." It's always had a special place in my heart, though. I've never found it particularly slow, and love the lush look of the film, the use of blues and grays (yes, it could stand to be more colorful, but it does a lot with its limited pallette), and perhaps most of all the widescreen cinematography. Robert Wise is only the Trek director to really take advanatge of the fact the films are shot at a 2:35 to 1 aspect ratio, and as a result it plays better in a theater (or letterboxed) than on teevee; that's probably among the reasons that it's so unpopular, in addition to the fact that not a single phaser is fired. (Well, that and the fact that the movie sucks.) (Hey, I don't want to be accused of being unfairly positive about it.) And it has an overture, for pete's sake. An overture, for those unfamiliar with that particularly acane film convention, being a piece of music which plays before the movie proper begins. They were common in musicals, and since Robert Wise directed The Sound of Music and West Side Story, there's probably a connection. I've always suspected it was the last major film released to feature an overture; I'm not sure, since it isn't the kind of thing that you can look up on the IMDB, but I'm probably right. Don't get me wrong, it's a seriously flawed film. Then again, nobody was actually in the room when Charles Foster Kane said "Rosebud"—which is to say, no movie is perfect. But Star Trek: The Motion Picture has no shortage of problems, many of which are because the film's production and release were both rushed; Robert Wise has said that the finished product was in fact not truly finished, and released before he'd had sufficient time to edit it or fine-tune the effects. Of course, I've also read enough about it to suspect that like everything after the first thirteen episodes of the original series, Gene Roddenberry's input/meddling/constant rewriting didn't help, either. So it has issues. Yet I've always liked it, and consider myself fortunate to have seen it twice in the theater after its initial release, as part of Star Trek marathons. I think I still have the ticket for the second one, a 25th Anniversary deal, somewhere in my desk. It's also the only of the movies not yet on DVD. I have it on laser, but I've finally begun to acknowledge that as the dead format which it is. (That my machine is dying and new ones aren't being manufactured anymore doesn't help.) Which is why I'm so damn jazzed that it's not only coming out on DVD by the end of the year, but in a new version, re-edited with the effects cleaned up and generally enhanced. From the looks of things, they're trying to avoid the excess of what Lucas did to his movies. One can hope. I'm sure there's going to be a lot of backlash, arbiters of taste whining that the movie isn't worth the effort. I don't care. I'm looking forward to this more than any other release this year. (With Big Trouble in Little China coming a close second. I saw it four times in the theater when it came out. Neener.) 4:47pm Well, after months of rumors I guess it's official: the new Star Trek series will star Scott Bakula. Oh well, it could be worse: Michael Keaton could play Batman. That would suck, huh? Or, worse, Tom Cruise as Lestat! No!!! He'll ruin it!!! Ah, fanboys. You gotta love 'em, since there are laws preventing the alternative. Last | Top | Next