Something I really don't get about them is this: they don't pick up each others' mail. Leaving the house one afternoon last week I noticed a large Priority Mail envelope for the guy just inside the front gate. From across in the street, waiting for my car to warm up, I watched as the girl went in and out of the front gate a few times, putting stuff in her car, and finally driving off. When I returned a few hours later, the envelope was still sitting in the entryway. If it had been for Maddy (or The Ex a few years back), I would have immediately brought it inside before I left. It's the considerate thing to do, and she does the same. Even The Ex, in our declining days, would have. And these people, judging from certain pieces of regular mail they let pile up in the mailbox, are getting married. Okay, admittedly, these are the same people who if they put out their trash at all will leave the empty can sitting at the curb for the next couple days, but still, am I missing something? Is that sort of self-absorption the norm rather than the exception with most couples? Is my relationship just too touchy-feely?

A week and a half into my latest bout of unemployment, this is one of those days in which I wish I could bring myself to go ahead and cover the living room walls with black bedsheets, like the bedroom or my old (lamented, never to be duplicated) office. Even with nothing on but the xmas lights it still feels too bright in here.

At least I've been somewhat productive today, having taken six bags of stuff—mostly t-shirts and books—to donate to the Community Thrift Store on Valencia. Reduces the clutter around here (even if it's always difficult to part with books, though I'm still trying to overcome my genetic packrat inclinations), it's a good deed, etc. So yay me. Well, yay us; Maddy did her own share of painful book purging as well.

When it finally happens, I think I've discovered the perfect retail job for me: the classical room upstairs at the Amoeba Music in Berkeley. Relatively low traffic, nice music playing at a relatively low volume (I'm not sure my nerves could handle working at a loud store), and access to the relatively well-stocked avant-garde section. Sounds nice to me, anyway.

At the studio today we completed kittypr0n #5, featuring all 17:27 of The Velvet Underground's "Sister Ray" interpolated with Three Little Kittens, a 1938 short by ERPI Classroom Films. (A bit of research has revealed that ERPI, in addition to being an onomatopoetic description of how I feel when I eat anything too greasy these days, stood for "Educational Research Pictures Incorporated." So now you know.) The former has been a favorite piece of music of mine for years, and the latter I found on the amazingly cool Prelinger Archives, which may alone justify the existence of the Internet.

But enough is enough—my hardwired California mellowness has been exhausted, and we're paying way too much for it to be so unreliable—so I took several deep breaths and called this morning. At the risk of sounding like a Left Coast Elitist, I immediately began to worry when I heard the twang in the voice of the on-hold message. From the sounds of it, they were in the South; for no particular reason I decided it must be Tennessee. After listening to a few more variations of the message I upgraded it from a twang to an accent. Now, I realize that to them I'm the one with the accent, but this is my diary so they're the ones who talk funny. Let them get their own diary and write about callers with weird California accents.

The first real issue was with my name—evidently it got changed with the regular Pac Bell people (and is reflected on my bill) but not the DSL department, so when I told the twangily accented guy my name was Sherilyn I was informed the name on the account was Jeff. Shoot. Not good. I blurted out that the name should have been changed to Sherilyn some months back, that I'd changed my name from Jeff to Sherilyn and had sent in copies of my new SSN card and license. I repeated myself a little, trying to keep the old frustration from bubbling to the surface. It didn't help when he asked who he was speaking to; I told him my name was Sherilyn, but that it used to be Jeff, hence that being the name on the account. He then asked, inexplicably, if he could call me Sherilyn. Doing my very best not to raise my voice (and sometimes my best isn't good enough) I said that yes, he could, since as had been well established my name was in fact Sherilyn, so, yes, please DO call me that. I'll admit it could have been worse; some employees would have refused to go any further with someone who may or may not be the actual user. I'm sure he was also intrigued by actually talking to one of those people he'd seen on Springer.

So I told him what was wrong. Silence. I told him again, a little slower. (I probably really was speaking too quickly; I tend to babble on the phone, especially when I'm worked up.) He told me to shut down the computer, and while I was doing it he asked me where I lived. I said "San Francisco" and immediately wished I hadn't. Where I live isn't any of his business, and while that would have been the most honest response, I should have simply said "California." That would have been more that sufficient without letting on that he'd hit the Freak Jackpot, talking to a Gen-u-ine San Francisco Transvestite. I'm a little surprised that my address isn't included amongs the account information, but it's certainly just as well, especially if tech support starts using prison labor like airlines and telemarketers.

He then put me on hold while I somehow found a way to move the modem at least three feet away from the ground and/or any electrical sources. Yeah, no problem, that. He'd said it would only be for two to three minutes, but I was on hold for at least five. Enough time to tell his buddies what he had on the line, perhaps, though I'm going to assume party-lining wasn't an option.

When he came back on, the small talk began in earnest. Maybe they're instructed to chat up the callers , I don't know. As we were waiting for the computer to power back up, he asked if I've always lived in California. I said yes. Do I like it out there? Yes. What do I do out there? I confirmed that he was asking what I did for a living; otherwise, my immediate thought was "Eat, sleep, shit, fuck, play the occasional game of air hockey, just like anyone else." I said I was a programmer. That I am in fact an unemployed webmonkey would have been entirely too much information. He then said that he'd like to visit sometime, and I gave into temptation, asking where he was from. North Carolina. I was only off by one state. I declined to mention that I'd pegged as being from his neighbor state; for all I knew, he would be offended. He said that he'd like to visit California because there's a lot to do out there, which I found rather cryptic. I said that yes, there is a lot to do. It's a big state.

Thankfully, before he got the chance to ask me if I'd like to get together for drinks when he came out West, the system was ready to go and I was able to get online with no problem. (Of course, getting online isn't the problem so much as staying on without the Ready light flashing and subsequently getting kicked off, but one thing at a time.) He told me to call back if the problem occurred three more times during the course of the day—so if it happens once or twice more, it's no big deal?—and thanked me for being a customer.

Perhaps I'm just being paranoid, but I'm guessing he told a lot of people about that guy "Sherilyn" in San Francisco. Frankly, it's the kind of thing which makes me want to stay put right here, where I'm not so much of an oddity as just part of the background. There's a lot wrong with this city. It's dirty, crowded and downright wicked at times. It gets to me sometimes, no question; sometimes I think I'm going give the next person who speaks to me on the street a swift kick in the nuts, regardless of their gender. Anyone who flees probably has the right idea, and I wish them all the best in their greener pastures. This place sucks. Someday, Maddy and I will probably leave.

But it's nice to hear people saying good things about it, too, and even coming back. Both Clint Catalyst and Michelle Tea are re-patriates, having moved away and then finding themselves returning no so much out of necessity but because they like it here. Simon was making no bones this weekend about how much he likes the city and wishes he could live here, and not just because of Cassie. Unfortunately, it's not an option; he's stuck in the Army, in San Friggin' Antonio, for the next five years. He's not happy about it, but there it is. The City will wait for him, though. For some, it's a home.

this rotten world's gonna chew you up
swallow you whole and then spit you back out
the sooner you recognize this simple fact
then this rotten world gives you what you lack

We ended up not driving directly into The Mission, but instead to the Daly City BART station and taking the 24th Street. Wise old me. (Next up is teaching that bird to swim.) We'd gone there to hang out with Costanza's brother Simon, in town from San Antonio for a short while, and his local (ergo long distance) beau Cassie. Considering their limited time together, it was sweet of them to spend an afternoon of it with us. Afterwards Maddy I and went to a spoken word thing hosted by Michelle Tea at a queer bar on Valencia (no, really) called Amnesia, the second time we've seen Michelle this week. (When we emerged from the BART station earlier in the day, I looked around at the street signs to get my bearings and figure out what direction to go on Mission to meet with Simon and Cassie. A passerby asked me if I was trying to find Valencia. I wasn't, but it was amusing nonetheless—we must have looked like lost dykes.) The first time was at a similar event at the LGBT Center on Thursday evening. I think the word "groupie" is applicable, although as we're quite monogamous being starfuckers is kinda out of the question. Maddy's quite happy just to have Michelle recognize her and say hello.

We'd also seen Simon and Cassie the night before at a bar in Alameda called Lucky 13, post-bad Chinese food and pre-bad IHOP food. (For a teetotaler, I've been spending a lot of time in bars lately. It's a good thing that, beyond the fact that I don't like drinking, I have the whole liver excuse which I can use in the extremely unlikely event that someone pressures me. Not that any of our friends are at all likely to do that—having me as a perpetual designated driver can only be a good thing.) (Regarding the liver, it processes hormones, and mine is under enough stress as it is from both the hormones I take twice daily and the relatively small amount still produced naturally.) (Which doesn't stop some trannies from boozing it up as if it were a birthright, but hey, y'know, whatever. It's their body.) among the revellers were Timbre and The Boi, Heinrich and Brooke, Ump, and The Doctor. I got many compliments on my appearance; I was purposefully overdressed (or underdressed, considering how chilly it was) in the same manner as at Camera Obscura earlier in the week. This time, it worked. Heinrich, who hasn't seen me since Dana and Costanza's wedding, seemed particularly impressed, and I'm even willing to believe that it wasn't just the alcohol talking. By my math I've lost at least 30 lbs since the wedding, and I'm the first to admit my makeup and fashion sense has improved. (I'm not sure which had more of an impact, that I've lost so much weight or that I'm presenting myself better. Bad or good, thin equals pretty in this society, and though I didn't make the rules I'm going to take advantage of them while I can. Not that I really consider myself thin or pretty, mind you. I look at pictures of myself and don't think either word applies; the ones that make it to the top of this page because of the design corner into which I painted myself are, with a few exceptions, the ones I dislike the least, the one in twenty in which the shape of my face doesn't make cringe quite as much. I know this sounds like false modesty, but really, it isn't.) Of course, it still feels kinda hollow when I don't have a job to go to come Monday morning. Maybe it just means I have my priorities straight, I don't know.

In lieu of going somewhere and making money, I instead spent it this morning getting zapped, taking me to 213 hours. Only for an hour, but that was all it took to clear the dark hair on my face and some of it on my chest. I hadn't shaved since Friday (Thursday? I forget), but I don't think anybody noticed over the weekend. When you get this close to being done, it's hard not to want to just be done. I mean, I could probably not get zapped again and not have it affect my passability, but it also means I'd have to shave at least once a week for the rest of my life. Nope.

It wasn't quite the big spectacular Bollywood musical I was hoping for—cf. the opening credits of Ghost World—but we enjoyed it, and so did the sold out audience. Although it's probably just as well that it wasn't actually a musical, since they laughed at a preview for a more traditional Bollywood musical. Sheesh. Friday night crowds are Friday night crowds no matter where you are, I guess.

Boy, it's a good thing I don't have any pet peeves, huh? Imagine how annoying I'd be, harping on about them all the time as if any of it mattered...

The main problem with Trannyshack is that, if I may be so bold, that particular barrel has long since been shot full of holes, and lead-filled fish aren't all that appealing. I stayed for maybe 45 minutes before serious boredom kicked in and I left. It hadn't filled up much, and I got the impression that even if when it did I still wouldn't find whatever it was I was looking for, even/especially if someone hit on me.

So I went on to Camera Obscura, nee Roderick's. I tend to associate clubs with their venues rather than the promoters or music—though I regret never having gone to the again-defunct Shrine at its recent locations, it'll never really be Shrine to me outside of the basement of the Maritime—so it still felt very much like Roderick's to me even if it hadn't gone by that name in over a year.

Heaven knows the clientele was the same as ever. Boots, fishnets, short black velvet dress, collar and kitty ears (which are great because it gives me an excuse to wear my hair down, which is considerably easier than putting it up) and I still felt painfully underdressed. I wonder how much of that comes from the gulf between my self-image and my actual appearance.

I can look at myself in the mirror and be satisfied, all things considered—it's a vast improvement over how I looked, say, five years ago, and my fears of a life in a muumuu has not come to pass. Heck, the other day I picked up Maddy's birth control pills at Walgreen's, and the pharmacist asked if I needed a consultation. I think that qualifies as a certain degree of passability, even if nobody's fooled after they talk to me for a while. It never came up directly with Dax, but a few things she said implies that she read me.

I've gone from being on the outside looking in to being as on the inside as I can hope for, but sometimes it feels like a lateral move at best. (Why, yes, I am being astoundingly unappreciative of my good luck.) I saw a girl dressed essentially the same with the same hairstyle (sans ears) last night and felt horribly inadequate, because by definition she was cuter. She must have been. They all are. And I'm guessing she was new, since I observed Terminal observing her as she went from the dance floor to the bar. After a moment's hesitation he went after her, and feeling a strong anthropological curiosity I followed at a discreet distance and watched (again, discreetly) as he introduced himself to her with a prolonged handshake. I also noticed Crawford being kind enough to extend the welcome wagon. A vision of chivalry, those two. Maybe I should start going to new clubs.

On the way home, I discovered my new favorite radio show, The No Other Radio Network on KPFA. (Well, third favorite after Over the Edge and Skulltime for Kids With Captain Jack and Skully.) It plays experimental music, the sort of thing which most people would probably call "noise" rather than "music," and I love it. It may result in me being tired on Wednesday mornings even if I stay home.

8:02pm

At least I finally understand why bunnies were launched during "Mr. Satan Butterwolf."