The two passes for the Mitchell Brothers' O'Farrell Theatre had been paperclipped to our calendar ever since Danielle gave them to Maddy and I over a year ago. Danielle had intended to take us as a guide, but that never quite happened. Well aware of Danielle's less-than-secret attraction to me, Maddy suggested last week that Danielle and I could go together. Danielle was more than happy to oblige.

We'd originally planned to meet outside the theater. Danielle was positively obsessing on what I was going to wear, though, and after a few fashion consultations over the phone, I broke down and went to her place. I tried on the dress she'd had in mind for me, didn't like it, and finally went with one of my own. She also offered me her makeup, but I stuck with my own. It was observed that we were both wearing non-smear lipstick.

After finding a super-cherry parking spot on Polk, in the shadow of the O'Farrell's legendarily weird nature-painted west wall, Danielle and I went inside. Thankfully, the year-and-change-old passes were still good, since there was no way we were going to pay forty bucks each. Um, really not.

The first stop on our tour was New York Live. Since I'm a big huge nerd, I tried to figure out why it was called that, since there was nothing remotely New York-ish about it. Danielle had no idea. (It might have been explained in Rated X, David McCumber's book about The Mitchell Brothers—which also devotes a fair amount of ink to Danielle's notorious time as dancer there and her ass-kicking of Artie Mitchell—but it's been four years since I read it.) It was the standard strip club setup, a stage surrounded by seats. Hella comfy, really, connected rows more like movie theater seats than anything else. In spite of that, Danielle informed me that it was not the room in which movies used to be shown.

Indigo sparkles orbited the room from the mirror ball, and spotlights bathed the dancers in blues and reds. Danielle said she always asked for blue light, which better complements her pale skin. As I learned at Trannyshack lo those many years ago, blue light is indeed the heliophobe's friend. Neatest of all was the circle of light high up on the wall behind the stage, what looked to me like the eclipse of a purple sun. I have no idea where it was coming from, nor what it was for. All I know was that it was beautiful.

Oh, and as I mentioned before, there was a dancer. Just getting started as Danielle and I sat down was a blond girl who looked very familiar. When I wasn't grooving on the lighting, I was trying to figure out who she reminded me of. (Yes, she had a terrific body. You expected something different?) Finally, it struck me: she looked like Laura San Giacomo in The Stand after losing her virginity to Randall Flagg. Well, okay, maybe not that strung out. Far from it. But definitely a blonde Laura San Giacomo. Danielle concurred.

While I was pondering these and other deep issues relating to the history of place, Danielle tipped her. Tried to, anyway. As the unfolded dollar bill approached her coochie, Laura brushed Danielle's hand away, saying "Dirty!" As in, "Ew! Gross!" Danielle told me it was a new rule, probably a hygiene concern. It wasn't so much of an issue back in her day. Things have changed in a lot of other ways, too.

We were sitting stage right. In the row directly in front of the stage was the classic Middle American Guy. Innocuous, mustachioed, and with a large appreciative smile. Right there. That's how this economy works. In another universe, I could make so much money off him. (Or, far less pleasantly, I might have been him. As it is, I narrowly avoided that fate in this universe.)

I told her about the current phase of my relationship with Maddy and the conditions which had lead to us being out at that moment. She seemed intrigued.

When the song (a wonderfully inappropriate gangsta rap tune) was over, the dancer gathered up the meager tips left on the stage. At two bucks, Danielle appeared to be the biggest tipper. Even I could tell that the crowd was anemic. That it was barely a quarter to nine on a weeknight probably had a lot to do with it. I ruminated that it would probably be busier in a few days during that nauseating display of deadly firepower known as Fleet Week. According to Danielle, however, Fleet Week is usually slow at the O'Farrell. It's the strip clubs and titty bars in North Beach that get all the business. Figures.

The Green Door Show, conveniently located a few paces away from New York Live (have I mentioned how tiny the place feels?), was a tad disappointing. I was expecting a bit more, since, well, it has the name, y'know? Behind the Green Door. Marilyn Chambers and Ivory Soap and all that. Maybe the soap connection is why it used to involve a shower? I have no idea. Nowadays, a curtain parts to reveal a large, round platform. Behind it is the titular (heh heh) Green Door. On the platform are two pairs of girls. They play with each other. "Live sex acts," don'tchaknow. The platform rises a couple feet. Then it goes back down. End of Act I. Danielle confirmed that the pair on the left looked like they were about to burst out laughing not as part of the act, but because they really did have the giggles. I'm not surprised she can tell. We grew restless and wandered off before Act II, which she tells me involves the girls moving the show from the platform to the tables next to which the audience sits. Sure, why not?

Whenever she could, Danielle chatted up the dancers. Not just because she's a pig, but because she used to work there. None of them really seemed to care one way or the other, and the solidarity she tried to establish with them never quite happened. One dancer said she'd been there since '91, the year Danielle left. They missed each other by a few months. Thirteen years, though. Damn. The mathematics of that astonishes me.

An early eighties metal song began. I didn't recognize it, but I place it at pre-hair metal, Ratt/Spinal Tap era. Danielle told me that metal bands used to come in all the time. The band Slaughter was in her dressing room one time while she was trying to get ready to go on onstage. She was much more interested in the groupies than in the band, as she very much had the groupies' attention. I Wanted To Be The Rock Star, she said. well, duh.

We breezed past the Ultra Room and headed for the Kopenhagen Room, compulsively checking our hair and makeup in the mirrored walls of the long hallway. It was between shows, so the Kopenhagen—famous as the "flashlight room"—was empty. It was dim, but not quite as dark as I'd imagined. (Hoped?) Three of the walls are lined with a long couch, and flashlights are scattered strategically about. For all the world, they looked like the handheld lights used by ground crews to guide airplanes as they taxi to a stop. Well, I guess a Maglite would kinda ruin the mood, wouldn't it? Best not to have lethal weapons in the immediate vicinity.

You Did Say This Is All Okay With Maddy, Right?

yep. we're legal. this was her idea, in fact.

Sit Down, Then.

So I did.

Like much of the rest of the O'Farrell, there's been some remodeling since she left. In the Kopenhagen, it's in the form of bars above the couch for the dancers to hold onto, which Danielle demonstrates as she straddled me. There are also individual curtains for privacy, but we did not use them.

(breathe, breathe—) Her teeth are sharp, as I'd suspected they might be. Not just her fangs, but her front teeth, which feel like they could rend anything in their path. I imagine them cutting my tongue, her mouth filling with my blood. It doesn't happen. (Much more to her regret than mine, no doubt.)

Every few minutes the music from New York Live changes, and the announcer comes on, encouraging the audience to tip the dancer. Danielle always looks up at the sound of the voice, making sure nobody else has come in. We're functionally squatting, after all, and she doesn't want to be in anyone's way. She is extremely respectful of the fact that the girls are working. For the moment, however, we're clear.

It's So Weird To Be Back In The Kopenhagen.

did you used to work this room?

All The Time, Yeah. I Did Vince Neil In Here Once. He Said I Had A Nice Clit. This Is The First Time I've Wanted To Be In Here, Though, Just To Enjoy Myself.

I am flattered beyond words, knowing that she's wanted to do this for at least as long as I have. (Granted, I've known who she was long before she ever met me, but, quite frankly, until we met I'd suspected she was dead.) Yes, she's a trannychaser. Yes, her attraction to me can be called a fetishization, an objectification. So what? Really not seeing a downside here. Of course, I find her equally attractive. A balding man with sweaty palms and a hardon for trannies is sneered at by my ilk, but since she's a sexy girl with sweaty palms and a hardon for trannies, it's perfectly okay. A double standard? Yes, probably.

My fingernails are not long or sharp enough. I didn't think so, anyway, as I ran them down her back. They're intentionally short, and normally that's fine, but I knew they wouldn't leave marks on her back, as I so wished they would. Her teeth are plenty sharp enough to leave marks on my neck, but they won't. (you are a force of nature and i am an abhorrent vacuum) She was going easy on me, and I wanted to tell her not to hold back, but I didn't. We both knew she needed to restrain herself.

By virtue of our position and her hair (mine was in pigtails), her neck was inaccessible. I'm a rank neck-biting amateur by any standard, let alone compared to Danielle, but I still wanted to give it my best shot.

A couple guys came in. There was a temptation to continue, maybe make a few bucks, but that would have been wrong on more levels than I can count. (Foremost in my mind is the extremely unlikeliness that Maddy would approve.) Danielle told them we weren't actually the show, and we left the Kopenhagen.

I wish I liked boys. It would expand my horizons so much.

Thus far, we'd managed to spend very little money, having gotten in free and only tipped a few dollars. Danielle started to use the ATM, only to discover that the surcharge was ten dollars. Fuck that. She realized it was Artie's revenge: the spirt of Artie Mitchell wanted her money. It made perfect sense He couldn't get to her pussy, so he was trying for the only thing he loved more. We'd seen everything the O'Farrell had to offer us anyway, so we headed out.

The market across the street had an ATM with a much more reasonable charge. (Reasonable in this context, expensive in any other.) Danielle and the owner go way back, at least as far back as her O'Farrell days, and he seemed genuinely happy to see her. I'd always wondered what the people who ran the store thought about having the most notorious strip joint in town as a neighbor, and now I knew. If the O'Farrell ever closed, it would surely hurt the market's business.

We went to the New Century around the corner, long considered by many to be a pale reflection of the O'Farrell. Danielle had danced there as well, not surprisingly. She didn't recognize the person working the door, though so we kept walking. We certainly weren't going to pay.

From there, it was to Divas. I haven't been there in a few years, but Danielle is a regular. Many of the natives refuse to believe she's a genetic girl, and Danielle makes no attempt to convince them she isn't a tranny. Indeed, she revels in it. She is somewhat intersexed, with an unusually high testosterone level requiring her to shave every few days lest hairs grow in on her neck and chest thicker than mine. She insists that I look more like a real girl than she does. I'm not so sure how much I agree, but it's a lovely thought.

After she got the necessary schmoozing out of the way, finally getting a chance to sit down and talk, occasionally indulging in slightly awkward kisses across the table. Danielle admitted that she'd been telling people I was her girlfriend. I'm not, and she knew it, but no harm done; she was showing me off, indulging in the boy role she enjoys so much. (Look At My Hot Girlfriend!) It was probably also to keep people from hitting on either of us.

We talked about her current writing projects. She's collaborating on a comic, is working on a potential gig with the SF Weekly, and has a solid lead on a book agent. The thought of her writing career getting back on track pleases me no end, but I'm cautiously optimistic at best. It'll happen or it won't, and it's entirely up to her.

It was gratifying to hear that me taking her to ForWord Girls in '02 helped. She admits she wasn't at her best that night, but she's grateful I took her. It was a turning point, making her realize that she really needed to get her shit together. And now, by all appearances, she's finally doing just that.

It was karaoke night at Annie's, and we started heading in that direction before deciding to call it an evening. Danielle was crashing, and my own energy levels were waning. I took her home, then returned to Maddy.

My mane seems to have survived the process nicely, without extensive fryage. Taos only worked with the existing, super-fadey purple and three-month growth of roots, since bleaching out black is historically a bad idea. It'll be grown out eventually. I'm not sure exactly what bleach and developer she used—some of the bleach had been intended for her boyfriend, in fact—but for those curious about such things, the toner was MC MAX "Wicked Blonde." I know, I know, I can't seem to get away from that adjective, but it was the shade I liked the best, okay?

This is going to take a lot of getting used to. I like it, though. I'm curious to see if I'm treated differently by the world, as those with lighter hair are said to be. Maybe it means I'll be needing my Girl Army training sooner than I would have otherwise, since I theoretically won't be as intimidating as I was with black hair. If I find I'm getting clocked as male more than I used to, however, I'll be raven-haired again (or at least no longer blonde) pretty damn fast. What I'm really dreading are the inevitable "Does This Mean You're Not Goth Anymore?" questions.

Afterwards, we ate a lot of cheese. Don't know that I'll be doing that again anytime soon, but when in Nazi-occupied Switzerland...

The last time I boozed was also absinthe, at a Fourth of July party at the same house. The next time alcohol enters my system it will, in all likelihood, be The Green Fairy. (Ugh. I always feel so dorky using that phrase. Caitlín calls it that—hell, she thanks it in the beginning of Murder of Angels—so I guess it's not so bad, but still.) This means I'm not a teetotaler anymore, doesn't it? The first line of Substance has just been called in to question, that's for sure. If it helps, I'm more drinking it for the wormwood than the alcohol. Choose your poison, indeed.

I ingested just enough to give me the courage to make a move which really shouldn't have required artificial de-inhibition in the first place. It's hard not to feel a little...weak. Like, if I couldn't find the strength within myself, I had no business doing it in the first place. Fortune favors the bold, and all that. At thirty-one, you'd think I'd know by now how to ask to kiss a girl. I mean, it worked, and I'm beyond thrilled about it, and I know from going out with Danielle earlier this week that I can do just fine for myself stone cold sober, but...

Yeah, I know. I have issues. Progress is being made. Honest.

I performed at Julia Serano's series Gender Enders tonight. I read my submission to Jennifer's Blowdryer's book, the complete version which surely won't get printed. (She asked for a thousand words or less, and it ended up being about five times that.) When read aloud, a few parts had to be skipped to bring it in under half an hour, and I only even attempted it at all because Julia's so generous with feature time. That's a long while for an audience to sit still for a single piece. Hopefully they weren't too bored.

During the "crunchy on the outside/squishy on the inside" (tm Lynnee) checking-in session at the beginning of class, I talked about how fantastically rough this last week has been. (Most everyone reported having had bad weeks. Something in aether.) I also described a moment earlier in the week when, finding myself in the emotional place which usually results in me digging the Negative Energy Knife out of the bag, I...didn't. The temptation was there, and it was strong, but I refused to give into it. no. i'm not going to do that to myself. I just rode the wave until it broke.

Probably doesn't mean I'll never do it again. I don't have many avenues of physical release, and sometimes my body needs something, damnit. But, that night, I stood up to it. Presently, sitting on that mat in the circle, I opined that it might have been the influence of the class itself, which is as much about psychological defense as physical. If you don't believe that you have the right to defend yourself, that you deserve to be defended, then you're not going to be sufficiently present when the time comes, you're not going to have the necessary will to do whatever it takes. (Your mileage may vary, of course.)

A girl came up to me after class, tears in her eyes. Her and I had actually worked together earlier, practicing escape moves. She said she was touched by what I said at the beginning of class, that I was extremely brave to talk about it. My short-term memory being the double-holed bucket that it is (at this rate, I'm going to have to start tattooing myself and carrying around Polaroids), it took me a moment to remember exactly what she was referring to.

Often, it slips my mind that cutting something most people consider shameful and secretive. Understandably so; it's certainly not something I'm proud of, and I debated whether or not to write about it. But if I didn't, it would become just one more thing I censor myself about, and god knows there's enough of 'em already. So, I'd figured that if I could write about it on this public medium where untold dozens of people might read it (perhaps even several dozen over the years! Imagine that!), then I can certainly mention it in the Girl Army setting. I guess it's a good thing that I did. I thanked her, and we hugged.

Nothing sounded more appealing than just going straight home. It had been the most physically grueling class yet, with lots of rolling and kicking from the ground and the like, and I had approximately no energy left. I'd promised Tara I would be at K'vetch, though, and Matthue was featuring, and Danielle said she might come by, and...

The trick was to not go home first. If I went home, it would be all the more difficult to leave home. So, when I got back into the City, I headed straight for The Dark Room. As soon as he saw me, Jim observed that I looked like I'd been running. Yeah, pretty much. Ty kindly offered the bed in her office for napping, and I tried, but it just didn't happen. I was in that place of being both wired and exhausted at the same time. So I read and wrote, doing neither very well.

I'd parked in front of Bender's, so when after leaving The Dark Room I hung out with Chupa for a bit. She informed me that Psychic TV is playing at the DNA on November 3. Good to know, especially since that's a lot more financially feasible than the Marilyn Manson show at the Warfield on November 1. Which hurts, because I really want to see Manson up close and personal—as in, at the front of the stage—but I cannot even begin to justify the ticket price. Maddy's offered to pay for it in lieu of a professional massage that's never happened (floating has been suggested as well), but I don't know. My radio show's that night, so maybe I'll just play really harsh stuff to make up for it. Can't make it to Marilyn Manson? Try Masonna and Merzbow!

After some last-minute waffling, I went to Sadie's for K'vetch. As usual, I arrived before everyone else. Even when I'm late, I'm still the first one there. I started the list, then set about trying to figure out what to do with myself. Usually I'm towards the front, an active member of the audience. Not tonight. I took up residence on the couch at the very far end of building. Thankfully, it was a relatively small crowd, so I didn't have much competition for it.

When I first started reading at K'vetch, I was very conscious of my appearance. I tried not to wear the same thing two months in a row (because, y'know, people notice these things) and made sure my makeup was just so before going on. Tonight, dressed down more than anyone there had ever seen me, I was beyond giving a damn. Not a hint of makeup, and I was still in my workout clothes. Hell, I was walking around barefoot, since my feet were aching and the sandals put unnecessary pressure on them. The only concession I made to my appearance was fixing my pigtails, which had gotten all out of whack. There was something rather liberating about it, really.

All things considered, my reading in the open mic was pretty good. I was able to muster up just enough energy.

I strongly considered leaving after Matthue read, but Lynnee asked me to stay to see the other feature (The Radical Cheerleaders). That was almost enough, and then Jim and Erin showed up. First time at K'vetch. Couldn't leave now, could I?

Eventually, I was able to go home and crash. It had been a very, very long day.

I knew for sure that it was all coming together when I left the booth and went into the kitchen, where someone had kindly tuned the radio to Pirate Cat. I stood in the dark, listening to my show. It was spooky. It sounded like the soundtrack to a nightmare. It was perfect, exactly what I'd intended it to be.

Per Embeth's request (and inspired by Belladonna), this is what it was:

Durtro - "Rush Hour on the Event Horizon pt. 1" - Rush Hour on the Event Horizon
Archon Satani - "Witchcraft Holocaust" - Virgin Birth...Born Again
Miss Murgatroid - "Below the Bellows" - Myoclyonic Melodies
Sturmovik - "Stahlhauch" - Feldweihe
Sheila Chandra and the Ganges Orchestra - "We Drone" - EEP1
The Conet Project - "2 Letter 'VO'" - Recordings of Shortwave Numbers Stations
Penis Flytrap - "The Living Hate the Dead" - Dismemberment
Beneath the Lake - "Inside Passage" - Inside Passage
Throbbing Gristle - "Splitting Sky" - TGNow
Monos - "Brittle" - Nightfall Sunshine
Monstrare - "Demerokt in 2001" - Norvum Ott
Stars of the Lid - "Lactate's Moment" - Gravitational Pull Vs. The Desire For An Aquatic Life
Beequeen - "Lexington '59" - Sugarbush
Wilt - "Radio Tower" - Radio 1940
Robert Rich - "Steel Harmonics" - Humidity Disc 3 - Stanford
Antonio Cora - "The Cellar" - Josh's Blair Witch Mix

...I've Missed You Guys.

yeah, i've missed us too.

Embeth came over last night to watch Ginger Snaps Back: The Beginning, her birthday present to Maddy. (Not bad, though the second film is still my favorite.) It was Embeth's first time in our apartment. She likes it.

Maybe lots of people did consider Spalding to be a bottom-feeder, the way some people surely regard me.

High tide this afternoon is at a quarter past two. Perfect for The Wave Organ.

when even your lowest expectations are too high...