Allegedly, there's another DJ on after my radio show. They have yet to actually materialize, so the CD I put on when I leave repeats until midnight. The CD in question is (It's Not A) Pretty Princess Day by my pal Suzanne (aka Kitten on the Keys), so it's not a bad thing.

I started to walk my usual route after leaving The Dark Room tonight, but there was a ghost (one I can't seem to shake) in front of the Lex, so I turned back. By then, Cameron was waiting on Mission for the 14, so I rode with him for a while. He made me feel safe.

Vash and I found ourselves alone on one of the upper floors of the Opera house yesterday after the show. Nobody was around, but it was still "public," technically.

Spent most of last night and today with Vash. Joined her in Alameda for a Morbid Curiosity reading. Both Vash and Lilah read , and Temple was in the audience. It's always neat to see circles converge, and the bookstore had some really great stuff. Afterwards, Vash and I swung by her place to find appropriate clothing for the opera, then braved the Bay Bridge back into the City.

Either the tales of traffic due to the construction have been greatly exaggerated, or we got extremely lucky. Either way, we made it in record time, and after a swing into the Mission for Urban Food Logs, we ventured to the Black Light District. A pattern is starting to emerge: up until we exhaust ourselves, nap for a few hours, and at it again until we simply run out of time. In this case, around eight this morning we made ourselves start getting ready to crash the Opera.

Crashing it involved getting to the box office when it opened at ten in the morning, buying Standing Room Only tickets for ten bucks (ten bucks!), then returning at a quarter to one when they opened the doors for the two o'clock performance. In between, we hit Ananda for brunch, then walked up and down Polk for a while, working off said brunch. We got back to the Opera House later than we would have liked, but the cheaper the cheap seats, the less competition there is for them.

For the first half of the show we stood, but during intermission a departing couple took pity on us and gave us their seats. In truth, it was only a partial improvement, especially given my legroom issues, and it made our mutual exhaustion even more of an issue. It's not Doctor Atomic, concerning Oppenheimer and the development of the atomic bomb, wasn't interesting. It's just that me being tired in a darkened room does bad things to my attention span. I dozed through more classes in film school than I care to mention. Still, for ten bucks a pop, we more than got our money's worth.

While walking from my office in the vicinity of Third and Townsend to the 48's terminal stop at 3rd and 20th, a mile-and-a-half trek I made largely as the final trial for the new boots, I reached a decision. After I got home, I relayed it to Alvin and Jennifer:

Subject: in which sherilyn not only assumes the mantle of eeyore, but goes one better (worse)

Can't do it, folks.

Doesn't mean I don't WANT to. It just means that I've finally sat down and done the math on my finances--something I haven't done since before my car said "urp" and rolled to a halt--and even though my arithmetic skills are nowhere near Alvin's, I reached the irrefutable conclusion that I simply cannot afford to go. My finances will not allow it. Even though employment-wise I'm nestled in the chest of the multi-billion dollar adult industry (it's gay porn, so it's a chest, not a bosom), I'm a little tiny c0g in the wheel, I don't have the cash and/or credit necessary.

This bums me out, but there it is. I'm SO sorry to do this to you, I really really am, but I have no choice. Without a doubt I'm screwing things up for you, but I can only hope that bailing this far in advance (three and a half weeks rather than, say, two and a half or even one and a half) will make it a little easier to work around...

They'll be disappointed with me, possibly even angry. But that's nothing new these days. I'm doing pretty good job of learning to live with it, especially when it's the price of looking out for myself.

The evening's first order of business was Retool & Grind. It was more well-attended than usual, pushing the upper limits of the single digit range. And, of course, there's no better lineup than my pals (Vash, Ali and Horehound) reading smut. Can't beat that with a stick, even though I'm sure they'd like it. I also got a surprising number of compliments about my look, which really wasn't anything all that special. I eventually concluded that it was because they haven't seen me since I started growing out my bangs. Ironically, aside from the length, the hair around my face is as close as I've had to a boy cut since at least the early nineties. Hell, it's vaguely reminiscent of River Phoenix in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. I'm uncertain how I feel about it, but there you go.

I'd hoped to end Retool a little earlier than usual so we could get over to Cafe DuNord in time to get good seats for Ask Dr. Hal, but the surprising number of readers kept it going. Figures tonight would be the night people actually start showing up. It's a good thing, of course. We still managed to seats at DuNord which allowed for both an adequate view of the stage (especially the screen) and maximum cuddleability, rather important for people as tactually inclined yet shameless as Vash and I.

The way the show works is, you write your question along with your name on a slip of paper and put it in an envelope; the envelope is color-coded with respect to how much you paid for each question. Deciding to be a big spender, a dropped a fiver on my question. Host Chicken John reads the question, and Dr. Hal answers it. Meanwhile, KROB (who has guest-hosted Rush Hour on the Event Horizon a couple times) provides a soundtrack and a guy named David Capurro uses his mad Google skillz to find relevant images to project on the screen behind the stage. There are plenty of colored lights and smoke machines, and a paper model of the Cassini-Huygens spacecraft hung over the stage for reasons to complicated to go into here, though I will say it had nothing to do with Illbilly.

Now, if Chicken John and/or Dr. Hal really like your question, Chicken John pours a shot of Fernet Branca, and the questioner must (must!) come on stage and drink it. Them's the rules.

It was getting towards the end of the show, and I was beginning to wonder if they were going to get to my question or not. Finally, Chicken John said "This next question comes from Sherilyn Connelly..."

Much to my surprise, Dr. Hal seemed almost startled to hear my name. "Sherilyn Connelly? The writer, actor, person about town?" I swear, I did not put him up to it. Frankly, I didn't realize he knew my name, though we've worked together a few times (he did voiceover work for both Night of the Living Dead and The Hitch-hiker's Guide to the Galaxy) and have chatted once or twice. I don't know, I've never been to the show, maybe he does that with every name he recognizes. Before Dr. Hal could continue with what he knew of my curriculum vitae, Chicken John read my question, then poured a glass of Fernet.

Now, here's the thing. I'm dense. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer. I thought the shot might be intended for me, but I wasn't actually told as such. I mean, maybe he just keeps one handy up there, right? Seems plausible. Vash, no less a newbie than myself, observed a red light on Dr. Hal's desk which seemed to go on whenever a Fernet-worthy question was asked, and it remained unlit. So the glass of Fernet probably wasn't for me.

As Dr. Hal was answering my question (which I really wish I could have heard, but as you can see, I was distracted), someone else went on stage and picked up the glass. "Hey!" said Chicken John. "You're not Sherilyn Connelly!"

Ding ding ding! That was my cue. I bolted out of my chair and made my way through the crowd to the stage—I'm guessing it was easier when the show usedto be at the Odeon—stepped up and picked up the shot glass. Fernet had been described earlier as being heavily composed of beets, which are just about my least favorite vegetable (or are they fruit? what the hell are those rancid things?), but I was feeling pretty fearless. I raised the glass in an upstaging toast to Chicken John and Dr. Hal, then to the audience, and dramatically slammed it down. Wow. Good stuff. Powerful, quickly. I staggered slightly back to our table, realizing that I'd effectively missed most of Dr. Hal's answer to my question. Feh. Hopefully it'll show up on the website or something.

The show ended around midnight, earlier than I expected. I'd walked there but Vash drove, and on the way to her car, she asked if she could spend the night at my place. Since she works in the City but lives in The Beast, she would have had an ugly drive ahead of her otherwise, so I said yes. That was one of the reasons, anyway.

9:30pm

It's inevitable, I suppose. When you're flying high, I was last night with Vash, you crash. To quote David Byrne, things fall apart. it's scientific. And, moreover, it will come in the form of bad decisions, so I can blame nobody but myself. Just like I can blame nobody but myself for constantly switching between the first and third person.

See, I probably should have gone straight home after buying the new boots from Stompers, as I had no truly compelling reason to go to the Batman dress rehearsal at The Dark Room. It's not like I was going with anyone (I'd dropped a line to Esther, but because hotmail and sfgoth don't get along, I didn't get her response in time), nor would I have to pay if I went during a regular performance.

But I was lead to believe that they really wanted people to be there, so I was there. It was hilarious—Jim is a brilliant comedy writer, the kind I wish I could be—and a little painful at times, since I haven't been in a play in well over a year. I've also willfully passed on two auditions, so maybe if I'd actually tried, I would have gotten a part. But I didn't, so I didn't, and there's no telling. (I also think Collette should have been thanked in the program for the supplying the tape of old Batman episodes which aided in the writing of the script. Then again, Collette getting the fuzzy end of the lollipop is just the way life has been treating her lately, isn't it?) (And, I know from experience that there were a zillion little details to attend to, and it was not a deliberate snub. And I know what a deliberate snub looks like.) So, I went to The Dark Room carrying the big heavy bulky box containing my burgundy Fluevogs. My new boots, T.U.K. Combat Troopers, were on my feet. Or, rather, my feet were in them. They felt funny, but that's part of the boot breaking-in process, isn't it? I'd reckon both pairs of Fluevogs felt like this when I first got them, but that was a zillion years ago.

After the play was over, I should have taken the 14 or 49 to Van Ness. Instead, I walked to Church, like I've done any of a number times recently when I wasn't carrying a box. Gotta get the exercise, y'know. Then, rather than wait for the predicted fifteen minutes before the next outbound L came along, I rode inbound in hopes of getting a seat. Unfortunately, I overshot and got off at Powell just as the L in question was leaving. Oh, and I hadn't piddled since I left work three hours earlier, and my prospects of getting anywhere near a restroom in the near future were slim at best. I'd decided not to at The Dark Room because the prospect of going backstage made me very uncomfortable. Yes, I'm sure I would have been welcomed back there, it wouldn't have been a problem with anyone. This is about me, not them.

Anyway, as the L went away, I had a brief moment where I thought I might cry. Kinda wish I had, in public or not. (When you're like me, you take it for granted that people will be looking at you funny no matter what.) But I didn't, and another L came along sooner than I expected.

Just stewing in my britches like Judas. It's what I do.

11:45pm

But there are good things too, there always are, thoughts which sustain and nourish.

Though we'd already planned on going out, Vash didn't foresee spending the night at my place, so she didn't bring a change of clothes. Something tells me she'll be more prepared next time. Just a hunch. (I get shivery-in-a-good-way just thinking about those words. next time) I tried to help her out as best as I can, but not much of mine fits her, let alone stuff that fits her. She did wind up wearing one of my tank tops, and seeing her it in was a nice little charge.

Oh, and Tim in this episode? At no point is he acting. Didn't even know the camera was on him.

5:43pm

Closure is a myth.

Information is power.

And I haven't even entirely abandoned pop music, either. I have a couple different mp3 mix CDs that I listen to on my commute, I'm finally starting to get into the most recent Eels album, and I've been listening to a lot of The Smiths and The Cure this past week. (With "There is a Light that Never Goes Out" and "Catch" especially getting the loop treatment.) My fondness for Manson certainly hasn't declined much over the past eight years, that's for sure. I still occasionally post personally meaningful lyrics on this page. All the same, I don't listen to nearly as much of it as I once did, not since I really discovered noise and ambient music in 2000.

It would stand to reason that Neil would be one of the pop acts to not fall through the cracks, and yet he mostly has. Seriously, I was a major fan way back when. Went to all the shows, wrote lengthy stories about some of them (note how the story begins with me having troubles with my live-in girlfriend, and yet it would take me another decade to realize that cohabitation was a bad thing for me), obsessed over every little detail in his art and his life, and of course was heavily involved in the online fan community. Sometimes I think that was my undoing.

There had always been bickering and flaming on the mailing list, not to mention an inflated sense of the list's importance in the world, and by the end of the decade I grew weary of it. When I hit the reset button on my life in 1999, that was one of the things to go away. I think it may have been in the form of getting a new email address and not bothering to resubscribe to the list. And I found I didn't miss it at all. Granted, I'd found a new vat of stupidity on the sfgoth junkies list, to speak of nothing of being lured onto Livejournal a couple years after that. To think, I was foolish enough to believe that making it easier for people to read my entries was a good thing. Nope. Really not.

I kept up on the new albums, mind you, downloading them rather than buying them as befitting my newfound pirate status (arrrr!). Silver and Gold was pretty good in spite of utterly blowing the potential of "Horseshoe Man," Are You Passionate? was as unlistenable to me as most other fans consider Landing on Wanter (the latter of which is going to be the name of my first memoir), I still think the last two songs on Greendale are the just about the best twenty minutes of music that he or anyone else has ever recorded, I was all kinds of excited to see the movie of the same name with Horehound when it played at the Castro a couple years back. But Neil just isn't a part of my life anymore like he once was, even if his words still go through my head now and then.

You are my special one
Made my heart come all undone
We've been havin' too much fun

Now someone else
Will sleep with tears
When he hears
What we've done

So, I was a bit surprised to read that not only does he have a new album out, but it was inspired by his struggle with a brain aneurysm. Though the album just came out, the aneurysm was back in April, for pete's sake. Even made the papers. I knew I was out of the loop, but wow.

Having just acquired the album through pirate channels (arrrr!), I like it. Couldn't help notice that the opening guitar part of "No Wonder" sounds a lot like "The Old Homestead" from Hawks and Doves. See? I've still got it.

8:41pm

Vash is going to be at Retool 'n Grind tomorrow night, thus guaranteeing at least one actual audience member. What more do you need for a show than that? From there, we'll be checking out Ask Dr. Hal at Cafe DuNord. I think I know what I'm going to ask.

Baby, sweet baby, you're my drug
Come on and let me taste your stuff
Baby, sweet baby, bring me your gift
What surprise you gonna hit me with

I am waiting here for more
I am waiting by your door
I am waiting on your back steps
I am waiting in my car
I am waiting at this bar
I am waiting for your essence

Baby, sweet baby, whisper my name
Shoot your love into my vein
Baby, sweet baby, kiss me hard
Make me wonder who's in charge

I am waiting here for more
I am waiting by your door
I am waiting on your back steps
I am waiting in my car
I am waiting at this bar
I am waiting for your essence

Baby, sweet baby, I wanna feel your breath
Even though you like to flirt with death
Baby, sweet baby, can't get enough
Please come find me and help me get fucked up

I am waiting here for more
I am waiting by your door
I am waiting on your back steps
I am waiting in my car
I am waiting at this bar
I am waiting for your essence

Your essence...

Lucinda Williams,
"Essence"

Good day at the Castro Street Fair with Esther. Made the rounds and danced a great deal, never understanding why straight boys seemed to be drawn to us, even at the Women's Stage. Guys, really? Do you mind? Talked a lot. It was nice to get a chance to gush about recent events. (and then...and then...and then...) Some darker beliefs were confirmed as well, parallel events with mutual acquaintances. I'm not the only one.

She also joined me for Bad Movie Night, which was as painful as I expected it to be. The movie simply had no there there, and it felt like my hit-to-miss ratio was heavier on the "miss" side than usual. Still, co-host Angie Krass told me afterwards that I was really funny. That meant a lot.

3:09pm

Still nothing about the audition, good or bad. I'm thinking about it far less than you might suspect.

5:22pm

Esther's account of Sunday. I hate the picture of me, but of course, I would.

5:57pm

Oh, no no no no no. After having lost two scarves and narrowly avoiding losing my sunglasses for good, you are not telling me I lost my favorite sweater, my security blanket, on the way to Lee's Deli and back this afternoon. I refuse to believe I've become that scatterbrained. I'm not even doing drugs these days, for fuck's sake.

sometime after midnight

Ah, the rock and roll lifestyle. I'm assuming that the rock and roll lifestyle involves having juice (mine was orange, hers cranberry) with Esther at the Lex after my radio show, then shopping for veggies at Safeway and taking the muni home, finally rolling in at half past midnight. Does that count? I wouldn't really know.

Walking to the station from work, I stopped in at Ross and got a scarf which is less stylish than I prefer but more than adequate to keep my neck warm. Walking by the pit of crass consumer evil which is is known on this plane of physical existence as "Old Navy," I couldn't help but notice a sweater (cardigan, technically) which bore a certain superficial resemblance to my erstwhile one, enough of a passing familiarity to lure me into that place for the first time ever. Seriously, I've never set foot in one of the wretched places before. After managing to convince an employee that yes, I really did want to look at the same sort of sweater as on the mannequin, she led me into what I calculated to be roughly the Third Circle (Sinners Against Moral Business Practices). The XL didn't fit well enough to justify the cost, for which I was somewhat disappointed but mostly relieved. There's no telling what a few days of chilliness will do to my snobbery, though.

Rush Hour on the Event Horizon's one-year anniversary, the show itself went pretty well beyond from technical glitches which not only come with the territory but actively define the territory, in the same way that the mesas and buttes define Monument Valley. Not many callers, but there never are. If nothing else, it gave me an excuse to play John Zorn's "Nostalgia II (Cello)" from Filmworks X (In the Mirror of Maya Deren), which has re-entered the running for The Most Beautifulest Music Ever. I've been listening to it a lot lately, for what it evokes.

Frank Chu arrived at the station just as my show was ending. Seems Monkey, the guy who runs the station, had arranged an interview with him for 10pm. We called Monkey, who had plum forgotten about it, and asked if someone already there (like, you know, me) could conduct the interview. Oh, hell no.

Whether or not I would attend The Disquiet Festival was a bit uncertain. Collette and I had at one point planned on going to see Acid Mothers Temple at the Bottom of the Hill, but we haven't spoken since Folsom. Then I had the organizer of the festival on my radio show Monday night, and I realized I simply had to go. Vash also attended, and I wonder if anyone at the show thought her and I were being disrespectful to the artists by being so seemingly wrapped up in each other and oblivious to all else. If so, they were quite wrong. We were very conscious of the noise, and the sonic isolation caused by the earplugs which way may or may not have actually needed served to further create the space of just us with the sound, a perfect score for the energy between us, pushing and being pushed.

Her home looked pretty much as I expected, with a palpable sense of creativity, her work lining the walls and all but stacked in places, a well-stocked workspace which made me think of dressers I've seen covered with a million different cosmetics—I'd have not the first clue what to do with the majority of it. Throughout there were touches and flourishes indicative of someone for whom white walls simply will not do. (How can they for anyone? How is that all that blank space in your field of vision not an invitation to madness?) We slept when our bodies finally demanded it, her again drifting off much more quickly and restfully than me (did i sleep? did i dream of lying awake next to her?). We began to wake to the East Bay sun streaming in through the hole in the top of her world, a purer yet less harsh wave than that which enters the Black Light District at perpendicular angles. For as much as I didn't want the night to end, the wash of the dawn light has never felt so kind.

6:08pm

I've haven't been home since Friday morning. I think it's time to go there.

7:54pm

Jiggity jig. Neither Perdita nor the District seem to have suffered any ill effects from my thirty-six hour absence. Having suspected (but not expected, never ever expect) that I wouldn't home that night, I made sure she had plenty of food and water and a freshly scooped box when I left yesterday morning. Frankly, I'm not convinced she realizes how long I was gone.

This day has felt...unbound. Which is good. Moved around a lot. The paradoxical freedom of not driving. And of not taking off your socks (red Emily Strange with kitty heads) once in thirty-six hours. At times I felt invisible, like at the Tease-O-Rama classes, and at times I felt highly visible, such as when I was on a train full of fans going to the fucking ballpark, them all in their branded Giants gear and me in last night's clothes—Trinity pants and tank top and Spike jacket, feeling as alien as I looked to the many stares.

The second night of The Disquiet Festival should be starting right about now, and the October run of Lynnee's show begins in two hours. I won't be at either. If I can properly motivate myself, I'll be asleep before the latter starts. Evidently being dead tired and remembering what last Sunday was like isn't sufficient motivation in and of itself.

Vash asked me last night if I've ever considered getting fangs. Funny how that idea resurfaces.