How the Borderland failed me

 From a transgender forum:

I took some comments from another thread, because it reminded me of a ‘hobby horse’ that I’ve ridden here before. It’s about my identity as a woman. Being on the border of male and female for 40-some years was not very satisfying. I finally got fed up.

Quote from other member:

I've noticed myself that I think and say things that are more typical of a woman now than I normally did before. I used to specifically direct my thoughts and attitudes in a specific "manly" way, in effect telling myself that "guys don't think and care about that stupid girl stuff." Maybe it was overcompensation, not allowing myself to care about it out of fear that everyone would find out that I'm a sissy.

That rang a bell with me. I was always ”directing my thoughts and attitudes,” especially as a teenager. A friend of mine (who disapproves of what I do) once said, “Every man has to figure out what he’s going to do with any feminine tendencies he might have.”

I figured it out early on, and as much as those 'girl' thoughts might have appealed to me, I could only see them leading to being either a sissy or an effeminate man. There were no other choices, as far as I could see. I must have known something about drag and crossdressing, but all I could see was that CDing was a joke and a disgrace if discovered, and a secret otherwise. I never imagined a crossdresser going out in public, and I certainly didn’t hear about it or read about it. Drag was something gay men did.

As I got older, I was more comfortable with being what people would call “a sensitive man.” From my late 20s to my mid-40s, I would have fit that description. It gave me more room to think feminine, and it made it easier to be around women. I could ‘talk their talk’ to some extent. But only to a certain point. I accepted that there were limits to what men could say or do. Again, I still didn’t want to be a sissy, for want of a better word.

Quote:

But women are not usually comfortable talking to men about most things because men generally don't care about it and don't put much effort into the conversation.

This much I was able to do, as a guy. I tried not to let it get out of hand, so that I was only talking to women. My trans girlfriend did that almost all of her life—all her friends were girls or women. She just didn’t understand men. I did understand men, and I liked being around them. But the limits of who I could be as a man started to get to me.

The pressure begin to build up when I was around 43, while I was still in a relationship. I found myself adopting more of the mannerisms of my girlfriend, which was something I’d never done with any other woman that I knew of. Lynda was glamorous to look at, but she was also “one of the guys,” in the way she talked and acted, so taking on her mannerisms was a borderland between guy and gal. It didn’t stick out too much, but I was aware I was doing it. It was OK with me; I could see that whatever it was, I wasn’t going to fight it.

Quote:

Consequently I spend a lot more time talking with women than I ever did before.

That is the one remarkable thing that I continue to discover on this journey. Women talk to me differently when I’m presenting another woman to them, and it’s not something that can easily be described. It’s like I’m eavesdropping in on another conversation, only—it’s me having it! It takes my breath away, and I don’t always know how to handle it when the other woman appears to forget who she’s talking to. One woman friend was talking about menopause, and said something about how she and I had to deal with some aspect of it—then she caught herself, and probably felt foolish for a moment.

What strikes me about all of this is that for me personally, there were very few rewards on the border of male-female behavior. If I kept to my side of the fence as a sensitive man, I didn’t really get much out of it, looking back. The women opened up to me a little more, true. The men didn’t care one way or the other.

After I went to the extreme of presenting a woman in the world, both men and women treated me differently. Men paid more attention to ‘sensitive’ behavior from a woman; things they would ignore from another guy. And women trusted another woman more than they would a guy, no matter how nice a guy he might be. There is no way to discover these things other than crossing the border, and it’s so surprising to find out what it’s like to be ‘someone else’—a girl version of who I thought I was all those years.

Quote:

Our problem is not our cross dressing. Our problem is our isolation.

Very well put, April. This whole dilemma reminds me of walking on hot coals. There’s no way to do just ‘a little’ bit of firewalking—you either do it or you don’t. Going out as a woman is exactly like that. If there are any rewards to be had,(and I think there are some) you have to present a different appearance, and there’s no going back.

_________________
The thunder follows me through the city,
roar of the street, the sound of my own heartbeat;
The thunder follows me through the city,
catch me if it can...
--Song inspired by hearing Led Zeppelin live, 1973

In the time after...

Mon Aug 28, 2006 10:22 pm    Post subject: After I'm gone...
Hi All--  Crossdressing was something I did as a teen, and then I did not do it again for 30-some years. Occasional fantasies, but no clothes, no makeup, nothing like that.  What I’m going to talk about here is one of the biggest reasons I came out to my family.  When my inner girl begin to come out, she wanted it all—clothing, wigs, shoes, and definitely makeup. I also saw that unlike my teen years, I felt a need to go out in public as a woman. This was before my Internet days, and I had no idea that anyone did that. I was very vague about this whole subject. For all I knew, I'd be the only one out there!  I had not repressed my femme self, but I certainly had ignored her. I thought she’d be content with the few “bones” that I threw her—like a green silk woman’s jacket that I had bought for stage performances, and seldom wore. Somehow, androgynous stage clothing did not work for me, even though I thought that it might “take the edge off” of the turmoil that I was beginning to feel about all of this.  The worst part of all of this sudden change was thinking about how it was all going to play out with family and friends. What was I going to do? Tell no one? Tell some close friends, but no one else? Most of my family live nowhere near me—so I didn’t have to tell them, did I? I had some months to think about all this, while the storm inside me continued to grow. I still had not bought the clothes; I kept putting it off.  I might have been tempted to just tell close friends and let it go at that. The family would never see me out and about, and that would be that. But as the weeks went on, it became clear that it didn’t matter so much about who did or didn’t see me. I begin to think about the scenario that I was going to leave behind. Wigs, women’s clothes, shoes, and makeup—all of these things in my closets and my bathroom. I get into a fatal accident out on I-80, and here comes the family to sort things out. Oh, what’s this…?  It was the thought of two of my nephews who really helped me make the final decision. They had idolized me when they were boys, since they were 10 and 12 years younger than I was. I found it hard to let them know about this new life I was heading into, because I had no idea how they would take it.  But the idea of them finding out after my death was much worse, to me. However badly they took the knowledge, no matter how angry or upset they got, I would still be here to talk to them if I told them now. If I were gone, there would be no one to tell them what had happened, or why.  Everyone has to make their own peace with this one; I don't intend any judgments about how someone is supposed to feel about this. Some of us may feel that it is part of our private lives, and we do have a right to them. I certainly felt that way as a teen; my CDing was private, and I saw no reason to ever tell anyone.  At 49, it became clear that it was no longer a private issue for me. I certainly wanted to think that it could be, or that it should be, but there was something different about it 30 years later.  It had stopped being private, and was now going to be secret, if I chose to keep it quiet. And I saw that secrets take energy to keep, and a middle-aged man like myself no longer had the surplus energy to do that. Even in the months before I told other people, I could sense how much repression it took to hold it all inside of me.  But it mostly came back to that image of my relatives going through my belongings after I was gone. I do not feel shame about what I do by going out in the world as a woman, as long as I am clear about it with everyone I know. But I would feel badly if I thought that I was leaving this discovery to people who are already grieving.

2008 The Other Self who wasn't Femme

From a forum:

Hi All-- 
I was eighteen before I figured out one of the male codes about fighting.  It goes like this:  if you're willing to fight,  and demonstrate it at least once, then you often don't have to fight again.  Just the knowledge that you will if provoked is enough to make others think twice,  and usually things get settled in some other way. 

We have often discussed the problem of figuring out just who our femme selves are.  Are they separate people or personalities,  or are they part of who we are all the time?  The difference is more striking because our femme selves cross gender lines.  But I realized that most of my life,  I had an alternative personality who was male.  So I thought I'd write about that. 

To call him an alternative personality is to beg the question,  but I don't have any better term for it.  I became aware of "him" at around 17,  but it was only in brief flashes.  I had buried my anger throughout my boyhood.  When I finally let it surface at 18 or so,  it took on two versions.  One was just what I'd call "normal" anger,  which could lead to shouting and even fighting.  It could be disruptive and upsetting to others,  but it would soon blow over. 

But if I got angry enough,  a switch would flip in my head,  and a whole new set of responses would come out.  It was like being under the influence of a drug.  I would suddenly get very calm and calculating.  Whoever "I" was in that moment was capable of doing whatever needed to be done to maim or destroy an opponent. 

I had no control over this,  and I couldn't "will" it to happen.  In times of real danger,  it could be a help.  But it also came out in situations that were not appropriate for it.  I am thankful that I seldom acted behind this feeling,  because I was not able to regulate it.   One incident with a girlfriend showed me that.  It was fortunate that others  were there to intervene.  I did scare some people very badly at other times when this happened.

In my experience, we have a primal hard-wiring for estimating the strength and cunning of any opponent we face.  This sense can be very fine-tuned.  From watching the reactions of other men, I always had a sense of how much threat they thought I was to them.  I'm fairly tall, and coordinated.  I could see that I was evaluated as someone to keep an eye on.

When this other entity appeared, I saw that the threat potential went way up for my opponents.  In one instance, I heard myself taunting the other man, and his eyes went wide with fear.  He and I both knew that if he reacted to it, he would be exposing himself to danger beyond what he could handle.  His anger just "went away," and the situation resolved itself with no violence; that's all I remember now. 

By my forties,  this other self was not coming out very often.  I was living a more peaceful life in general,  and seldom got into confrontations that would bring out that much anger.  In my late forties, I sensed my femme self stirring around.  When I became the feminine part of myself,  I suddenly felt very vulnerable.  I no longer had access to that violent male side to protect me in times of emergency.  I had to figure out new ways of feeling safe,  because being Anita was a new way of being "me,"  and it didn't include those impulses that I had always counted on before. 

Is this a good thing?  A bad thing?  I really don't know.  I still carry a certain confidence with me when I'm out as a woman,  because I have those past experiences of knowing I could do whatever needed to be done.  Yet I'm not sure what form that would take now,  if I ran into real danger.  I have talked my way out of some harassments,  just as I've seen women do all my life.  My talking skills have improved dramatically,  because I see the need for them. 

It is also interesting to see that men evaluate my threat potential differently when I present as a woman.  Even though I'm still tall and still coordinated, I can sense that I'm more at risk.  I have no objective way of proving this;  it's strictly my primal sense at work.  I have to acknowledge it and be more careful.  I carry a pepper spray canister around, and I try to make sure I have companions when I'm out in dark or remote places.  

This is not something that I would have ever experienced any other way.  For me personally,  my femme self feels different enough that I can't say, "Oh, she's the same person as me, just different clothes."  And I could not say that about the extremely violent part of me,  either.  With him,  the change was instant,  so the difference was very clear.  I realize now that this earlier experience made it so that I was not so surprised when Anita showed up.

 
I still don't know if these are truly "other selves."  I can say that both of them have allowed me to tap into feelings and experiences that I had never encountered in my everyday way of being.

2008 A new emotional currency

I took my ex-girlfriend, Lynda, out to dinner, and afterward, we went out to hear some quiet music. Each time a new person comes into either of our lives, we need to process it in order to know where our friendship is going. One of her boyfriends was extremely jealous of me, for instance, so we didn't have a whole lot of contact during those years. She can clearly see the connection between myself and LeeAnne, and she likes LeeAnne. But she is somewhat puzzled by why I think that I'm able to have a relationship now, when for so many years I didn't feel able to support one. Anita previously wrote: Quote: I had retired from being in relationships with women, because I did not have the time and energy to do that in a way that worked for me. And that included trans women, I thought. It took a while to come up with an answer, but I did find one. "OK. It's like this. You've got to pay a price to be in a relationship--it takes time and energy, right? You put that into it, and you get something in return. "All my relationships with women have always been paid for in, let's say, 'dollars.' That's what the emotions and attention were valued in. And it was often a struggle to come up with enough dollars to make it work well. "But when I accepted my femme side, I all of the sudden had more emotions available to me. It's like the emotions and energy needed to be around transwomen were valued in 'Euros.'  And I had LOTS of Euros. I'd never known how to use them before, but they were there." I told Lynda that becoming Anita had saved my life. I would never have committed deliberate suicide, but I would have probably ended up having an "accident" on some dark, stormy road. I just wouldn't have cared enough anymore, and I would have subconsciously been looking for a way out. If I were still trying to be a traditional man, it would have become even more of an uphill struggle for me. Obviously, there are some women out there who thrive on relationships with TG or TS women. They see the value of Euros! (Hi, Ruth! Hello, Raven!) Lynda has never really wanted to know my femme self, but this analogy made her question me a little more. Then she was able to see for herself why many women find it hard to be with transgender women who used to be their husbands and boyfriends. She had to acknowledge that Euros weren't going to work for her, either.

2006 Grieving about the one who used to be

From a forum::
We were talking about workplace acceptance on another thread here, and I thought of another issue that affects the workplace.  I decided to address it in a separate thread. When someone transitions, their spouse goes through a kind of grieving period for the person they used to know.  The wife of one of my TG friends is still going through this, over a year after the surgery.  The man she used to know is not there anymore.  As my friend would point out, much of that man was an "act" that she created.  Still, it was an act that was lovable, and her wife did love the man.  There are similarities between that man and my friend Michelle, but they are not enough to be able to say that it's the same person.  The man, Michael, is "gone." This story has a happy ending; Michelle and her wife have stayed together.  But periodically, the wife does need to grieve about what was, and how it changed.  At first Michelle was alarmed at this, but she's learned that these periods don't signal that her wife has changed her mind. My middle sister has said this to me, too.  "I would miss my brother. He wouldn't be there anymore." Close friends who have transitioned, including my girlfriend, do not share this view, as far as I can see.  They are glad to see the former persona disappear.  Sometimes they acknowledge "his" role in getting them to where they are now.  But they express no regret about his passing. That is probably one big reason why I don't transition--I'm not ready to only be one person.  At least, that's how I experience it.  Both of my gender roles still have meaning for me. When someone transitions on the job, the co-workers suddenly face the loss of one person they knew, and the emergence of another.  People feel loss, grief, and anger when they lose a person to death, and in some ways, this is similar.  But it feels irrational to consider it that way, so co-workers have to try to ignore any of these feelings if they come up.  But I'm sure they do come up, and it contributes to making transition harder. They don't offer grief counseling when someone transitions, but maybe they should. David Letterman interviewed with Felicity Huffman, where he talked about a crew member that was MtoF. And the person transitioned at work, going from Howard to... Holly, maybe.  (The new name wasn't said). Letterman didn't seem comfortable with the subject of transgender that night, so I wasn't surprised when he said, "We liked Howard." It was said with no smile or attempt at humor. But in light of what I'm writing here, it's more understandable.  He might have been sad or angry at the change, and he had no control over it. Certainly the person who has to transition can't be responsible for other's grief, sadness, or fear.  And yet he or she has to allow that those feelings might be there, and will get in the way of new acceptance.  There's no acceptable way for a co-worker to express these feelings. so they just bottle them up. I have felt something like this grief myself at least three times, when I was around close friends.  I think that it has to do with letting go of parts of my old life, as I continue on into this new one.  It is not easy to say goodbye to aspects of the man that I was, but I've found that I can't hold on them if I don't feel them anymore.  I may never live fulltime, but it's still a transition, even so.

2005 A concert experience in San Francisco (long!)

The Ethel Merman Experience just headlined at the annual Halloween party in the Castro, which is San Francisco's biggest yearly event.  They shut off twelve blocks or so, and as many as 250,000 people show up.  I wanted to write about it, as it was a big event.  But it was also a very typical gig night, so I decided to write about what that's like, playing in a San Francisco band at the current time.. 

I had to go over to the city at around 1:00 PM, even though we weren't scheduled to play until 11:30 that night.  Mark, ("Ethel") and his partner Richard live five blocks from where the main stage is set up.  The band was supposed to gather together there, and that meant that I had to get into the neighborhood before they began shutting it down.  I had heard that happened as early as 4pm.  So I came over in plenty of time, had a late breakfast down on Market Street, and went over to the Eureka Valley library branch for the rest of the afternoon.  Like a parent, I had to babysit my guitar--it doesn't stay in either the car or the truck when I'm not there.  I carried it everywhere I went, and that made the library more attractive than say, shopping in Noe Valley. 

When I came out at around 5, it was still somewhat warm, and there was no wind. What a pleasant shock that was! Other than a two-week heat wave in September, SF is usually chilly as the evening sets in. 

I walked over to Mark and Richard's, and we ate a quiet dinner.  Then friends and band supporters started showing up.  People were putting last minute touches on costumes, borrowing makeup from Ethel.  A young musician from another SF band was there--he was dressed in a complete Ghostbuster's outfit, including the plastic proton blaster on his back.  Ghostbusters?  He had been very young when that came out!.

His girlfriend was more contemporary, doing a great Madonna imitation, and I'm not sure which version of Madonna she was.  The torpedo breast covers were spectacular, and she had cut holes in the blazer she'd bought.  "The woman who sold me this blazer never pictured this," she said.  Three of the menfolk had dressed in drag, but they did it guy-fashion--plenty of beard shadow, hairy chests, and so on. 

This was all fun, but I was restless, and so was Mark.  We generally don't have this much time to kill before a gig.  We couldn't participate in the partying that was going on, so we were at loose ends.  At eight we both begin getting ready to put on makeup, and start the countdown. 

 It takes anywhere from an hour and a half to two hours for Mark and I to get makeup done, get into costume, and get set to go.  Of course I can do it in under an hour if I have to, but that's cutting a lot of corners.  There is a lot of detail that goes into this. On this particular night I was going to wear false eyelashes, which I generally don't do.  That little item adds ten minutes, right there.  And that's if it goes right.

But, hey, I had plenty of time, for once.  I often end up coming over to Mark's place to change.  We load our equipment into some club, and then it's a quick drive over to the apartment, and then back to the club.  The bass player and the drummer, Eddie and Steve, generally go out to eat during this time--all they have to worry about is setting up the instruments.  Mark and I have more to deal with. 

About ten, Eddie and Steve showed up, along with Eddie's partner, Noreen.  By this time Mark and I were almost finished with becoming Ethel and Anita.  Eddie had on a devil costume he'd made from scratch, complete with a pitchfork.  Steve had a thrift store dress on his arm--he decided he was going to do this show in drag himself.  Ethel found him an old curly black wig, and we put some clown-face makeup on him.  He put on white socks and some old black wing-tips, and he was ready to go.  Ethel had on a formal gown.  I was wearing a magenta-and-black striped can-can dancer outfit, a silver bolero jacket, and an enormous Rockette headdress.  My silver heels went into a case; no way was I going to walk up to the stage in them. 

I had thought we were going to take the back route to the stage, through relatively quiet streets, but everyone wanted to go out into the crowds.  At normal street fairs, this is a lot of fun.  People pull out their cameras and take pictures of Ethel and myself, and then take pictures of each other posing with us.  It's time-consuming, but it's great publicity. 

But this crowd was noticeably bigger, and it was elbow-to-elbow out there.  Going a block was heavy lifting, and we got separated into little groups, each one struggling to go forward.  There were gates across each main street, where everyone was checked for weapons and booze.  The cops did not like the suitcase where I keep all my electronics for the guitar and the amp.  I thought they'd give me a quick wave, but no, it was more serious than that.  They had the suitcase open, and were pawing through cords, effect pedals, and 9-volt batteries.  "I'm due on the main stage at 11," I said.  I wasn't expecting any resistance to this information.

"You're supposed to go through the gate at the back of the stage," said one officer.  Just then Steve came up to say, look, it's OK, this is a performer.  "Back off, buddy," said one cop, who actually restrained him.  They were all milling around like they didn't know quite what to do with this.  Richard had already gone through with my guitar--hadn't these guys ever seen guitar effects?  


They're little metal boxes, different colors, and sure, they could be great explosion timers.  Or they could hold a lot of Old Granddad or Johnny Walker Black Label, I suppose.  The police were trying to keep out contraband and troublesome items like the live chainsaw that one partier carried with him in 2002.  I didn't feel like my gig case warranted such concern

Then someone set me free--not sure how it happened, but suddenly I had my suitcase back, and we were through.  But now it was back into the mob again.  There were little pockets of free moving, but not many.  It was a little less intense once we got past one of the smaller stages, where they had a dj going. 

Finally we saw the main stage, up above the intersection of Castro and Market.  They had a gigantic screen behind the performers, and they were simulcasting the show onto the screen.  I begin to feel revved up.  Any nervousness had been worked out of me by having to be so aggressive down in the crowds. 

We were let into the fenced-off area behind stage, and immediately went into the tent back there.  I changed shoes, tuned the guitar, and got out my ski glove liners.  They have the tips of the fingers cut out, so I can keep my hands warm and still play.

The stage manager came back to let us know that we were back on the original schedule, where we'd have 40 minutes to play.  He was a very dynamic guy, and I liked him; I felt that the show was in good hands.  The drums and amps were already set up--they were rentals, so we didn't have to drag any equipment.  This is a mixed blessing.  It can be very tough to play through rented equipment, especially for a guitarist.  We'll get into that more.

Waiting to go on is always a study in trying to be here/now, and not get caught up in living out ahead of the body.  The adrenaline was starting to charge through me, and I was prancing around with my guitar strapped on, doing mindless fingering exercises on the neck.  The MC was wrapping up after the last act; Richard had my suitcase in his hand, at the bottom of the long ramp up to the right side of the stage.  Ethel, Eddie and Steve were over at the left-hand ramp.   


Richard and I had the most work to do--I have a pedal board with all those little colored boxes on it, velcroed into place.  Each one has a job to do in shaping the sound of the guitar, or keeping it in tune.  They're all hooked in series, and I just have to plug them in.  But little glitches can occur, and Richard and I had to be on top of it.  Unlike a normal concert, the set-up time comes out of our playing time.  We don't get any sound checks at festivals like this one.  It's strictly plug-and-play!

So we moved up onto the stage, and the MCs were bantering away, filling in while we went to our places.  Richard and I got to work; pedal board out, cords in place, cord A in slot B.  Then I happened to look back to where the amp was set up, and stopped.  It was not the amp they'd told us they would have up there, no indeedy.  Oh, well!  I was ready for them.

Immediately I said, "Richard, we gotta go with the Pod.  Plug this in."  I handed him an AC adaptor cord.

"What?" said Richard.  "Pod?"  He turned to a stage hand and said, "Plug, please." 

The Pod is a wonderful little digital device.  It's about the size of an answering machine, and it will recreate the sound of 15 different amplifiers, all at the flick of a switch.  The amp they had gotten was a Fender--great amp, a classic.  For playing country rock or blues, it can't be beat.  But for harder rock or metal of all kinds, a Marshall or a Mesa Boogie amp is called for.  Even with these hi-gain amps, I still might have to put boosters in the line before them--that's what one of my pedals does.  But that pedal can only boost so much.  The Pod already has all the boosters on the chip, ready to go.  So in car terms, I can get into a Ford Escort, plug in the pod, and make the Escort a Cadillac or a BMV.

 I had to do some gymnastics to get the Pod into the series with the other pedals, but it went smoothly.  Meanwhile, I can hear the MCs starting to run out of material.  I put the last plug in, turned up the guitar volume, and strummed.  Nothing.  OK, where's the breakdown?  There's many points where the signal can get lost--which is it?  Then I noticed that the Pod switch wasn't on--I clicked it, and this time I heard  "Ka-THUNK-a"  bouncing off the buildings.  Hot dog!  It's live, and I could tell it was the right tone, just in that second's worth of sound.

I had just enough time to adjust my mic, as the MCs were glancing around.  I gave them a nod, and the main host started hyping up the audience , finishing with, "Ladies and Gentleman, the Ethel Merman Experience!"   Steve clicked his sticks, and I started the chicka-chicka string scraping that opens up U2's "Vertigo."


I just brush the strings lightly with my pick, while clamping down on them with the left hand.  That's loads of fun to do an intro like that--it gets the audience fired up anticipating when the guitar's going to come in for real.  Chicka-chicka, chick...then I opened it up, and Steve and Eddie came in behind me.  For a moment, I let the sound roar all around me, while I concentrated on getting the riff firmly lined up.  Then I started to move, making sure I played the slight variations that I'd come up with for that part. . 

After the initial firepower, the song goes back into chicka-chicka, and I looked around for the first time.  The crowd was enormous, filling all the streets at a five way intersection.  There was a barricade in front of the stage, which put them so far away that I really couldn't see anyone clearly.  People were packed on the sides of the stage area, too, which again had distant barriers.  The stage was a large one, so Eddie was way over there, and Ethel was a long way in front of all of us. 


A woman with a video camera appeared to my right (there were three cameras altogether), shooting images for the big screen behind us.  Our friends were very impressed by this video collage, and later described split-screens, solarization, and three-way shots all blended together.  I would have liked to have seen it!

The sound was just wonderful for me;  I was cruising in my Cadillac.  High-volume guitar magnifies whatever tone that's there at the beginning.  It has a lot to do with the interplay between the guitar and the amp/speakers combination..  If they're "talking" to each other, the volume reinforces the warmth and sustain of the sound.  The strings are like liquid under my fingers, and it's easy to play blazingly fast--the electronics are doing most of the work, and I'm just steering the force.

When they're NOT talking to each other, it can be hard work and torture.  There's no reinforcement at all, so the overall sound is hard and brittle.  I have to settle down and grind out every note, and I don't dance around much--I have to labor with the guitar.  The strings become very unforgiving, and every little mistake goes out for six blocks at high decibel levels.  


I visualize the tone as a reservoir, and I'm standing somewhere below the dam.  A good tone uses the pressure of the reservoir, and my notes are like the water being released at the spillway.  You can sense the wall of pressure behind the water flow, as the gate opens and shuts.  


A bad tone is when I'm pumping water out of the reservoir--even if I've got a large pump, there's no feeling of power to it, and if I stop pumping, the sound dies.  When I hear another guitarist struggling with this problem, it's hard to concentrate on the music.  

Thanks to the Pod, the reservoir was full, and the audience was bound to appreciate it.  When the tone's not right, I know I'm letting them down.  When I come to hear a hard rock band doing Led Zeppelin, ZZ Top, and Mountain, I expect to hear that full tone, because the guitarists in those bands were masters at producing it.  I can make it work with less than optimal, but it's a disappointment, and "make-do" is not what I want to hear. 

We played many big rock anthems; "Whole Lotta Love," "Teen Spirit," "Shakin' All Over"--but the one I enjoyed the most was Van Halen's version of "You Really Got Me."  As with many of our cover songs, I begin the song all alone, with full-surge chords.  Then the whole band kicks in, and I'm riding the surf on top of it, still with chords.  But as soon as Ethel starts singing, "Girl, you really got me now..." I settle into playing single notes, on the thickest string. 


 It still sounds very full, because at that volume there's lots of harmonics and overtones that your ear picks up.  But it lets the vocals have center stage.  Then the intensity picks up again, and the guitar comes in full-chord again.  It's a fun game, creating drama between when I let the sound loose, and when I restrain it.  Even the solos need little breathing spaces, although they might be only seconds long.  I'm still working at mastering the silences between the notes!

It was nearing midnight, but we still had time for an encore.  We usually like doing a long medley of the Door's "Roadhouse Blues" mixed with the Standell's "Dirty Water," and it all starts with "Born to be Wild," the old Steppenwolf classic.  But tonight we just did "Born," and ended it like that.  In the movie, Ethel rode onstage on the back of a motorcycle to start this song, but we left out the bells and whistles on this night. 


 I used to rev up the '60 Pontiac when I was out on the 3-C and "Born to be Wild" would come on.  I still try to tap into that boy's enthusiasm when I'm up there playing that song, because the boy never imagined that he could really play that sound that he heard.  He WANTED to, but he thought that that was just an impractical dream.  He was already too old, not right for the part, and he had a commitment to play trumpet.

There is no point in speculating about what was the wrong or right direction to take, but in this reality, the boy took three years before he decided that he was going to go for it.  It's been a long journey from his moment of decision on a spring afternoon in 1971, to that midnight stage in 2005. 


 There have been many detours along the way that I would have rather not taken, but it's working at the moment, and that's where I live.  This band situation uses most of my best talents, and I never thought I'd still be in business featured as a lead guitarist at this late date.  I'm a good lead guitarist, not a great one, and around here there's no shortage of great ones. 


 But dramatic as they are, the leads are only one small part of it.  As the only guitarist, I have to duplicate what two or three guitarists did on record, and blend it all together so there's no seams.  Both Mark and Steve have praised me for my ability to do this at different times, and I appreciated that very much.  "That's a gift you have there," said Mark.  After a gig in June where we played with two other bands, Eddie was speculating on the different bands' strengths and weaknesses, and mentioned in passing, "Guitar--there's no contest, there."

There wasn't any contest this night, as all the other bands had already faded into the night.  We waved and blew kisses at the crowd, and then exited off the back of the stage and got ready to go back and unwind.  We did take the back route, but there were still plenty of people along the way.  


I posed with a Japanese family at one intersection, but most folks were intent on getting out of there.  We went back to the apartment and settled down for a few hours, talking and laughing about high and low points on the gig.  Most of it was smooth, but we had one new song where we briefly fell apart, going in different but interesting directions.  It was probably only ten seconds where the audience wondered, "Wha...," before we reined it in, but it made for some drama.   Sort of like being in bumper cars all of the sudden, and careening all over the place.


  It was fun, too, trying to figure out how to get out of the pickle in a graceful manner.  I ended up cutting the song short and going right into the next one, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief and followed me out of the maze.  Richard said it didn't sound bad, exactly, but it did get weird. 

At 3am, the Bay bridge was still backed up, so I headed out to the Bay bridge's little sister to the south, the San Mateo bridge.  The long way home, but as brother Ron says, my tires kept moving.  I was originally scheduled to set up a job at noon Tuesday, but I cancelled that on Monday morning.  I could see that it was foolish, and the contractor on the job didn't give me any flak--he's an old friend, and he knew what was going on. 

On Friday, November 11th,  I finished up the fall season by playing a benefit for Katrina victims and war veterans.  It was at a Unitarian church, and I was appearing with a Beatles sound-alike band called...the Beadles.  Country Joe MacDonald was the headliner, and there were eight other acts.


 Our band had two women on guitars, girl-me playing bass, and a drummer and a guest keyboard player.  We went over well; we were playing five original songs that my friend Lauren had written as "exercises" in copying Lennon and McCartney.  Very catchy songs,  and it's a shame there's no real market for them

  

Country Joe inspired me with his ability to get up there with just himself and his acoustic guitar, and be entertaining.  For now, though, I'll stick with my electronics.

2006 Some observations about Halloween and 'disguise'

I was recruited to play bass at a Unitarian church service on Halloween morning, and I was going to be playing alongside two fulltime women.  So I was dressed as Anita the Red Cross nurse at 8:30 in the morning, going to get my coffee at the local chain, Peet's.

I was expecting people to be amused--it's Halloween, right?  But they weren't.  At least three people looked at me, and then immediately looked away, as you do when someone is making a social blunder.  It didn't bother me, but I was certainly puzzled. I don't get that reaction when I'm out as a woman on a normal day, and I wouldn't have gotten that reaction the night before, party Saturday, when everyone's dressed.  But I guess it made people uneasy to see someone in costume that early in the morning--it didn't seem appropriate to them.

It showed me once again, how narrow our allowance of other identities really is. We allow very small windows for people to be someone else.  Then we slam them, hard.

I've said it before: a crossdresser breaks two social rules, not just one.  We go out as women, but we also go out ‘disguised.’  (In other people’s opinion—not mine.)  Even before terrorism, it was not cool to ever go out in the U.S. in a disguise, of any kind. I can't go out dressed as a "someone else" of my own gender, either. I can't put on a fireman's outfit, or a doctor's surgical gown, or a military uniform. Oh, I could, but if I were challenged, the consequences would probably be severe. As a society, we believe that anyone pretending to be someone else has to be doing so for criminal purposes. We don't trust adult play.

But as part-time gals, our "disguise" is so outrageous that we get away with breaking this rule. The person living in two genders does have to put up with more talk about being deceptive; people have a hard time understanding why anyone would want to live this way.  I get the feeling that they understand the fulltime transitioned woman better than they do me.  She was born in the wrong body, and she becomes a woman to correct the mistake.  That can make sense to the general public, if they think about it.  But what’s my reason for being a version of a woman?  

Later in the day, of course, people did smile and nod.

The more years I spend doing this, the more I suspect that 99.9% of the guys dressed as women at Halloween are my sisters!  I just don't see the exaggerated soccer ball breasts and mop-head wigs that the non-CD guy is supposed to wear, to show that he's only doing it in fun.  I seldom see any guys dressed as women at all!  It's not a "costume" that the regular guy wants to deal with. 

I still had my nurse's outfit on, and I did make a nice-looking nurse, I think.  A little boy, about 6-7, came up, and said, "You're a man, aren't you?"  He said it in a kind of wonder.

I smiled and said, "Yes, I'm a man."

He then said like he was thinking out loud, "But you're pretending to be a girl."

"That's right. I'm a nurse, just today."

His sister said, "You look like a baby doctor."

"Maybe I'm a baby nurse."

The little boy and I exchanged a few more words about going out trick or treating.  Then he smiled a little and waved good-bye, and he went back to his mother.  I felt like he now knows that some day he might be able to do what I'm doing.  I trust that it gave him some hope, too.

And the service went well, by the way.  I did my first-ever vocal of "Don't Fear the Reaper," by Blue Oyster Cult.  With songs like that at service, the Unitarians are certainly not the traditional church of my childhood, and they're transgender friendly to boot.  Quite a package. I don't see myself as part of organized religion anytime soon, but it's great to know people like the Unitarians.