Two days ago, I was at the house of a couple of dear dyke friends on a sunny afternoon, borrowing the paper cutter and chatting about life, family and vacations. Oh, and hot scenes we’d recently seen or experienced.

The plumber came upstairs (he was installing a clawfoot tub down there), followed closely by my friend’s new housemate, another good friend of mine, in her grungy overalls (she’d been helping), and he asked if he could borrow a guitar.

Upon being handed a guitar, he played a few blues riffs, then launched into Alice’s Restaurant.

The roommate, my friends and I all boogied along. I boogied while sitting, because I was still chopping paper. The plumber handed back the guitar, and then he and the housemate went back downstairs to continue the tub installation, animatedly discussing chord progression.

I continued chopping dyke sex party tickets out of large sheets of ‘em, and grinned and grinned and grinned.

O, delightful incongruity! It tickles because my brain is shedding foolish notions.
Preconceptions, away! Welcome the unexpected, because it means you’re learning!

Yay for people who are complex and talented and competent! Because you are one thing does not mean that you are not simultaneously a whole host of other things. Take that, next person who expresses surprise that I bake scrumptious goodies.

Tears are fallin’. And yet I love the culprit.

If there was ever a guerrilla-style war fought in the streets of East Vancouver, all they’d have to do to get me to stumble out in the street would be to throw a couple of peeled onions in the windows. Honest, I’ve only ever met one other person who’s this onion-sensitive. But he’s more of a masochist than I — he took a job as a sous-chef. Don’t weep for me, weep for him.

Pass me your hanky?

An anecdote of culture shock. This happened about 6 years ago.

To understand the following, you gotta get that in the queer culture I live and play in, young queer women who are of the butchy variety often dress in clothes usually reserved for young men. Except, with their size and feminine features, they are often not only mistaken for actual men, but sometimes fairly young ones — like, 17 or 18 year olds, even when the woman in question is, like, 40 or something.

No, I don’t get why people can’t tell they’re women, either. They look like women to me.

Anyhow, I, who at the time am 30 and femme-looking, am in a large chain store with two women age 22 and 23, respectively. They’re both wearing baggy jeans, baseball caps, and have short hair.

I check out my purchases, and my friends (in line behind me) are laughing and playing with some of those silly stuffed toys you see near check-out lines. I say to them “I’m going to bring the car around. See you out front?” and I leave.

As I’m putting my key in my car door, a woman storms up to me.

“You can’t do that, you know! You can’t do that to your children!”

Aroo? I look around. Who the hell is she talking to?

“I’m going to report you! That’s what I’m going to do. That store cannot babysit your kids!”

I stare at her, searching deperately for some meaning — any meaning. What?

She continues, getting all spitty, with shaking finger and all… when in the distance, I see my butchy friends leaving the store, baggy pants and all. Suddenly I get it, and begin whooping with laughter.

Yes. That’s it, lady. I have two toddlers in their twenties, one is taller than me, and the other has larger breasts than I do. How remiss of me to leave them alone for a second.

Honestly. Did she even look at us?

So, once upon a time in 1998 or so, I made a papier-mache guitar. It was pretty cool, and was used for all sorts of drag shows, and had a lovely shiny red finish and a custom fretboard which allowed complex fingering… okay, just kidding. But I loved that guitar.

A few weeks ago, the latest in a series of drag events came around, and the day before the gig I climbed into the attic to retrieve my trusty axe. What’s this? Why is it all frayed? What’s this all over it? Aughhh!

Our previously intact attic had been invaded by rats, coming in from under the eaves in a weak spot I later found. The rats, finding nothing edible in our spare-towels and off-season-clothes storage space, had resorted to chowing down on very, very old papier-mache. My poor guitar. And Spike and I had a gig the very next day!

I cleaned the rat poo off, and made with the spray paint in a hasty sort of way, then spot-repaired with hot glue and a couple of big-ass staples… and it held together for our big number.

But I’m not sure it will ever be quite the same….

-Elaine

I went to do an audition for a certain lesbian television show filmed in Vancouver. In this episode, it seems like the “lesbian” characters are taking a tour through that unknown land of dykeyness: the play party. There’s positions for a few speaking parts for players. One of those parts is styled “Dominatrix” and that’s the one my agent thought I might have a kick at. Go figure.

So, I show up in the outfit to the left. There’s a billion people ahead of me, and billion people behind me. And as my appointment time comes, they call my name, and I approach the door to the casting room (are you keeping in mind that this is a show about lesbians?), and there’s this friendly young woman with long blonde hair, and a clipboard.

And she looks at me. And she says.
“Hi. Are you auditioning for the dominatrix, or the butch top?”

No kiddin’. She said that.

“Butches,” I say, leaning forward to impart this important piece of top-secret insider dyke information, “…look like boys.”

“Oh.”

Lesbian chic. I hear about it a lot. They just forgot to include actual lesbians.

So Tara won these tickets to go see Finger Eleven, and invited me along. Then she talked the radio station into giving her the special “hang with the band” passes. Heh. Cool. Here’s the pic, taken September 23, 2003.

Finger Eleven and Elaine and Tara