Miss Trannyshack 2007

In San Francisco, we embrace diversity. Freaks of every stripe are welcome here. Folsom Street Fair arrives and the investment bankers break out their chaps and black leather G-strings; Dore Alley sees typically staid accountants gobbling vitamins like Jujubees to provide a more refreshing golden shower experience for the philosophy professor they plan to hogtie outside of Starbucks; each October you should probably plan on seeing your orthodontist in a fishnet body stocking; come Pride season, law librarians paint themselves gold and pole-dance on flatbed trucks creeping down Market Street to the 160 BPM remix of “Fuck the Pain Away.”

Ms. Sandra Bernhard,
photo by Jason Odell

But there’s one night each year when we all batten down the hatches and lock up our daughters, or at least our daughters’ wardrobes, when San Franciscans hoard our sequins and prepare to defend with bitchslaps that prized taffeta ball gown we scored at Buffalo Exchange, when worldwide mascara futures oscillate like Paris Hilton at last call and novelty exporters in Shanghai puzzle at a West Coast run on rhinestone-studded cigarette holders. These two words strike terror, hilarity, and tiara-craving fanaticism into the heart of San Francisco residents: MISS. TRANNYSHACK. Or wait, maybe that’s three words, depending on how many mojitos you’ve had and whether you can still spell.

Read more at Eros Zine.

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