"Miriam's putting out?" I inquired, thinking, of course, that women named Miriam usually don't.

"I hope so!" he grinned back, with that same creepy grin. "I'm thinking she will. Hey," he added, "I gotta run, actually." (Big surprise.) The Pixies' "Bone Machine" was playing and I had snot running down my face. I stood up to shake his hand goodbye and he didn't want to touch me; again, it was either because of the snot or the transsexuality. A curious thing happened, though. When I stood up to do so, the top of his head came to my nose. Homeboy had been standing on his tip-toes before. "I'm actually way shorter than you," he said with a shrug and a matter-of-fact giggle, all of which was meant to belie the fact that I had lied to him about my gender, so he could lie about his height.

"Well, good luck with Miriam," I said to him. "I hear she's a real hell-cat." And with that, Slap Happy was gone ... the last honest man out there. Sigh.

Jimmy refreshed my Hefeweizen. He was wearing a Dirtbombs T-shirt and we talked about their upcoming record. I told him that I had gotten rid of Slappy by saying I was a trannie. He laughed and said, "That is so cool!"

Yeah. It was.

Katy.StClair@sfweekly.com

DALVA. 3121 16th St. 252-7740.

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