Sunday, March 26, 2006

Don't Dream It's Over

I rarely, if ever, remember my dreams. I'm not talking about the "I want to be a fireman or Anne Bancroft when I grow up" variety, but the actual sleep induced hallucinations usually accompanied by rapid eye movement. Many of the books I read tell me that dreams can be quite useful in figuring out what is happening in the conscious life we lead. I figured that nothing of interest goes on when I'm sleeping, because I never remember. Boy, was I wrong!

Last night, after popping a couple of Valerian, I dreamt of strange and fantastical things. It all started with this gothic picture of Madonna. It was understood that Madonna was a vessel for different spirit personalities and you could often tell which spirit possessed her, just by the photographic evidence. In this case, the spirit was that of an ancient vampire, who through the magic of dreams was then zapped into the body of an infant and placed in my charge. I loved my baby vampire and vowed to take good care of her, even after she bit my lip. Never kiss an infant with fangs!

I went into the kitchen to prepare a blood bottle for my baby and that's when the BOOM! happened. I ran to the door of my apartment and saw that the earth was covered with water. I live on the second floor and the sea level was rapidly approaching. The other occupants of the building, none of which I had ever met, watched in horror as we realized the downstairs neighbors must have drowned. Also, it sucks to see a car that you owe $30,000, completely submerged.

The landscape was quickly changing. The Hollywood Hills had grown and moved closer. I could feel the building cracking loose from the earth. I had the idea to evacuate on a raft built from the box springs of the bed. I urged everyone to grab what they wanted to save, but they all seemed disinterested. A beautiful black woman, tall and thin, entered my apartment, reading. "By the way," she said. "That book you gave me? I never want you to mention it again." What book? But it didn't matter, because at that moment, the entire building came loose from the ground and began thrashing about the apocalyptic seas. It was sort of fun, in a Titanic way. I realized it was up to me to save everyone, that's when I noticed the monster.

Our building, which now resembled a tugboat, was riding on the back of a great sea monster which was hell bent on destroying us. Eventually, we crashed into a land mass that enabled me to flag down a giant backhoe type machine that was so big, it could lift us to safety. The machine managed to grab onto our "ship" and lift it into the air. The problem was that the monster had merged with the ship and threatened to destroy us if the temperature got too cold. In the open air, everything began to freeze. If the monster died before we were able to separate it from the ship, we were all doomed. I worked closely with the entity that had driven the machine and we were able to keep it from freezing. The sun began to shine and that helped a lot.

Then I woke up.

I rarely, if ever, remember my dreams, but when I do... Well, it's weird.

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

Real Men Blow Bubbles

The year I was born, a film called Women in Revolt was released. It was produced by Andy Warhol and written/directed by Paul Morrissey, whom I adore. "Women" starred Andy's drag queen starlets, Candy Darling, Jackie Curtis and Holly Woodlawn, as three "women" who join the "movement." Yes, the world's first film about the female liberation movement starring transvestites. There are many levels of irony at work in this film. I love the fact that these performers commit to their roles so completely. As in all of the "Warhol" films, the fact that these creatures are Not real women is never alluded to. They simply play it "straight"- that is until they decide to renounce men altogether and dabble in lesbianism. You know how these things happen...

CUT TO: Me, twenty years later, exploring my own inner womanhood in a very superficial creation I called: Helena Bubbles. Actually, the first name was mine, inspired by Sherilyn Fenn's portrayal of a woman whose body is mutilated by her lover in the film Boxing Helena. The last name was bestowed upon me by my drag mother, Madame X, and my older "sisters." I had wanted my name to resemble "Marlene Dietrich" which I had heard described as "a caress and then a SLAP!" I begged and pleaded as they compiled a list of choices: "Just let it be memorable!" And I got my wish. Other queens always referred to me as Helena, but to my fans I was simply "Bubbles."

Bubbles was definately a Gemini, or at least bipolar. Most often, she was happy to be exploited as a sex object. She feigned the "blonde" stereotype, acting dumb and easy. She craved attention and when it wasn't enough to be slutty, she got scary. Baffling her audience with strange performance art, then returning to the sex kitten role at the drop of a hat. I modeled her after the phone sex models I saw in ads in the back section of the Tucson Weekly. I wanted her to be the ultimate straight male fantasy girl, like Jenny McCarthy, Pamela Anderson, etc. I dubbed her the "White Trash Goddess" and it was a title that she lived up to.

Helena retired about ten years ago. I heard she moved back to the trailer park she grew up in, married a convict and through the miracle of conjugal visits, is the mother of three little boys. She supports her family as a manicurist, tarot card reader and occasional phone sex operator. I hope she is happy.


It's late, that magic hour when you can't erase the image from your mind and the bumps in the night just grind up against the static screen. I scream but no one hears and if they do it's always: "You didn't even try to hit the right note."

Slowly, I learn to operate my new remote control. Not as intuitively designed as the last one, or is it just that I got so used to knowing which buttons did what I desired? It's a sticky situation. I reap. I sow. I apologize for things I don't remember. There are no more stories to tell, only versions, perversions...

Why did I promise to meet my burdens half-way? Like father, like son, a boy needs his martyr and I, in my infinite patience, invite him in. So eager to please and release, I am not a billboard, magazine or even a can of peaches, though I can be sweet. Like I said, it's a sticky situation. My nature is more elusive, a mystery for the sages.

I tore the page, I broke the bread. I prayed and lied and wet the bed.
I stood on stage and bared my soul. I killed the king and choked on fools.

When a Diva dies, she burns her image in your mind. She hits the last note just right and then she says: "Goodnight." So I rinse and I repeat: "Goodnight, sweet prince," then cry myself to sleep.

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

Random Thoughts

Leafing through what I suppose could be called my "journal," I came across a few random things that I feel compelled to share. Mostly I keep this book (and several others) around in case inspiration should strike. Though it seems that I am struck by things (other than inspiration) quite often.

33 kinds of tenacity and not a wordsmith in town.

The Selfish will perish alone.

It's not fair to you to believe what you say.

Jesus should have started a band.

Must Suck Honey from Rock!

Sometimes I wonder if reasons are worth the breath they take.

Rock and Roll should have a little danger to it...swagger...menace...

Boom! said the dust on the back of her eyes.

Blood is for God alone.

Best known for his work in "erotica of the traumatic."

I built a city from the gold in their teeth.

You want everything to sound like an exorcism and that's your problem!

"Cancel the tour, Carl. I have to have an abortion."

Never feed Elizabeth Taylor cow brains. She'll just faint.

I can't believe lying is still considered a sin.

Then there was this exchange between JR and myself, upon returning from a fast food chain where we were helped by a heavy-set, hairy girl with a severly Siberian vibe:

JR: She's really Russian!

ME: But she doesn't get there any faster.

Thursday, March 02, 2006

How Fat Am I?

Because no one ever sees me naked and I am a smart dresser, the fact that I lost over forty pounds went largely unnoticed. This, coupled with the "no one ever sees me naked," led to me gaining back about ten pounds. Those ten pounds freaked me out. I thought I was FAT, again...

Then, I discovered this: BMI Calculator

It calculates your body mass and also tells you how many calories you should be eating according to how much activity you do. It's groovy. I found out that I am not fat. My BMI is "Under 25", (though just barely) which is considered normal for my age and height. I feel much better now.