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Valentine’s Day… just the
thought of it makes me queasy. I’ve had so many weird, surreal and downright
hellish Valentine’s Days, I often entertain the fantasy of going into
hibernation on February 13th and then just popping out emotionally
unscathed in the wee hours of February 15th to shoot a lingering
sidelong glance at my shadow. Come to think of it, my shadow has probably been
the most stable and enduring relationship I’ve ever had!
Don’t get me wrong- I’ve
actually been very lucky in love and love gettin’ lucky, but in my regards to
Valentine’s Day itself-and my surviving it- it’s a wonder I haven’t been a
recipient of the Purple Heart, for sheer bravery, valor and life-threatening
battle wounds.
In fact, the military-slogan-bearing T-shirts
stretched across the buff chests of our country’s off-duty armed forces can
best sum up my personal Valentine’s Day experiences:
I KNOW I’M GOING TO HEAVEN, CAUSE I’VE DONE MY TIME IN HELL!
Or better yet:
KILL ‘EM ALL…LET
GOD SORT IT OUT!
I remember one
Valentine’s Day when the only item in my mailbox that even remotely resembled a
heart was a red notice from a utility company. As if that wasn’t bad enough in
itself, my evening was packed with shows that only served to rub my “single”
status in my face: every damn place I danced was so full of cooing couples I
felt like I was performing on Noah’s Ark!
Then there was the
February 14 back in the early 1980’s… the date I picked, as a hopeless
twenty-year-old romantic, to be My Wedding Day.
My groom and I, in our
sole nod to tradition, arrived separately (and not too hung over) at the hall where our ceremony, which had been
booked for the better part of a year, was to be held.
I was a vision in an
ivory Fifties strapless organza gown, with an over-lay of French lace
embroidered with seed pearls. My hair, bleached White Minx, was in a fetching
Monroe bob, and under my Goodwill steal of a Juliet veil, I sported my
customary Revlon Cherries In The Snow lipstick. As I daintily stepped out of the
car, gathering my train, I was astounded to see dozens of buckets of
carnations, which had been dyed an uproarious shade of baby blue.
As I wondered who’d
Dumpster-dived the Flower District in honor of my wedding, I spotted legions of
Low Riders, uniformly bedecked in powder blue Polyester double-knit tuxes…
tattooed jailhouse tears and pompadours covered by homeboy hairnets abounded.
The four hundred or so bridesmaids were a symphony in ruffled dresses so tight
and shiny they looked like they were auditioning to be the Shark’s molls in a
special baby blue colorized version of Westside Story.
Just as I was starting to
realize that this was not the result of my hangover or an LSD flashback and
that Mr. Colorization himself, Ted Turner hadn’t been invited, the Unitarian
priest who was to be presiding over my ceremony came rushing out to explain to
my groom and I -and three quarters of
East LA- that the hall had been double booked.
Tension ran high for a
moment, but at the minister’s gentle suggestion we finally decided that a
coin-toss was in order. While disgruntled guests from both camps fumbled for
quarters, I heard The Best Man whisper to my groom that he had a full tank of
gas, a fifth of Scotch, two hundred bucks… and that The Border was only three hours
away.
Before my betrothed had a
chance to answer, someone pulled out a coin, we won the flip, and had our
ceremony first, amongst the blinding neon blue riot of dyed flowers. Speaking
of first, I should’ve taken the
scheduling snafu as an omen- that turned out to be just My First Wedding. If
there are any photos that somehow survived being cut-up or burned, I can assure
you they are predominantly baby blue.
Many years later, I
foolishly accepted a Valentine’s Day date with Art Boy, to his first major
gallery opening. Why I did it, I’ll never know; I was in the throws of an
obsessive crush on my best friend, the sexually ambiguous Collegiate Art
Department Head, whom Art Boy and I had met in happier times at The Blacklite,
an infamous Hollywood dive bar, frequented by a garish parade of luridly
made-up trannie hookers.
And there was another
little glitch: Art Boy and I had been… just a teensy bit broken up -oh, excuse me, I really meant to say totally
hostile and incommunicado- for months.
But hearing Art Boy’s
cajoling, purring voice, I magically seemed to forget all of that… as well as
the fact that when Art Boy and I had originally embarked upon our passionate
and certifiably insane affair three
years previously-also coincidentally on February 14th - it had
resulted in the spectacularly gut-wrenching dissolution of My Second Marriage.
But Art Boy poured it on shamelessly. He really missed me, he was just dying to see me belly dance again! I
caved.
So I went to Art Boy’s
opening, dressed for sin in a skin-tight black velvet cat suit and sky-high red
platforms, glittering sequined hearts scattered throughout my ass-length,
teased-up Pricilla Presley hair do. Art Boy was there, of course… but I hadn’t anticipated the bosomy
redhead that was hanging all over him!
Realizing I’d been used
for a free performance, I bit the bullet and decided to dance anyway, since I
was already there… and at least there would be potential tips. In my frazzled
state, I started downing multiple plastic cups of the cheap swill that was
barely passing for Merlot. I was
starting my fifth drink when the disinterested gallery owner hustled me to a
filthy, closet-sized bathroom, the only place in the gallery where I could
change into my costume, since he wouldn’t allow me to use his office.
I didn’t realize that the
toilet had been over-flowing until my gig bag had been sitting on the floor for
quite some time… because there was no
light. Foul mouthed drunks-people drunker than even I was, if that was possible-banged on the door as I changed
into costume.
While I performed, the hem of my costume got
drenched in the puddles of beer that had formed on the cement floor, and
someone burned a hole in my veil with a cigarette. When I finished my show, Art
Boy was macking ardently on the new gal. Instantly, drinks and insults were
flung from both sides. My recollection is fuzzy, but I do believe I was the one
that started it.
My oldest, most-trusted
friend Bobby, who was visiting from Memphis, Tennessee, quickly escorted me out
of the melee like the Gallant Southern Gentleman he always has been. Somehow,
we wound up at The Blacklite. Collegiate Art Department Head was already there,
much to my delight. Much to my dismay, he was there with a date…but by the end
of the night, I was infatuated with The Date, who looked like a cross between a
gorgeous ‘70’s glam rock fag and 6’ 6” Hitler Youth, with the longest, blackest
eyelashes I had ever seen- and they were
real!
When the din of the
jukebox died down, I detected a Euro Accent. I was madly drunk and melting from
lust…and apparently, he was too. That Valentine’s Day, we began or affair- and
also a five year long merry-go-round of love, lies, sex, heartbreak, stalking,
drug abuse, violence, and psychological torture- between Art Department Head,
Tomorrow Belongs To Him and lil’ ole me. You name it, we experienced it. It was
a Love Triangle Of Bermudic proportions.
Thank god, all that
Valentine’s Day insanity ended in the late 1990’s.
I’d like to say I’ve learned from my experiences… but I know better. I seem to be
feeling a little drowsy …wake me up when it’s over, will you?
##
The story you’ve just read is from my book “Showgirl Confidential: My Life Onstage,
Backstage And On The Road” ( Punk Hostage Press, Sept. 2013)
You can get an
autographed copy here:
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