Tuesday, July 15, 2014


It burned in my soul like an evangelical obsession: I wanted to be a majorette.

 Oh, I wanted it so badly I could taste it; it was all I  ever thought about as I’d stand in my back yard throwing sticks and broom handles around, pretending I was a glamorous baton twirler.

The spangled, scanty costumes and the feathered, military-style busby thrilled me,  but really, it was all  about the boots. I was absolutely crazy for the boots, they were so unbelievably  hot.

I could clearly envision  my flesh-toned fishnet-sheathed rounded and strong  calves leading down to those  pert, high-stepping, sparkling white boots. Those darling, dangerous boots that came to a peak in the front  at mid-shin, accentuating  the curve of the leg.  Those delicious boots whose fat tassels swung to and fro in time with the marching band,  those tough-yet-feminine snowy white boots with  the no-nonsense black heels and metal taps hammered into the soles all the way around so that as they struck the pavement, they made sparks.

I  visualized myself in the misty November air, marching in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, my breath coming out in little clouds visible even on the television set.  The huge tethered balloons of Rocky Squirrel and Bullwinkle Moose, Bugs Bunny, Under Dog and even Borden’s Elsie The Cow floated benignly, huge and dumb over my head, just over the height my tossed baton would fly before I caught it. Then I’d go into a spectacularly executed back flip and land in a split that made even the at-home viewers of the parade gasp with wonder.

By the time I was actually old enough to be a majorette, I had long since discovered pot and Boone’s Farm Ripple wine, and had also discovered boys…and girls.

I was getting detention constantly at school for talking out of turn and the sarcastic wisecracks I’d make during filmstrips in biology class.  I was into yoga, Tarot Cards, and trying to contact spirits on my Ouija Board, and my (unwanted) nickname was “Witchypoo”. When the gangs of jocks who hung out in the cafeteria started singing Hollywood Swingin’ and throwing salads at me as I walked by, I started cutting school on a regular basis.  The only class I ever showed up for was art, and I’d paint and do pen and ink drawings of the dancers from Bob Fosse’s Cabaret and 1950’s dominatrices that I’d seen in the pages of the yellowed detective tabloids and men’s magazines that I’d purchased at thrift stores. Looking at my work with barely concealed concern,  my art teacher Mr. Sutter, tried to sound all enthusiastic and encouraging as he  ventured,

"Maybe you could do illustrations for the Frederick's Of Hollywood Catalogue..."

 I was highly adept at underage nightclubbing, getting in for free at rock concerts, sneaking backstage and hanging out with British Glam bands. I’d chain smoke nonchalantly while I worked as the ticket taker in the box office at the world famous Whisky A Go-Go, letting all my friends in  as guests.  I started writing about music , and even though I'd  never attended typing class in school cause it bored me to tears, I’d learned my own crazy version of hunt ‘n’ peck typing out of necessity and was getting published in multiple legit rock magazines.

 Heavily into politics, I was  involved in many a  boozy, late-night heated discussion about Communism and Anarchy. Like many of my new friends, I was fascinated by The Manson Family to the point of obsession.
 I was doing The Timewarp in gay bars, falling off my silver glitter wedge platforms and onto my ass,  laughing hysterically and making a huge, sloppy scene in the middle of the dance floor during my first Quaalude experience.

I was well-read, sarcastic, bored, pretty even though I didn’t think so, and somewhat  jaded… and the last thing I wanted to do was twirl a fucking baton.

 The story you’ve just read is from my forthcoming memoir, Good Girls Go To Heaven, Bad Girls Go Everywhere, set for publication  on Punk Hostage Press  in January, 2015.

 On Friday, August 8, 2014, I’ll  be reading  from and signing my  memoir Showgirl Confidential: My Life Onstage, Backstage, And On The Road , in Atlanta, Georgia. Information on the event is  here:
“Showgirl”   is available on Amazon , and you can get an autographed copy here:

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