07.08.01
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- Isaiah, as quoted in the Bible (no doubt prophetically referring to this website) |
Last week I promised no more C updates but I must mention it briefly now. Unfortunately in the past week I've been brutally struck down by delirium, nausea and exhaustion, and I even woke up on Friday morning with a mouth full of blood - a religious sign, to be sure!
So unfortunately, it seems my crisis is not over, and so I am due for a CATscan next week. These futile scientific tests won't work on me, just as they didn't didn't work on Regan from 'The Exorcist'. I realize now that I am not sick, I am actually a messenger sent by God.
And like most messengers sent by God, I am accepting donations!
No worries though. I believe these symptoms just represent the ups and downs of recovery, and so because I am in a good mood I will now share some vintage Diabolique writing with you, and an amusing anecdote, as promised.
In 1994, Film Threat magazine wanted a new 'personality' to write something
about a movie experience every month. They asked me to write the first column.
I asked how much was to be paid - nothing - but agreed anyway and submitted
the following:
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I'd like to tell you a true story about me going to a movie, and although it actually has little to do with the movie itself, it is one of the most amusingly pathetic, gruesome and revolting tales you'll ever hear, and it doesn't even involve Cher. (At least I don't think it does.) I assure you that what follows is absolutely true. A few months ago a breeze of insanity swept around me as I decided to see the movie 'Clifford' starring Martin Short. I found enough change under my futon mattress to furnish the necessary $7.50, and off I went. As I ambled down the street, I couldn't help but notice an unfortunate homeless man napping on the sidewalk ahead. He was comfortably lying in the fetal position and had a rip in the seat of his pants. As I drew closer I looked again at the rip, and saw that his two testicles were cleanly dangling out! I averted my astonished eyes, which met the astonished eyes of another appalled pedestrian. We bonded instantly through disgust. A few minutes later, I settled in at the theater. I can't remember if I actually saw Clifford or if I fell asleep and had a horrifying ninety minute nightmare, but when it was over I collected my remaining energy and started home. I must have been in the mood for more torture, because the homeless man's testicles bounced back into my mind. I couldn't resist another gander. I turned down testicle block and spied his fetal form up ahead. Yearning for a good look, I slowed down my pace. Eye to ball contact was imminent. But when my gaze darted downward, I received the surprise of my life. Someone had placed a singular cheese doodle upon his unclad balls. Once again my astonished eyes shot away into the eyes of another passing pedestrian, who mouthed the words, "DID YOU SEE THAT!?" I have to wonder what kind of person would place a cheese doodle upon a sleeping homeless man's testicles. Did that person have a bag of cheese doodles in hand, or did he or she actually go out and buy some for the express purpose of testicular placement? And why a cheese doodle? Perhaps because unlike a chip or a pretzel, a cheese doodle's intrinsic curve would allow it to efficiently hug a ball and prevent slippage. Would the homeless man notice the doodle immediately upon waking, or would he simply roll over and sit on it, finding mysterious orange cheetle remains on his testicles at a later time? Most importantly, if he did find the whole doodle, would he eat it? The lesson to be learned is never sleep in the fetal position outside if you aren't wearing underwear and have a rip in the seat of your pants. Or, avoid the movie 'Clifford'. Diabolique |
Sad to say, this literary gem about my movie experience was rejected, so I wrote another story analyzing the phallic implications of Disney's 'The Little Mermaid', and then another reviewing the 1994 Oscars. They were rejected as well, despite also being brilliant. The people at Film Threat are and continue to be fools.
I have a healthy distrust for the mass media and their promises. At the time Film Threat dashed my hopes, I'd already submitted to various music videos and independent films, none of which paid at all (or very much) and involved long foodless hours waiting around for crews to get their acts together.
So I didn't agree to another such request until 1995.
A woman called me out of the blue, and said she was working on a documentary for French television about New York drag queens being produced by Gérard Depardieu (?!). We had an hour-long talk about drag and its relationship to one's self-esteem, the gay community, masculinity, women, and even Oscar Wilde. She thought me insightful and funny and so asked if I would be interviewed in person at Palladium. Since she seemed to be working a reputable film and had some interesting questions to ask, I agreed.
They were shooting on a regular Friday club night, so as I approached the club with my date for the night I noticed that the line to get in was huge and that there were a few cameras already filming a couple of drag queens at the ropes. Apparently I wasn't the only interviewee.
When I did full drag, I never had any problem dominating because besides having a face that lends itself extremely well to cosmetics, I'm naturally very tall; with platforms and a wig I approach a height of 8 feet. When RuPaul met me (I'm taller), she said 'Well honey you know what they say - the higher the berry on the tree, the sweeter the juice!' I'm quite sure they don't say that, but I smiled politely.
My body also quite naturally has the unnatural proportions of Barbie. But this time I had another trick up my sleeve.
We crossed the street and walked alongside the crowd because I knew this would cause a murmur that the cameramen would hear. It did.
I was wearing a cherry-red wig and a shaggy purple fur coat which I hugged around my body. By the time I reached the ropes, the cameras were ignoring the other bitches, rightly shooting in my direction.
After a moment of preening I knew the time was ready so I undid my coat and widely flashed the cameras and the crowd, revealing a skin-tight, totally transparent see-through gold sparkly gown which hugged a body wearing only a black G-string and bra. NAKED WOMAN REALNESS. The crowd screamed and the Frenchies turned on their spotlights, which made the dress even more invisible. They orbitted me (literally!) with lights and cameras for a good five minutes before I was finally let into the club.
My date and I laughed and I thought so far, so good. I found my enthusiastic phone interviewer and she told me to head upstairs in a hour for my on-camera interview. When I finally got there they were running late, so I was told to come back in another hour. I did, and they were there, and I waited another 45 minutes before being told it was my time, and to just be natural and say everything I had told my girl on the phone.
They set my lights, and I asked for the key light to be moved upwards about a foot. I knew what worked best for me. They readily complied and the French director/interviewer, after gushing at how beautiful I was compared to the others he had met ('Why, thank you!) asked me if I would repeat my lighting request exactly, but on camera. I considered it but said I wouldn't feel comfortable re-enacting anything. He asked 'Are you sure?' and I replied sarcastically, 'Well you should just have your cameras on me all the time, honey, because you see its worth it.'
He chuckled the way film people do, and then we were rolling. His first question was why a man would dress up as a woman. I answered. Then, he thanked me and yelled 'Cut!'.
'That's it?'
'We're running late, but thank you very much,' he said.
Confused, I looked to the phone interviewer lady and she looked back at me, also seeming a bit confused. I shrugged and went over to my date and he asked what was going on. I said I had no idea but they only asked me one really lame question, strange but oh well! Time to go home.
But as we were leaving the phone interviewer lady came over in a huff and asked if I would be filmed again, this time on the balcony level.
'For what?'
'The director wants to film you there, its more lively.'
I shrugged again but agreed. 'For you darling, anything.'
So I waited and drank cocktails on the balcony level for about an hour until finally the Frenchies showed up with their equipment.
All smiles, the director had a crew member take a picture of him giving me a hug. His head barely reached my stomach. I endured.
Then he asked if he could film me jumping up and down on a huge inflatable trampoline they had installed behind us.
I looked at it, and it was huge, at least six feet off the ground, 20 feet wide and dotted with bouncing raver girls and boys in overalls. I wondered if he was kidding.
An eyebrow raised, I asked, 'Are you kidding??'
'No, I'm not kidding,' he said, smiling.
'I'm wearing a tight, see-through dress, platforms and a wig.. I'd look utterly ridiculous jumping up and down on that trampoline, not to mention what would happen to my thong,' I joked.
'No you won't look ridiculous, it will be funny,' he said in that ridiculous French accent.
Disgusted I told him that my drag was not meant to be funny and left in a queeny, mid-90's huff.
THAT conversation would have been good for the documentary, which I haven't heard of since, and I think they lied to me about the whole questionable Gérard Depardieu connection. How ridiculous! But at least I kept my deeper love.
Since then I've been wary of any sort of documentaries or interviews, but I was just asked and may agree to be interviewed for a documentary on Dolly, which would be fun, simply because I love Dolly and could babble on and on about her forever. Would you believe that my kickass friend Heather got Dolly to sign a get-well card for me? In fact this card was the most surprisingly wonderful thing I got during my ordeal, and I kept it next to my bed all the time. I'm going to scan it and share it with you here very soon but until then, you'll have to savor the anticipation!
I would also like to take this opportunity to say that the 'Make-A-Wish' foundation is wonderful but I resent their policy of only granting wishes to kids under 18 who have a deadly disease! I am 29 with a biggie - cancer (!), and I deserve a wish as well. It is my wish to see Madonna on the New York leg of her tour! If anyone has a connection and would be willing to beg for me, pull strings, or whatever.. please make contact . I am broke beyond my wildest dreams and so cannot pay anything - therefore don't bother if you're a scalper.
Come on Warner Brothers! Cancer-boys deserve front row seats! F*ck all those industry people, put a screaming queen up there! I beg of you! Madonna will heal me!!
Our first song this week is an early 80's classic and the musical antithesis to 'Independent Woman' by Destiny's Child. It is also my mantra for the time being:
'Ain't Nothing Goin On But The Rent' by Gwen Guthrie
'No romance without finance..' Sing it girl.
Our last song is an utterly beautiful progressive house/vocal trance classic from 97:
This is the kind of song that reminds you no matter how bad life gets and no matter how shitty people are treating you - there is always music.
And there is always the House of Diabolique.
until next week, remember..
when you dance, we are a part of what you feel.
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