Sunday, April 24, 2011


I hate Easter.  It's dumb.

I was discussing it with my slusband (straight lady husband), Muffy Bolding, yesterday via text messages -- because we are, after all, teenaged girls -- and we share many of the same reasons for our unbridled hatred of everything Easter...

THE COLOR SCHEME: Except for a very brief oh-so-confusing period in the '80s, pastels are not for me.  They are merely watered-down versions of the bold jewel-tones I so adore: Ruby red, onyx black and my all-time favorite, turquoise blue.  Pastels are for cat-loving women with frizzy, gray-streaked hair who mix up their own douche solutions, collect hideous Thomas Kinkade "art" and have at least one Cathy comic hanging on their Activia-filled fridge by a sassy magnet that says something like, "I Shaved My Legs For THIS!?"

THE CANDY: While I will admit that Easter candy has come a long way since I was a kid (Reese's Peanut Butter cups and/or Mounds in the shape of an egg), the "classics" are just plain disgusting. Peeps are the foulest (fowlest?) candy on the planet.  The only thing worse than the taste -- a combination of toxic old-school insecticide and a sweet perfume a chubby 'tween might wear -- is the consistency.  It's like eating slightly soggy styrofoam.  Fuck you, Peeps.  Along with Jay Leno and Lady Gaga, you are the biggest scam ever foisted upon the American public.  And lest we forget cheap gritty jelly beans that come in mere colors (red, yellow and orange) instead of actual flavors (cherry, lemon and orange), and waxy hollow chocolate-adjacent bunnies.  If I'm craving something waxy and hollow I'll watch a recent Madonna interview on YouTube, okay?

And don't even get me started on those Cadbury Cream Eggs, the oozing viscous filling of which resembles something a bunch of horny British schoolboys might shoot onto a biscuit while playing the time-honoured and traditional COMING of age game, Ookie Cookie.  Sick fucks.  I say spend less time jacking off on crackers and more time brushing your Susan Boyle teeth!

THE ACTIVITIES: Decorating eggs is just retarded.  And whomever thought hiding hardboiled eggs in the late April sun was a good idea should frankly be crucified.  Growing up in Scottsdale, Arizona ("But it's a DRY heat!") I remember how every Easter my mom would hide those eggs in the backyard and around our split-level house -- never bothering to count them or keep track of where she hid them.  And, of course, every year we would leave one or two or THREE undiscovered.

Talk about The Resurrection!  That sulphuric rotten egg stench would "rise from the dead" and my mom would glare at us kids like it was our fault.  First, when the smell was a subtle stink, she would give us that "Did you fart, you horrible little bastards that I never should have had!?" look.  And then when the house started to reek like Jeffrey Dahmer's apartment, it became clear this was more than just methane gas escaping from the tiny buttholes of three little kids.  Then she gave us that look as if to ask, "Why didn't you find all those eggs I hid 6 weeks ago, you horrible little bastards that I never should have had!?"

THE TRUE MEANING OF THE HOLIDAY: Is total bullshit.  Like most of modern Christianity, it is warped and bastardized Paganism.

So, to recap, I hate Easter.  This, my friends, is the only basket I want...

Monday, April 11, 2011



Hi!  Did you know that I am deformed?  No, I am NOT joking... I actually have a "developmental deformation" in both hips.  I just assumed that the excruciating pain and the cute little limp was thanks to being overweight for most of my life AND wearing women's shoes for the past twenty years, but no -- it's officlal! -- I am DEFORMED!

I actually need a double hip replacement.  This, of course, is the most UNCOOL of any and all surgeries one can have and/or need.  My right hip is, according to doctors, "bone on bone" (ironically, this is also the name of Chi Chi LaRue's next dickumentary!) and the left is getting very close to being the same.  Yes, it hurts.  But, as they say, the show must go on!

Being a vaudevillian clown I have no insurance, and being a homeowner in Southern California, I have no money.  So, I researched online and found what I thought was a great place to have the surgery for what I thought was quite the reasonable cash price ($20k per hip!).  I even accepted a booking for this Summer in Provincetown so that I could pay back my oh-so-generous ex who had offered to loan me the money for the surgery.

Well, after forwarding all the info on the company and doctor involved to a very well-connected and successful actress friend of mine (no, it's NOT Roseanne!) who recently had the same surgery, I have learned that this is way too expensive and that I could perhaps get it for much less if I agree to allow students to watch while I go under the knife.  So the whole thing is on hold yet again while I do even more research and try to find the best possible solution to this problem.

I had hoped to have surgery mid April so I stopped booking gigs starting then -- AND FOR A FULL TWO MONTHS AFTER THAT SO I COULD SAFELY HEAL AND RECUPERATE.  Well, now that the surgery is off I have no work until I haul my deformed ass to Provincetown this Summer.

So, if you are a club owner and/or promoter, please book me!  I ain't too proud to beg!  I am also a writer for everything from magazines and websites to TV!  And if you are not in the position to hire me, then by all means feel free to treat yourself to an mp3 download or two (or TEN!) from my website.  You get a laugh and I get a dollar -- it's a win/win situation!  Just go to:

Please help a bitch out.


Monday, April 4, 2011


YAY!  Mama is home!

Dearest Darlings,

I am sitting here in my queen-sized bed, feeling all snuggly thanks to my faux mink bedspread, cup of freshly-brewed coffee and my two precious angels, Baby and Lil Sister. And speaking of those adorable creatures, I am, as they say, sick as a dog! Now I am not sure when or where this particular turn-of-phrase came into being, and if we are being completely honest, I have never liked it, but it does immediately express just how awful I am feeling. My head is throbbing, I feel like I have been gargling with broken glass, my nose won't stop running and my entire body aches. I am in Hell, but it's Hell with faux mink and DirecTV, so no need to alert George Clooney of my plight. Although if Sarah McLachlan wanted to sing a sad song over a slide show of me blowing my nose, rubbing my temples and wincing while swallowing -- that would be fine by me. "Please call the number on your screen..."

So, let me tell you how life works. After performing two amazing, sold-out shows in the beautiful city of Boston, I was to return home to my aforementioned fur-balls. After the show Saturday night, I came back to where I was staying and got out of drag, removed my makeup and then had to pack -- which, thanks to a particularly successful day of thrift store shopping, was quite a creative challenge! But I got everything off and in and then finally climbed into bed around 1 AM, knowing that I would be up again by 5 AM for my 7:20 AM flight!

After a few hours of sleep, I woke up and headed to the airport. At 6 AM I swiped my credit card at the American Airlines kiosk and got the following message: YOU CANNOT CHECK IN FOR YOUR FLIGHT BECAUSE IT IS NOT WITHIN THE NEXT 24 HOURS. Huh? I rubbed my bleary eyes and re-read my itinerary and was shocked to discover that my flight was actually for the next day -- Monday! Needless to say, I felt like a complete idiot and I almost burst into tears. Instead, I took a deep breath, decided to face the problem head-on, and got in line to talk to an American Airlines rep. Well, to make a long story short (too late!), the oh-so-helpful agent was no help at all. I don't know how they do it, but American Airlines always seems to find employees with that rare combination of robot and rudeness: "Does not compute... Bitch!" Despite the tears welling up in my middle-aged man eyes, I guess it was pretty damn obvious that I was indeed trying to pull a fast one on the company by showing up a full day before my actual flight and "pretending" I had merely made a mistake. After all, if they put my ass in one of those empty seats on that flight, American Airlines might just go bankrupt, right? So it would cost an additional $535 plus a $150 change fee. Any emotional moisture in my eyes evaporated the moment I heard those numbers and with the bone-dry eyes of a corpse I stared right through that bitter cyborg and said, "Fuck that shit." It felt good -- for about five seconds -- then I was struck with the harsh reality of being at an airport at 6 AM on the opposite coast of my home with no flight.

I ended up buying a one-way ticket to LAX on Virgin America. It cost me $550, but you know what? The people were friendly, the ticket agent waived my checked bag fee (hey, it's SOMETHING!) and the the plane was nice and new and clean and pretty with comfy seats and my own little TV and great snacks. I was back in LA by 11 AM and with my gorgeous girls by noon! And that's when this cold/flu/black plague thing hit me. I puttered around the house all day, took a hot bath, had some soup, watched part 3 of "Mildred Pierce" on HBO, guzzled some NyQuil and passed out.

Imagine my amusement when I woke this morning to find several voicemail updates from American Airlines on my cell phone! Turns out that my flight from Boston to LAX and been cancelled. What!? That would be horrible news... if I wasn't already home, that is. Subsequent messages informed me that I had been re-booked on an 11 AM flight to Miami, and I am still waiting to hear when my flight from Miami to Los Angeles is.

So you see, had I not fucked up yesterday I would be killing 4 hours at Logan airport -- while sick as a motherfucking dog! And then I would just be in Miami and be looking at 6 more hours of travel -- on one of American Airlines old, uncomfortable planes with the previous passenger's wadded up tissues and candy wrappers still in the seat pocket in front of me, a crappy selection of overpriced food and beverages (that they always seem to run out of by the time they reach me!) flung at me by one of their bitter animatronics.

And now, if you will excuse me, I have daytime TV to watch and phlegm to cough up...
Baby enjoying the luxury of mama's faux mink bedspread!