It was in a bar in Glendale, Damons Steak House, bar and grill. You go in and it looks like an Applebee's with all those color lamps and booths and tables for families. But after going through the huge main room, there is another room and a bar, and at the end of the bar, almost in the hallway to the bathrooms, there are a couple of tables that have been extirpated of its chairs, and over one of those tables sat the karaoke equipment that presides the Karaoke's High Priestess-Playboy bunny sensation.
From the opposite end of the bar, under the bright light bulbs that separate the "stage" from the "audience", she can be seen, against the wall, although I, so short, could only see her blond wig rocking to the music over the heads of the flabbergasted multitude. She, super tall, with long legs like columns, pink panties with the bunny tail behind, a white, tight top wrapping her tits, and pink bunny rabbit ears on her head holding a stunning wig, like a sculpture escaped from the Greco-Roman Goddesses' temples, has a mouth that counts for two and a nose that counts for three. When she sings you can see that her mouth could knock the walls down with its energy if it wanted, with its tornado strength. And when she stands up to play the guitar, oh god, and she plays the guitar with those hands so close to her package, that package that we cannot notice because it is completely flattened to make her look like a Playboy bunny escaped from the madhouse, I would say, because it cannot be, it cannot possibly be: the only thing she has in common with a Playboy bunny is her bunny-tail because she is taller than all of us together. Put one on top of the other and she is taller than that. Oh boy. You have to see her. But wait, because on top of her natural tallness, she has a pair of transparent plastic, 8 inches high heels pumps.
And this Madame, this Drag Queen that plays the electric guitar as if she really had a penis, introduces us, poor singers, us, too scared to do what she does, too afraid to show ourselves so vulnerable. We are not capable of climbing on top of those shoes, or standing with all our majesty in front of the audience to give ourselves in all of our longitude. We are not capable of doing that, and we don't want to do it either, although we admire her because she is capable of showing herself without shame and, shit, she does it so well. She's not afraid of saying, "This is me." She's a real bad-ass.
Because of that, because we can't say like her "This is me", because we prefer to hide behind our inconsequential jobs and our normalcy, we need to offer ourselves, once in a while, to the gods, her gods, we go to them in search of food for our egos, a few claps that would make us forget our unimportance and smallness. But not everyone succeeds. Some fall and, defeated, are whacked and slapped by humiliation. Others are lifted by the multitude that erects them as the new gods to be adored in the next few seconds that follow the miracle of the creation, to be forgotten later to make space for a new god that would subsequently be adored and rejected later. What can we do? It's life's chain.
Some go further. They dare to do anything, or almost anything, to feel like one of them, to feel like a god. There was a guy that sang U2 sounding and looking like Bono: he was wearing dark glasses inside, with that particular look, the hair style, the ear ring, everything he needed to feel like him during those few minutes. When he descends from the podium among the clamor of the audience, his ego inflates and strengthens, now able to confront his smallness on Monday at the office. There are also the ones that will have to drag their hurt egos towards an area in which they can be more successful, so they can restore it to be able to exist among people. We all need it; we are so dependent on it. Poor us.
I would like to know what she thinks of us, she seems very understanding, but, what is she really thinking? What does she do during the day, when she is not a Playboy bunny or a Drag Queen of the Apocalypses? Does she serve tables, coffee, teach something? Who is she?
But I only buried myself in her world for a few hours. When I went out to the street she was just a blurry memory amidst the clouds of alcohol. I thought I should write about the wooden walls, the engravings, the details, because I thought they were important, but no, they don't matter anymore because the only thing that matters is she.
Photo: Queen Erica Valentine during the Dooh Dah Parade in Pasadena
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