News flash: Anyone can put anything onto the Internet; this does not make it true. From fictional Wikipedia entries to nonexistent blonde girls with cancer to http://www.DivorceKevin.com/, searchability does not necessarily equal credibility.
With that knowledge firmly in mind, let’s look at:
The Incomplete List of Facts You Never Knew About Me*
- My hetero-lifemate and childhood friend and idol, Bardsbitch, a Great American™, and I once decided it would be fun to try to pull one over on our English teacher, the brilliant and good-looking (also with nice aftershave) Mr. O. Since we knew we were the best writers in the class, we figured we’d get away with it, so we swapped stories and handed in each other’s as our own. But he figured it out by the next day because (I quote) “You, [Golf Widow], do not spell like a monkey on glue!” and he made us both write anthropomorphic fables on “Why I Shouldn’t Be a Smartass.”
- Gwyndyn and I once spent a night with the Bondage Dwarf, decorating cakes and singing dirty Christmas carols. She claims that I looked so fetching in my hot pink wetsuit and straw gondolier hat, that she just felt she would die if she couldn’t blow on my bellybutton. According to her, my words still echo for her, and will till she takes her last breath: “Pass me the anteater and stop hogging the peanut butter …”
- Lisabindacity and I hung out one night and watched the Fawlty Towers Marathon on PBS. We drank mondo amounts of beer, ate at least five bags of crisps, and laughed our asses off. Afterwards we went out for one more beer, and ran smack dab into John Cleese, who was MAJOR f’shnockered. We told him about our evening, and he took us to a bar and we all talked like Basil Fawlty all night long.
- Marn,eh and I were in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir together. Good times. When I quit because they wouldn’t consider performing that great Blondie classic I Touch Myself**, Marn totally backed me up and quit too. We don’t miss the Utah winters, but we do miss those Pepsi-chugging contests.
- Speaking of Utah, when Quin and I were in boarding school in Bogue Chitto, Mississippi (yes, this does, too, have to do with Utah, because she used to live there, too, though she and I didn’t meet there), we had to wear these wool uniforms all the time (in Mississippi!), and Kathy Tamborillo kept passing out during Mass. Hey, Quin — you remember the time we dared Kathy to walk across the spillway in her saddle shoes and she slipped and fell and knocked herself out? And we left her there because it was roast chicken night? Then we said she’d run away and they looked for her all night? Boy, those were the days.(And that was some good roast chicken. Oh, my heck, it was good. See? Totally Utah.)
- Chocolate Chaos and I met five years ago today***. We sat at a bar in Madison, WI drinking Moose Drool. Not real moose drool — this is a very yummy beer. We both were snacking on popcorn when this really handsome man walked into the bar. Both of us were instantly drawn to him. Alas, he had a woman with him, who was totally hanging on his arm. But that didn’t stop me from asking him to taste my drool. Moose Drool, that is. He tasted it, and agreed that it was one of the better beers he had ever had. Chaos turned around to get more popcorn, and says that when she looked back, all she saw was me walking out of the bar with this man. (The woman he came in with, who turned out to be his sister, was not happy that he had left her there.) Chaos then decided to go soak
her headin the hot tub, and found me there alone. For the next five years, she had assumed that the guy had apparently had too much drool, but that wasn’t quite the case. Actually, he got really drunk and kept poking his naughty bits out of the water and saying “Eenie Meanie Chili-Beanie, the spirits are about to speak,” in a bad Bullwinkle impression, and getting mad that I was saying, “I think you’ve had a bit too much Moose Drool,” instead of saying, “Are they friendly spirits?” in a Rocky the Flying Squirrel voice. Eventually, he got so mad he left. Oh, well.
- D-Man once tried to return a parrot that I’d sold him, because he claimed it was dead, although it was just resting — and then I invited him back to my place, where we drank moose drool.
- (This was really embarrassing.) Barb and I went through the receiving line at Buckingham Palace once. I’d had fish ‘n’ chips ‘n’ coleslaw for lunch, even though I know what havoc cabbage wreaks on my system. Anyway, when I went to curtsey to the Queen … brrrrpppt … it slipped. And it smelled, too. Oh, my lord. Fortunately, Her Majesty smiled, reached back, parted her cheeks, and let one rrriiiippp herself. She said, “Thank heavens, I’ve been holding that in forever.”
- Liz and I studied at the Sorbonne together one summer. We used to ring Jean Paul Sartre’s doorbell, then run. Once, whilst running away, we ran smack dab into John Cleese, who was dressed in drag. And he bought us a couple of beers at the little bar on the corner. Those French thought we were so gauche. But that was when I told Liz that one day I would be a famous beer reviewer. Isn’t life strange? Also, John Cleese said we were very nice, and we really knew how to treat a female impersonator.
- Moviegrrl and I went to the Beer Festival one night and we decided to get totally hammered on Blake’s Heaven, started to sing all our favourite**** Python songs, and turned around to see Terry Jones with his head in his hands saying, “In the name of all that’s holy, will the two of you SHUT UP?!?” Then he fell off his chair. (But that was only because Moviegrrl had insisted on tacking a Christina-Aguilera-like flourish onto the end of the line, “Socrates himself was permanently piiiiiiiiissssseeed….”)
- The late, great Cosmic reminded me of the time they hired me to create a mosaic in front of the library in Hartford, depicting some important historical and literary figures. Then the library claimed that the mosaic had eleven proper names, including Einstein’s and Shakespeare’s, misspelled. Did I mention this is in front of a library? How stupid do they think I am? If I didn’t know how to spell the names, I’d have GONE INSIDE AND LOOKED THEM UP. Anyway, I said as much to Cosmic, and she reported it back to them. So the library council offered to pay me to “fix” the “misspellings,” including buying lunch at Royal Palace for myself and my peeps. Man, I wanted that lunch (Royal Palace = Killer-Good Hot and Sour Soup), but Cosmic would not let me back down. So I told her it was okay to tell them
I wasn’t “fixing” the correct spellings. But she took it a step further — she stomped on in there and shouted that, not only did I refuse, I demanded an apology. I never would have had the bottles to do that. And … I got one! It seems that I had Einstein’s and Shakespeare’s birth certificates, and proved the library council wrong. Boy, did they have egg on their faces. Anyway, they not only bought our lunch, but they even named a wing in the library after me: one whole wing just for “Golfwidow.” All because of Cosmic standing up for me.
- For those of you who were not aware, I am, in fact, a vampire. I wasn’t always. Scottski turned me into one so that I might now walk the nights, freely, as he does. Unfortunately, on the night he Transformed me, he had had so many Boddingtons that I got pulled over for DUI (Draculing Under the Influence) and had to attend Vince Neil DUI and VIP (Vampire Impact Panel) courses to get the points taken off my nightstalker license.
- Art and I first met in 1974 in Central Park, during National Marijuana Day. We sat together in the noonday sun, smoking doobies and grooving to Joan Baez, who was playing in the half shell. Afterwards, we took the subway to Coney Island and rode all the rides, then we walked across the George Washington Bridge, where I decided it would be very exciting to stand on the highway and hitchhike to Florida. We got several rides on the way down, but we got separated in Philadelphia, and Art and I never found each other again till last year, when he started posting on D’Land. This
is especially interesting because in 1974, I was only three years old. Also, he later stopped being friends with me when he found out that everything I write, I steal from Britney Spears’ diary.
- Deni Bonet and I went to the same grade school. This was WAY before the internet existed. We sat in class together and passed notes back and forth. We LOVED to cuss. And we would write all kinds of cuss words about everyone else in the class … until the fateful day when I got caught. And when the teacher asked me who had sent me that filthy dirty note, I said … “I wouldn’t tell you who passed me this note even if I were THE LAST GIRL ON EARTH.” Deni, of course, immediately snagged that epithet and applied it to herself, so she could get away with writing and producing a song with cuss words in it. That song is, of course, Fuck It. And now you know The Rest of the Story. Deni, I loved you then, and I love you now.
- Dixie and I once went to see Journey, and when Steve Perry started singing Faithfully, Dixie got into a fight with the gay guy next to us because he was convinced Steve Perry was singing it to him, but we knew Steve was singing it to me, and then afterwards we waited outside, and then Steve Perry came out and we were like “Ohmigod! Ohmigod!” NOT. Because we are totally cool. And then he sang Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’ a capella because Dixie said it was her favorite, and then we went with the whole band to Denny’s and had pancakes. Mmm, pancakes.
- One dark evening, Trish (a.k.a. Dingo) and I — and eight score of our blonde and brunette friends — were sitting around bathing, dressing, undressing, and making exciting underwear, and then a young knight showed up because I had set alight the grail-shaped beacon. Sadly, he got away before we could get a good spanking. Oh, I was wicked, bad, and naughty that night!
- Purple Chai and I went to summer camp together. Those packages we got from home and wouldn’t share with anyone else, our pact to refuse to row a boat anywhere, and that hair! Why did we wear our hair like that?
- Speaking of camp … well, there was that one time, at grammar camp … (This was actually with Spoon, who took on the name “Spoon” ‘cos who wants to tell their mother that their camp nickname is “Fork”?)
- Oh, Bud. I almost remember that debauched night we had together in Poughkeepsie. I tried to drive over from Connecticut on my “People Mover” but had it confiscated for moving my drunk-ass self down I-84 West. Eventually, I did make it to that little trendy bar near Vassar College, but with bloody knees and a persistent burp I couldn’t explain. Bud gave me his genes, and had his legs tattooed to look like toreador pants. We downed a few house brews and headed across the campus looking for rich kids to mug. The first was a British couple. I fell in love with the guy and sillywalked away with him into the shadows. Bud said he later found his genes under a statue of one of the Vassar Brothers. He had been dumped by the Brit chick because she said she couldn’t understand a word he was slurring and she hated the way he didn’t dress.
- Judi and I appeared together on The Ricki Lake Show. She didn’t know why she was there — she thought that her boyfriend, the ex-con one with eight kids by six other women and a nasty meth problem, was finally ready to settle down and that he was going to propose. Boy, was she surprised to hear that she was actually there because I had a secret crush on her. She’s still sorry that things didn’t work out. I’m just relieved she didn’t gun me down.
- Ski and I actually first met at Terri’s house. We were getting ready to go out and tour the local bars. Ski was teasing Terri about her red dress, and her brother kept bounding into the room shouting, “Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition” — at what point Ski and I immediately started in with, “Our main weapon is fear. Fear and surprise. Our two main weapons …” We were both astonished that there were other intelligent women in the world who could quote the entire Spanish Inquisition sketch. Although Ski thinks I might have been less impressed when I discovered that she was more of a scotch drinker than a beer drinker, that is not the case at all. While I do get kind of titchy about people who claim to like beer but prefer watery domestics to carefully crafted microbrews or imports, I have never been prejudiced against people who simply don’t care for beer. To each his or her own, by golly.
- One weekend last winter, Nicole and I had too much red wine. And we HAD to have ice cream right away but knew we shouldn’t drive so we walked to the store. Nicole still to this day maintains that the cop with the really nice ass was just kidding about locking us up. But probably we shouldn’t have made those suggestive remarks about the handcuffs. Neither of us can remember exactly which of us had the bright idea to try and get him to do a strip tease, but we’re both claiming responsibility. Anyway, it was a good thing he got that call on his radio so we got off with just a warning. (Good ice cream, too.)
- This one time, K-Dare and I were playing down by the tracks and found a dead body. But it turned out just to be a dressmaker’s mannequin, so we ate waffles and decided to go play at the morgue instead. Mmm, waffles.
- One night, Michael Manning and I went to see the Spyderman movie together, wearing ski masks the whole night. Then it was off to a pub where we kept on our masks and used sign language and tossed in a few fingers at each other. We wrote our drinks down in pen and paper and they actually served us. We felt like THE BLUE MAN GROUP! Ah, memories …
- My friend Jessica and I have had way too many adventures together, and she knows where way too many of the bodies are buried. There was the weekend in Mozambique, when I threw up all over that goatherder and he proposed marriage right then and there, and the White House Ball when I found a chicken bone in my creme brulée. Plus, the road trip to San Francisco, when we lost all four tires trying to jump the Grand Canyon — that was with Jessica. Wow, we were really lost.
If you know of an appropriate “fact” I’ve missed, contact me via comments and I will add it.
* Because, as we’ve established, they’re not true.
** You might think we’ve mistaken Blondie for the Divinyls, but you would be so very wrong. It’s another song altogether, dirtier than the DiVinyl’s version. You only wish you could hear Marn and me cover it. We could make Deborah Harry look for a day job.
*** By a nearly unbelievable coincidence.
**** Note proper Jonesy-like British spelling of “favourite.”