pink pajama mama

I can’t believe she didn’t remember me! How could she not remember me? I performed with her every week for more than a year! I sat in her crappy van with her while she practiced her opera, drank a gallon of water, and glued austrian crystal rhinestones on her shoes! She used the van to transport her props–her giant champagne glass, her costume made of more than a thousand peacock feathers, her enormous gilded birdcage, the one with a fountain of water that poured over her while she sat on a swing inside it. Oh, and don’t forget her giant fans. Her actual costumes didn’t take up much room-you could fit her flesh colored g-string in a thimble, but the bigger stuff, well, she needed a van. And still, she didn’t remember me.Granted, she had hit the “big time” as far as burlesque dancers go, performing with the queen, Dita Von Teese, designing her costumes. She did hold a lot of titles–Miss Nude USA, Miss Exotic World, but still, every Thursday night at the Viper Room, I performed a Nita and Zita type show with my contortionist partner–I was Honey and she was Vermilion. Miss Delish was always the finale with her superprops. She dreamed of being an opera singer, but it appears that dram has stayed on the backburner while her dancing continues to grow.She came to New Orleans and performed with the burlesque dancers at House of Blues. I especially loved the sassy cowgirl and the Absinthe fairy. But when I attended the burlesque class at a dance studio the next day, Miss Delish barely remembered me. How is this possible? Too stuck in her own little funhouse full of mirrors? Would she have remembered the jungle dancer who danced around a big volcano that erupted in orange feathers at the end of her show? Or the trapeze artist? What about Aqua Girl, who danced in a big tank of water? Would she remember her? Or what about our nasty little fire eater, Otter, with her chihuahuas wearing rhinestone collars and mink stoles? Would she have made more of an impression? I know she remembered Lady Jane, our Oyster Girl. Lady Jane put our show together and was endlessly creative and brilliant as our director and producer. Now there’s a woman who was a genius at rhinestoning. Lady Jane wanted my partner and me to wear matching Jean Harlow wigs for our act. We were very excited about that, but we had the wigs styled and ended up looking more like twin Barbara Bushes instead of Jean Harlows!No wonder she didn’t remember me!Oh well, I guess it was a lot of years ago I was tramping across those dingy stages in Hollywood.I’ve come a long way baby! And so has she! Maybe if I had worn sparkling shoes and a feather in my Bush wig she would have remembered me. I”ll try that next time.

My motto has always been the same as Caresse Crosby, that fabulous expatriate of 1920’s Paris: “Take care of the luxuries, the necessities will take care of themselves.” Whether this has served me well or not is a matter of opinion. I’m not going to win any financial acumen awards—I haven’t done “wise” things like sock away my money in real estate or stocks, but I have traveled the world as what I like to call a “poverty jetsetter.” Highlights of my jetsetting days include playing my harmonica for food in Greece, sleeping on bus station floors in Italy, being awakened before dawn by sprinklers while sleeping in the grass in Spain and missing the running of the bulls because I chose the wrong time to brush my teeth. I bought a disposable camera to record my safari to Africa  and while National Geographic will most definitely not be contacting me for my shots of lions in the grass, I had an unforgettable time.

Taking care of the luxuries without a steady job has been quite an adventure for me. I will confess that in my quest for prosperity (which keeps eluding me) I have done some rather odd jobs. Let’s see, there was the time I was hired to be a flower child at a BelAir mansion garden party where Crosby Stills and Nash were playing in the backyard and I decided it would be a good idea if I was a “real” flower child and took magic mushrooms before going to work. Excellent idea. Flowers were growing and shrinking, all the plastic surgery on the guests was dripping down their faces and I got stuck in a room of cream puffs for over an hour. And then there were the daily trips to Vegas for an academy award-winning director with a gambling problem.

And then there was the time I was called to see if I knew a professional hula hooper. “I sure do—me,” I blurted before really thinking. My rent was due. The party booker was surprised and said he would drop by later that afternoon to have me sign a contract. I went directly to the toy store and bought two lime green hula-hoops. I was trying to renew my childhood hula-hoop skills when he knocked. “So,” he said, “Can I see some of your moves?” “Sure,” I answered, as I maneuvered the hula-hoops behind my back and tore the tags off so he wouldn’t see I had just bought them. Now, I can do some basic hula-hooping but not a whole lot more than the average seven-year-old. I put both hoops on my hips at the same time, a rather impressive trick to those who don’t know how to hula-hoop, and spun them around while telling the booker I couldn’t show him my real tricks because there just wasn’t enough room in my living room. He fell for my blatant lies and left. I must confess I felt terribly guilty, lying about my hula-hooping skills, but I was determined to make my rent. This would do the trick.

I had no idea what a professional hula-hooper might do, so I spent the rest of the day trying to invent some tricks. I spun those damn things on my hips, my feet, my arms, and even my neck, but my windpipe protested that one. The most dazzling trick I invented was spinning one hula-hoop on each arm while bending my head back in a sort of back bend. While it gave me vertigo and I had to lie down whenever I tried it, it would have to do. I dressed up in a 1950’s outfit—black pants, white socks, a pink angora sweater–and arrived at the fancy hotel where the party would be held with my hoops in tow. When I walked backstage, a hush fell over the room. I tried to ignore everyone and staked out my own little space. I could hear the other dancers whispering, “The hula-hooper is here! I can’t wait to see the hula-hooper!” I felt my face grow hot and wondered what the hell I had gotten myself into now as I laid my hula- hoops on the floor. I figured I better do something as they all cleared out of my way, so I acted like I thought a professional athlete would act and started to stretch with a very serious expression on my face. I did a cartwheel over my hoops, touched my toes, did the splits—all the things I learned in Dessa Hepler’s backyard acrobatics class when I was eight years old. The party started and I started to panic. I went to a corner and called my best friend. “Kim,” I whispered. “SOS. They expect me to do something amazing here. They think I’m a professional hula-hooper. They’re relying on me.” “Look,” she said, always my voice of reason, “it’s a corporate party. Most of them can’t even do the splits. They’ll be impressed with anything you do. Just smile and have fun. They’ll love it.” “OK, you’re right. I’ll dazzle them with my illusions of grandeur.” I replied, feeling like I might vomit at any moment.

My music started and I glued a big smile on my face and skipped out onto the stage spinning both hula-hoops on each arm. I dropped the hoops and did a few cartwheels through them hoping no one would notice I had no idea what I was doing. It didn’t help that the other dancers had all run to the wings, whispering and watching me,  waiting for my big tricks. I went for the old performing standby—get Uncle Joe up there onstage and everyone will be so thrilled they won’t even watch you. I skipped out into the audience and dragged the big boss onstage. The drunk audience roared with approval and it turned out I was the highlight of the evening (all because the boss did the Robot and the Cabbage Patch, delighting the entire party.) I collected my rent money and went home and into a hot tub, nursing my humiliated yet triumphant ass.

The next day however, I kept experiencing serious dizzy spells. I finally went to the health clinic at UCLA. I was fairly convinced I had a brain tumor and it was with a heavy heart and a quiet voice I told the doctor about my spells. I also told her there was a slim possibility the dizziness was caused by the hula-hoop routine I had done the night before. I believed the combination of spinning hoops in my peripheral vision combined with being upside down in a back bend had somehow messed up my equilibrium. The doctor tapped her finger on her chin and said, “I’ll be right back.” She returned with two other doctors and asked me to repeat the hula-hoop story. They all laughed heartily, which I thought was a bit insensitive considering I might be dying of a brain tumor, but it turned out the dizziness faded after a day or two (as they predicted) and I was fine. I guess it was the hula-hoops.

Who knew rent could be paid with hula-hoops? At this stage in my life, however, I’ve noticed a distinct trend among wealthy people–they all work really hard. I think I’m going to try that next. And find a way to take care of the luxuries and the necessities. In any case, luxuries for me have changed pretty drastically. In the past, luxuries meant buying velvet capes and evening gowns. Now I find my most luxurious moments are free. My best moments this week consisted of sitting in a field of clover, holding the round little body of my ten-month-old son while his tiny pudgy hands grabbed fistfuls of clover flowers. We were watching my two-year-old hold up her dress and stomp and skip through a mud puddle the size of a small lake, while she screamed and giggled with delight. It had rained earlier in the day and the air was shimmering with that ethereal light that only happens when the sun is shining through the raindrops quivering on the leaves of the big old oaks with arms like magicians. These were moments so exquisite, more precious than anything money could ever buy.

The first time I met Rufus Wainwright, he was naked. Well, he started out dressed, but it was only a matter of minutes before he was dancing naked in front of our table at a dingy nightclub in LA called The Garage. Let me back up a little.I was out on the town with my girlfriend, Pleasant. She knew Rufus, and I’m not sure how he got it into his head to take off his clothes for us, but he did. He started to strip for us and we encouraged him with cheers and catcalls. I didn’t think he’d really do the full monty as we were in a public place with loads of people around, but I was wrong. He did! And he was wild, flinging his moppish hair around, dancing. He was talking to us later (with his clothes on now) and telling Pleasant how he had done a gig the night before at the Universal Amphitheatre and had gotten kicked out of his hotel room. I naturally assumed he must have been working as a professional stripper. Later, Pleasant told me our stripper’s name was Rufus Wainwright, Loudon’s son, and one of the first acts signed by Dreamworks and he’d been doing a concert at the Universal Amphitheatre the night before. Oh.We went to see him play piano and sing at a tiny little place on Fairfax the following week. He was entrancing. The rawness of his talent, his heartrending voice, he was incredible.A while later, I was having a glass of wine with Pleasant and Kina at La Pubelle when we ran into Rufus again. He invited us (Pleasant, Kina, and I–the GoGo belly dance group) on a walk down Franklin to this incredible old historic building. I’d always wanted to enter this building. We knocked on one of the doors and it was answered by a man with yellow hair and a matching yellow coat with coattails–a kind of marching band coat. His house was a shrine to music. It was wallpapered with classical sheet music. Every nook and cranny was decoupaged with pictures of classical composers. In the middle of the living room was a grand piano complete with lit candelabra. The yellow-haired man flicked out his tails and sat down and played a haunting classical piece for us.Rufus was up next, and he sat down and played for at least an hour, all kinds of incredibly beautiful music. He would occasionally shout out the composer he was playing “Shubert! Debussy! Bach!” but he didn’t stop. He hunched over the piano, his wild hair flying in all directions, his shoulders rocking back and forth. We were swept away by this unexpected ending to our evening out. Kina said, “I want a Rufus! I want to take him out whenever I get bored.” That was one of the last times I saw Rufus. Now I just listen to him.

You can take the girl out of bohemia but you can’t take the bohemia out of the girl!I’ve been dreaming lately of my old life–lesbians in suits with fedoras hiding long lustrous hair; men with Salvador Dali moustaches writing love poetry for me; tiny men with wild hair writing songs for me; gorgeous frenchmen creating breathtaking sculptures of me dancing; beautiful women creating stunning dances for me; world-renowned opera singers filling my room with flowers;walking the streets of Paris, swimming in waterfalls in Mexico, dancing with the bush tribes in Africa, riding a camel around the pyramids in Cairo, laughing until I’m floating in Amsterdam, following the paths of Anais Nin, Josephine Baker, Nita and Zita… and now my sugar plum dreams have turned pink and there thye go, parading around my head: pink champagne glasses, pink maribou slippers, pink feathers, pink pancakes, pink shoes, pink flowers dripping with fragrance. and add glitter and aurora borealis jewels, and ahhh!! I’m screaming with delight!!!And so I spent my bohemian years loving the adoration, the admiration, the pure love of my existence, and then it dawned on me, literally came upon me slowly and surely like a pink sunrise, that I wanted to let go of my ego and follow another of my heroes for a while–mother theresa–”do no great things, only small things with great love;” “I have found the paradox that if I love until it hurts, then there is no hurt, only more love.” And so I took cello lessons and spent my evenings reading and writing (when I wasn’t dancing on the tables) and submerged myself in love until I came upon my greatest adventure yet: creating a family.A leap of trust, five-star dinners and long bohemian conversations over a mind-blowing bottle of wine, molten lava chocolate cake and homemade cinnamon ice cream, and boom, here I am, a showgirl scholar wife and mother, reveling in every moment of these fantastic fairy children I get to spend my days and nights with. I watched them stomp barefoot through the mud puddles today, watched Henry attempt to run down a little hill, his tiny hands in the air, his feet patting the ground like a high-stepping pony, I’m so amazed that I get to hold them when they cry, wrestle with them, laugh with them, fold their tiny clothes, hold their little hands as they walk down the stairs (Henry calls them “down-down’.) It’s amazing and miraculous to me to watch these little humans learn to talk, to  walk, to run and jump, to explore, and best of all, to dance!!!Now my bohemian world has turned to pure bohemian magic of the baby kind …

One of my favorite episodes of Sesame Street was on today–the one where Andrea Bocelli sing a duet/lullaby to the tune of “Time to Say Goodbye.”
Annabelle and I love it. I closed my eyes and said, “Annabelle, listen to how tender and loving his voice is, how raw. he sings something called opera, and do you see how his eyes are closed, that’s because he’s blind, which means he can’t see.” I looked outside as I said this and imagined a life without seeing the rain falling in a fine mist through the trees outside.
I was reminded of visiting the Louvre with my friend, Eric. We were standing in front of the awe-inspiring “Winged Victory,” a sculpture of a woman’s body enfolded in draped fabric with magnificent wings, and I heard someone whispering quite loudly. I looked over and there was a woman speaking into the ear of a blind boy, explaining what the sculpture looked like. I looked around myself and saw a group of blind children, each being guided through these amazing works of art, each with someone to try to explain the beauty of the pieces surrounding them. It was such a powerful, staggering moment, I had to sit down. And although I’m sure they each had gifts I can’t even imagine, I felt so deeply thankful for being able to see.
But it made me think how I would describe the art in the Louvre to someone who couldn’t see it.

This episode of Sesame Street also made me think of the time Andrea Bocelli was performing right up the street from my house at the Hollywood Bowl. I wanted to see him so badly it hurt, but I couldn’t afford a ticket. I told my friend Courtney to come over and get me, and we would call on the Goddess of Music to help us find a way to hear him. We packed a bag of snacks and wine and a blanket and headed off to find a back way to the Bowl. Apparently we weren’t the only ones who had ever thought of this ploy as the police were blocking the streets. We told them we lived there, they asked us our address, I made one up, and they let us through. After a series of checkpoints and obstacles and wrong turns and dead ends, we kept following the music. Bocelli’s heartrending voice led us to the highest trees behind the Bowl. We climbed over a little gate, not knowing where it would lead, and presto, we overlooked the entire Bowl. Bocelli looked like an ant on the stage, but his voice washed over us and we sat down, ecstatic, poured our wine into glasses, and heard our favorite songs.

I’ve actually had many experiences like this and I can honestly say I have never not gotten into a concert, show, or play I wanted to see. Even when they say they’re sold out, I find a way. The Music Goddess seems to help. I called on her once with my niece. I was taking her to see NSYNC of all things and they were sold out. I refused to be deterred of course and called on the Music Goddess on the way to the ticket place, and sure enough, they had released more tickets. Once I wanted to see my all-time favorite, Tom Waits, but I had spent my meager waitress earnings on too many shows–Bob Dylan, The Grateful Dead–actually I never paid for a ticket to the Dead. I became friends with the Dancing Bear at one particularly magical show and he left me a ticket for every show I attended under a rock here and there.The Dancing Bear was a man named Rob Levitsky who was covered in hair and owned ten houses in Palo Alto–all named after Grateful Dead songs, a 60 acre-park, a coffee shop, and he slept in a sleeping bag on a table in the backyard of one of his houses, under the stars. I asked him what he did when it rained and he pointed to a little room with a tie-dyed curtain under the house. He had created a furry costume for himself with a dancing bear that lit up on the front, holding a flower, and a winking sun lit up on the back. He also carried a spinning ball of lights, a treat for all who might be tripping. You could see his dancing winking lights all the way across the auditoriums. Very magical.

Ah, but I digress, I wanted to see Tom Waits, but I had no money. I went to the Wiltern theater where he was playing wiht $10 in my pocket. One magical thing led to another, and next thing I knew I’d found my way to the side of the theater with the smokers. I noticed their tickets to get back in were the same color as my Grateful Dead tickets from the night before. I nonchalantly showed the doorman my Dead ticket, and boom, I watched my hero play from 8th row center.

Well, I could go on and on with magical stories like this, but I’ll continue with the next thing the Bocelli lullaby reminded me of: my love of opera. Once again (this seems to be a theme in my life) I desperately love opera, but I could never afford a ticket. And so I decided to audition for my favorite opera of all time, Pagliacci, just do I could see it for free. Well, I auditioned, and next thing I know, I’m meeting Franco Zeffirelli, the director, and watching Lawrence Foster, the Master conductor, and listening to Placido Domingo sing my favorite aria–Vesti La Giubba– every night.
And getting paid to do it.
Talk about dreams coming true.
It turned out that Placido adored me. He brought his family to see me belly dance at a little persian nightclub in Westwood. He gave my family fabulous tickets to the opera, and gave me free tickets to every opera he sang in or conducted in Los Angeles, San Diego, and New York for years. Poor little me found myself sitting at the Met in NYC, weeping over La Traviata, sitting in seats I could never have afforded, and later the same evening, cheering over some other amazing opera I can’t remember the name of. I took my poor ass to New York every year and belly danced to make ends meet. I stayed with my friend Vin, and when I arrived, he’d say, “Why is Placido Domingo calling my house every ten minutes?” Vin had the audacity to ask him about some concert he did with Diana Ross in Czechoslavakia. “Vin!” I said. “I can’t believe you!” “Well, he’s calling my house! I want a copy of that concert!”
Vin is a huge Diana Ross fan. He’s always wanted to have two children, a boy and a girl, and name them Diana and Ross. He’s also crazy about Farrah Fawcett and Lucille Ball and comes home from work every day to have lunch with “Lu.” (Episodes of I Love Lucy.) But he says he’s not gay. Vin is hysterical and wonderful and we have spent many a night, broke and bummed, but lack of money has never gotten it in the way of our adventures. And he has always encouraged me to be just the way I am. (”Marci, never apologize for being too sensitive.”) And he taught me how to take the high road in romantic fights with my boyfriends (”It doesn’t matter what they say or do. You are only responsible for yourself. It only matters what you say and do.”) And if Captain Jack (yes, as in the rum) wasn’t his best friend, I would be.
My goodness, I had a lot to say. I suppose because I haven’t been able to write for a while. Henry has been very sick with a flu of some sort.I have been holding him for three days, his sweet head heavy on my shoulder, rubbing his pudgy little arms, washing the vomit out of his hair (and mine!). When I was little, my mother would always say when I was sick, “Oh Marci, if I could trade places with you I would. I wish I could take your pain away.” I would just smile and nod, but now I understand. How I wish I could take his pain away.
Which brings me to why we were watching Sesame Street in the first place. We never turn on the tv during the day, but Mama needed a break for a minute. And look what happened. A mile-long blog.
And whoever said Sesame Street wasn’t stimulating?

I LOVE Paul McCartney for many reasons. First, he’s a Beatle–what’s not to love? John Lennon was more my speed actually, but he’s gone and McCartney was my next favorite. Second, he’s vegetarian, and serves only vegetarian food on his tours. Third, he’s a positive influence on our world, sweet, gentle. Well, I could go on and on. Suffice to say, I never thought I’d actually meet him, much less get a kiss from him!

So, we, the gogo dancers from the Go-Go’s tour (Pleasant, Kina, and myself) were asked to dance with the B-52’s at a PETA benefit in Los Angeles.
“We’d love to!” we said, and even thought of a name for ourselves: Girls Marked Danger. We called ourselves after an English translation of a Sophia Loren movie.
So, the benefit took place at Paramount Studios on the lot. We were hanging in the green room waiting to go on. Richard Pryor asked to take a photo with us. He was wearing a baseball cap that said “Brat” on it, sitting in his wheelchair. Woody Harrelson and many other animal-loving artists milled around us. The benefit was in honor of Linda McCartney, so we watched from side stage while Paul sang. Then Chrissie Hynde from the Pretenders got up and sang “I’ll Stand by You” and dedicated it to the animals. We were standing with Pamela Anderson Lee, her husband, Tommy Lee, and Rosanna Arquette. Then, the B-52’s came on and we ran onto our gogo boxes to dance. Pleasant dragged Pamela Anderson onto her box with her, Kina and I shared a box, and we danced our juicy patooties off.
After, I saw Paul McCartney speaking with people and I said, “Kina, we have to go meet him.” She agreed, so we stood in awe of being in such close proximity to a Beatle as Andy Dick asked to take a photo with him. We waited patiently and then I said something stupid like, “You are so amazing! It was fantastic to see you perform!” I’m sure he’s used to tongue-tied loonies. He said “You were really great too. I loved seeing you perform too!”
Then he kissed me on the cheek.
Fast forward a few minutes to Kina and I screaming in the ladies room and jumping up and down and really almost passing out after being kissed by a Beatle. Instant Beatlemania. Kina blacked out in our dressing room a few minutes later. She said it was from the excitement of meeting Paul, but I have a sneaking suspicion it may have been from whatever drug she was taking. I floated on air all the way home.
Kissed by a Beatle!!
A few years later, I was at Harvard and my adorable contortionist girlfriend, Bonnie, was on national tour with Paul. Her father called me to see if I wanted to go. YES! I did, but I didn’t have 100$ to spend on a ticket. A few hours later, Bonnie called to see if I wanted to make some $$ and dance in the show. Did I? Do butterflies fly? I actually had to dress as a black and white Pierrot clown adn run around the auditorium with an enormous balloon, and then change into an indian princess costume and dance around the stage.
Once again, I found myself performing with my Beatle.
Once again, I found myself standing on the side of the stage, listening to a man and his guitar play to thousands of people songs I’ve known since I was a child, so casual, so relaxed, like he was playing in his own living room.
“You were great!” He said to me as he ran by with his entourage.
Oh Paul! You’re great too!

We were just leaving our dressing room after dancing at the San Diego State Amphitheatre with the Go-Go’s.
Belinda said, “Here, take this,” and shoved a fairly full bottle of tequila into my dance bag. I put it in back of my Honda Passport and I started the 2 hour trek back to Los Angeles with my fellow gogo dancers, Pleasant and Kina.We called ourselves multigenerational because we were all ten years apart: Kina was 20, I was 30, and Pleasant was 40. (We also decided to nickname ourselves with a letter and a word, e.g. I was D-Cup, Pleasant was C-Note and Kina was G-Spot–but that’s another story.) It was late and we were completely exhausted when we reached the Border Patrol. I don’t know what got into me, but I decided it would be funny if I spoke Spanish to the Border Patrol.
“Hola!” I said cheerfully as we pulled up. I then said the only phrase I can say in Spanish. “Mi madre is mexicana. Mi abuela es de La Paz, Mexico.”
I smiled.
The Patrol Officer smiled back.
“Pull your car over there, Miss.”
“Wait,” I said, “I was just kidding. I don’t even speak Spanish. We wre just perfomring in San Diego.”
“Pull over,” he said in an “I’m not messing around” voice.
Moans and groans filled my car.
“Marci! Are you crazy? Why are you speaking Spanish to the Border Patrol?”
“I don’t know,” was all I could reply. I was too busy trying to think of ways to dispose of the open bottle of tequila they were sure to find in my bag.
“Get out of the car,” the Patrolman said, holding a dog on a leash.
“What is going on? I don’t even speak spanish!” I repeated yet again.
“Out!” he said sternly, opening my door.
All three of us climbed out, Pleasant having to zip up her pants as she had eaten too much after the show.
“Why are you zipping up your pants?” They asked? I don’ t know what they were thinking.
“I ate too much,” Pleasant replied.
All three of us sat on the curb while they opened up the back of my car and let the dog in.
“It smells like alcohol in here,” they said. Thank goodness we hadn’t drank any.
“It’s hairspray,” I replied, thinking on my feet.
“I’m going to use the bathroom,” Kina said, motioning to the nasty port a potties behind us.
“What are you crazy? I’ll take you to a bathroom in a minute. You don’t want to use those,” I said, patting her back.
“Actually, I really have to go,” she said.
“No, no, no!” I said, even more emphatically. “I’ll take you to a clean one. Just hold it.”
She pursed her lips together.
Apparently the dogs were not trained to search for tequila becasue they didn’t find it. I guess they were searching for people. Creepy.
By now we were finding the humor in our situation. We took photos with the Border Patrol and continued on our way.
As soon as we were safely away, Kina told us she had a joint in her pocket and that was why she had been so adamant about going to the bathroom, she wanted to get rid of it, afraid the dogs would smell it.
I was petrified. “You had a joint in your pocket this whole time? Are you crazy?” I asked.
“I didn’t know you were going to speak spanish to them and get us pulled over!” she replied.
We pulled off to find a gas station powder room and we couldn’t find an open one as it was after midnight. We ended up peeing by the side of the car.
Nice.
In the end, there was a whole lot of construction and detours and it took us more than six hours to get home. In the middle of the night. With our gogo boots and tequila intact.
We should have stayed in a hotel, but then I wouldn’t have this great story to tell.

I was sitting backstage with my fellow dancers, Kina and Pleasant, while on tour with the Go-Go’s. They were talking about their first sexual fantasies, and I made the mistake of confessing mine.
“My first sexual fantasy was Siegfried and Roy,” I stated.
They stared at me before howling with laughter. The kind of laughter where you can’t breathe.
“I know it’s crazy,” I said. “I went to see their magic show in Las Vegas when I was 12 years old, and their blue spandex pants drove me wild. I laid on my Grandma’s couch afterwards and dreamed of what might have happened if I actually met them.”
Pleasant started to scream, “See, Marci, you are just as sick as the rest of us.”
The next day I walked into the dressing room.
“Siegfried and Roy, huh?” laughed Charlotte. Belinda, Jane, Gina, the whole room, screamed with laughter.
My oh my, news travels fast around here.
At our last performance at the Greek Theater in Los Angeles in front of, oh, I don’ t know, maybe 6,000 people, I saw a mysterious envelope delivered to Pleasant backstage and I thought nothing of it.
Until I climbed on my gogo box during “Our Lips are Sealed.”
Taped all over my box were huge photos of Siegfried and Roy and their white lions. I was dancing on their faces in my gogo boots, trying not to let my own laughter interfere with our gogo choreography.
And in the years since that fateful tour, I have received numerous gifts from Pleasant, socks with white tigers on them, a stuffed white tiger, etc.