As long as we’re on the subject of female torsos… we rented our Bowery loft to a yoga instructor who was transitioning to yogi, i.e. a female to male transsexual. (Mind you, this was 1976, so the current “I was born in the wrong body” dementia-mania is nothing new.) “Jack” was fresh from having her breasts sliced from her female torso and was wrapped in more bandages than Tutankhamen. This creature was so cranked on pot, painkillers and testosterone that she floated several feet off the ground, vibrating in midair like a hummingbird. (You know the scene in the horror movie when the actor transforms via time-lapse photography from man to monster? Imagine a stop frame of that process mid-way. That was what “Jack” looked like – suspended between male and female, between past and present, between serenity and suicide. Unsettled and unsettling.) “Jack” was so uncomfortable around men, I was sure she would evaporate whenever I got near her. I, of course, delighted in torturing this psychosexual misfit by getting “up close and personal” as often as possible.
Since my rock career had died aborning, I decided to turn my hand to politics. And, since 1976 was a presidential election year, I found ready employment with The New York Times-CBS News poll. Both of these legendary news outlets were and are notoriously slanted Left. The man running their poll “war room” was a recent graduate of the Columbia School of Journalism – a hotbed of Cultural Marxism. Barry was prematurely balding, preternaturally sweaty and hell-bent on becoming the next Woodward or Bernstein. Preferably, Bernstein. (America was still obsessed with Watergate.) This pushy prick saw polling as a necessary step up the media ladder to his heroic, muckraking future. At worst, he might be the next Geraldo Rivera.
Barry was drawn from the “rootless cosmopolitan” class so he had nothing in common with and nothing but contempt for anyone who lived west of the Hudson River, i.e. most Americans. He radiated disdain for what he held were the pinhead opinions of Mr. & Mrs. Mainstreet. And, all of Barry’s minions shared his belief that, parts of Manhattan aside, America was populated by knuckle-dragging nitwits. The office mantra was – “Don’t forget, Tricky Dick won the last election in a fucking landslide, man!”
Barry’s polling posse consisted of Columbia School of Journalism undergrads, grudge-bearing McGovern voters, Hadassah hags and lifetime members of the Fist Fuckers of America who gloried in being refugees from that “other America” – a land bereft of beauty, culture and glory holes. There is nothing so haughty and censorious as regional queens come to Gotham – unless it’s their balding, sweaty boss. I did my level best to man-up against them, stand-up for America and screw-up the poll results.
And, this being America’s Bicentennial Summer, Tiny accents her décor with all manner of “1776” memorabilia. She has, in fact, decorated her apartment entirely from late-night TV commercials. True, I don’t spy any paintings from the “Vincent Price Fine Art Collection” – available only at Sears – but I feel sure that a Popeil Pocket Fisherman and Veg-O-Matic lurk in the closet. Everything that can be encased in clear plastic slipcovers is so encased. And, Tiny’s place smells like the burrow of the chain-smoker she is. It doesn’t help that her windows are painted shut.
Dressed in a floral print housedress and with the two remaining hairs on her head wound around curlers, Tiny leads me into her bedroom. She gets down on all fours to reach her collection of commemorative Elvis Presley liquor bottles stored far under the marital bed. In order to reach the bottles furthest away, Tiny is forced to hike her dress up and arch her back. Thus, she presents to me like a mandrill in heat. Realizing her compromising position, she coyly glances back over her shoulder and, using her most girlish voice purrs, “Now don’t you get no ideas, Buster. I love my husband.” It is a Herculean struggle but somehow, I resist the urge to bury my cock balls-deep in her pert ass.
Her collection of commemorative Elvis Presley liquor bottles is a wonder to behold. Here are a dozen bottles, containing a variety of spirits, molded to evoke the figure of “The King” at various stages of his career. Here is “Sun Studio Elvis,” young, blond and full of jism, the bottle filled with Jack Daniels. Here is “Harum Scarum Elvis” attired in Sheik garb and filled with Hennessey. Here is “Aloha from Hawaii Elvis” complete with detachable lei and filled with Kahlua. And, Tiny’s favorite, “Viva Las Vegas Elvis” karate-kicking in a white cape and filled with Drambuie. Little do I know as I admire Tiny’s collection of commemorative Elvis Presley liquor bottles that “The King” has but one year to live.
It’s the Bicentennial Summer of 1976 and I’m touring Indiana schools in a children’s play. But, this is a kid’s play that adults enjoy because we manage to secrete more double-entendre smut into it than would seem humanly possible. The kids are too busy laughing to catch the jokes that sail over their heads. One outraged teacher threatens to report us to the Indiana Board of Secreted Smut but the rest shake their heads in amused admiration.
“How the hell did you do that?” they giggle.
“Do what?” we deadpan.
We traverse the highways and byways of the Hoosier State in a dilapidated VW bus driven by our tour manager – a nymphomaniac from the producer’s office in Indianapolis. We don’t know she is a nympho back in Indy. There she is a prim, hair-in-bun, librarian type. But, once Indianapolis disappears in her rear-view mirror, Sweet Bleeding Christ this chick turns savage. She porks her way through the stage-crew and when that fails to slake her libidinous thirst she darn near porks her way across the state – bell hops, soda jerks, grease monkeys, school principals, school janitors, school crossing guards, the Taco Bell Employee of the Month – if it’s in pants, she porks it. The woman is insatiable. One night we have to call the Kokomo fire department to hose her off a motel balcony from which she is dangling naked. Once rescued, she porks the fireman. She is nothing if not resolute. She is nothing if not nuts. We ship her back to Indianapolis packed in ice.