Forever

The longer you stay with someone the more you ruin each other.

After a particular line is crossed, you can't go back. There's no fixing some kinds of hurt. I will forever be sad about things that were said and done.

When we dance, all I remember is him walking out of the apartment in a rage.
When he says, "I love you", all I hear is, "Why did you even come here?".
When he tells me I'm so beautiful all I hear is him xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx and then me running for the toilet to throw up.

Some things can't be unsaid. Some things can't be undid. They live on forever like radio signals, forever expanding into the universe.

How to Make a Birthday Cake in 10 Easy Steps

I make a horrible house wife. 

I am terrible at cleaning and vacuuming in lingerie and mostly I suck at baking. But it was The Mad Scientist's birthday and I wanted to make a cake for him. So I rolled up my sleeves, mentally prepared the cat and bought a LOT of butter.  So I'm proud to present... 

How to make a 4 layer white cake with red velvet heart-shaped core and red velvet crumble top with royal icing in 10 easy steps or your money back! 

1. Bake 4 round cakes. Remember oven mitts. (Fire hot. Indeed.) 

2. Take a can of icing, use like glue to stick two layers together. Don't use real glue. You should have 2 two layered circles of glue-free cake. Bake two round red velvet cakes. Crumble one once cool. Eat the other one with one hand like it were a fluffy red frisbee.

 

3. Start carving. (The cake, not a shive... That comes later.) Carve a cone into the center of one (concave), then dig a little pyrimid into the other(convex). Yeah, just look at the photo.   

Concave and convex, bitches.

4. Run out of icing. Decide you are awesome enough to make icing from scratch. Coat the kitchen in a delicate layer of powdered sugar. Make 'snow' angels on the kitchen floor. Fill in caves with crumbled red cake.

Fun fancy mixer.

5. Stack cakes precariously. Lapse into diabetic coma from all the icing testing. 

6. Briefly reevaluate your life choices.

7. Realize that you've come too far and ice the entire cake. Add remaining crumbled cake on top. Try not to think about how it kind of looks like ground beef.

8. Add candle.

9. Sing "Happy Birthday" to my dear sweet husband. (Remember to send AOL Time Warner royalty check tomorrow.)

10. Burn the kitchen to ashes since there's no going back after the horrible mess you made.

Nothing says 'love' like a blood red core to your cake.

Because Doesn't Everyone Love Feet Cake?

Oh, you wanted the vanilla extract?
I thought you meant Durian. Now our cake smells like feet... Rotting corpse... Diaper. Whichever.
My bad.

William Holden and the Death of Old Hollywood

I think I hear a flat-line.

Or maybe it's just someone breaking into the liquor store down the street. Either way, I feel old Hollywood may already be dead.

I started to feel this way when I was watching one of the few shows I watch on the rectangular screen in my living room the other night. Hollywood Treasure on the SyFy network (I'm not sure why it's on that particular station either) is about Profiles in History, an auction company run by Joe Maddalena, whose passion for movie and TV memorabilia make me look like a chump(ette). I love this show yet at the same time, I want to throw things at the screen because I wanted the screen used stepper motor driven turbolaser tower from Return of the Jedi! I wanted Jack's santa sleigh from Nightmare Before Christmas! And I so want Mary Pickford's cigarette case.

I went to their website and it turns out that for the last two days they had one of their huge, amazing auctions. And to my happiness (and totally jealously) day one of the auction had a loose theme - The Golden Age of Hollywood. And as I scrolled through the digital catolog, one item stopped me dead in my tracks.

William Holden's Oscar.

If you ask, 'Who the hell is William Holden?', punch yourself in your face then get on Netflix and educate yourself, dammit. His time on I Love Lucy. Sabrina. Paris When It Sizzles. Bridge Over the River Kwai. Stalag 17. Sunset Blvd!!  Ok, now that you've watched all those movies...

Bill Holden was a complicated guy (but aren't we all?) who loved women, animals, and (allegedly) the drink. He bought a chunk of land in Africa as a preserve for the animals in the volatile area in East Africa. His collection of antique Asian art can be seen at the Palm Springs Museum of Art. He dated Audrey Hepburn, Capucine, Stephanie Powers and Grace Kelly.  Humphrey Bogart allegedly hated him. I love the both of them and would have arranged a play date for them if I had been around at the time.

In 1953 he won this Oscar for Stalag 17, where he played an antisocial prisoner who openly barters with guards in their POW camp who may or may not make it out alive. Some felt this was an apology Oscar for snubbing him for Sunset Blvd. He had the shortest acceptance speech in the history of the shindig, merely saying  "Thank you." and heading off.

In 1966, he was in Italy where he was in a drunk driving accident that killed a man. He was sentenced to 8 months, suspended. Friends say this was the point when his marriage began to fall apart and his drinking became worse, racked with the guilt of a man's death.

In 1981, at 63 years old, he tripped on a rug, banged his head on the corner of a table and bled to death alone in his apartment. No one found him for days.

'So what?' you may ask. Another Hollywood actor dead from excess. Why bother with this whole bloody article? It's not just a quiet and sad death. I feel like it's all something more. Something irreplaceable and special, the likes of which we shall never see again.

When scrolling through the catalog, staring at the Oscar, I begin to scroll down and there is more and more of Holden's things. A framed flight report, awards, his Emmy. And as much as I covet, it makes me a bit sad that someone is selling off The Golden Age for profit. Or out of desperation. At least the cynical part of me thinks that.

I hope that the person who bought it takes good care of it. Appreciates where it came from and what it witnessed.

Hell, if I had $120,000, I'd give it a pretty good home too.

UPDATE: Just checked "Prices Realized", it DIDN'T SELL. I wonder if they would take the grocery money for the month. Also not bought: Marilyn Monroe nudes, Mal's space suit from Firefly, Harpo Marx's wig and Mary Pickford's cigarette case.

check out Holden's legacy here.
Profiles In History website here.

Mourning with benadryl

I'm covered in hives.

I'm not sure why, but I guess it's because of the funeral.

Last week, we got a terrible call at 8:30 in the morning. My husband's best friend, a young man with a young son, a wonderful friend and an amazing story teller, had died.

We are still in shock, a week later. We will continue to be for quite some time. As we will continue to grieve and cry and do all things we do when we lose someone we love, I feel my sweet Mad Scientist struggling. I try to be there but I'm not sure if I'm helping.

This has brought me screaming back, five years ago to my brother's funeral, where I was covered in hives and giving my eulogy, shaking hands and consoling friends and talking with people I didn't know about funny stories that I wasn't there for, the whole while a little voice, selfish and angry, whispering to me how all you want to do is tell everyone to shut up and slink away to sleep for 100 years.

I'm not a wise person and I don't have any answers but I am living proof that life goes on and I have found a way to be. I guess that's the only thing I have to say on this subject in life with certainty.

It's not much. But a little benadryl and a nap might help too.

Da nuh... da nuh...

No one loves the killer in the shadows. Except me.

In honor of the upcoming Shark Week, I wanted to share my thoughts on my favorite under-the-sea creature. (Screw you adorable seals!)

Not only are sharks fascinating, complex and varied but they are truly beautiful. There is something elegant about a creature that hasn't had to evolve since the time of the Megalodon, which existed roughly sometimes between 28 to 1.5 million years ago. (Please don't email me evolution deniers. I'm not going to read it cause I don't have to and honestly don't want to...Sorry, life isn't fair... Just ask the Dodo.) Some dispute that the Great White is related to the Megalodon and it's more closely related to Mako. I choose to believe the former because it makes for a better story. Take that, science!

I love the idea of a huge (60feet long), toothy (7 inch long), hungry (munching on whales) shark mostly because it's terrifying beyond anything I actively have a reference to...

What draws me to this creature is that it's not just a fascinating study in biology and evolution but it's also the pure fear i feel when I see footage and pictures of all types, from the sweet looking Woobegong to the Great White beast. I've only seen one in real life once, exploring a sunken ship in the Caribbean. I was frightened but at the same time, I found myself swimming straight for it as it swam away. (Because I'm an idiot...)

So curl up with some seal steaks, and see what Discovery has to offer this year (since last year wasn't so spectacular, in my opinion.)

And hey, if it sucks, I'm watching Jaws.

A Post for the Old at Heart

I was born an old lady.

At least that's what I've been told my whole life. I like my music soft, my clothes vintage and my nights to end early. Like 8:30.

The 1940's have always held a special place in my heart. Not only is some kind of WW2 book always on my nightstand but I'm usually writing about it (the book I'm working on) and adding to my already substantial wardrobe with snoods, pencil skirts, and peter pan blouses.  Heck, just check out some of my previous posts about history and death and the 70th anniversary of the invasion of Paris. It's always on my mind.

Dancing to The Andrew Sisters

So when I heard about the 1940's ball, my brain almost exploded. In a good way. A gathering of people who all love the era of 'tomorrow we may die' and 'buy war bonds'? Sign my up! Armed with my trusted photog/best friend, we made our way to the airfield for the 4th annual WWII Era Ball in beautiful Boulder, Colorado!

 Most everyone was in full 40's spirit in period hair, dresses, hats and flowers in their hair. (With the one exception of the Denver Roller Girls; their booty shorts were seriously distracting TMS.) I was lucky enough to have my hair done by the stylists at a local Aveda salon and I can attest to many a 'victory curl' among the local ladies. (Myself included!)

This sailor was dancing with all the pretty girls! 

Bob Hope, The Andrew Sisters, Sinatra (aka Frankie Baby), ariel dancers inside the hanger and the random cigar girl mingled throughout made things more interesting. But what made the whole evening for me, was the veterens. Moving slowly with canes, chests full of metal, shaking a tail on the dance floor. Nothing brought more joy to my heart than a sailor (see above) who was dancing his heart out, the young ladies racing to keep up.

The Hot Tomatoes, a local 9 piece band, was wonderful They played all the standards (Miller, Baise, Goodman, Ellington, etc) that immediately took me back to that idealized time we were all there to experience. I also have to mention the food; the range was nice although not always my cup of tea. Moroccan food by Tangier Moroccan was lovely and flavorful (The pickled lemons were very much my favorite) to American classics like barbecue and for those who aren't as adventurous, there was Abo's pizza by the slice. (My very food-picky friend did appreciate this and I was happy for him.)

Don't you just love her?

As I observed the crowd, I began to see young men, obviously in current service, in period uniform. It reminded me, like so many others I'm sure, of simpler times. Before "baby killer" was hurled about and veterans ignored by their government and neighbors, young men in service were seen as heroic and handsome and nothing else. No other politics or policies entered into the mind but for a young man with short hair and crisp uniform. I know it's all probably romanticized, especially inside my little brain, but it's a lovely thought to think.

Taking pictures!

I will say this: this event is still young. There is going to be some growning pains and room to improve. The lines were long. Very long. (I spoke with a lovely couple after waiting 30 minutes for my beer-can chicken who said that they wanted to get another drink but was not willing to stand in the hour long line again. We met up at a bar downtown Boulder instead.) Also the event has out grown itself in popularity. (According to our host, 2400 people attended this year.)

This is wonderful and a bit claustrophobic at the same time. There were few chairs to sit and enjoy my drink, yet there was an amazing amount of people watching! I have faith that in a few years, thing will run with more fluidity than Fred Astaire. Regardless of some the issues, I really did enjoy myself. Everyone seemed to be having a great time.

The range in age was one of my favorite things about the whole event. Starting from the young, those in their teens, through 20's, 30's, up all the way to true WWII veterans, no doubt in their late 80's/early 90's. And the passion from all groups were just as adament, not only in their dress but attitude, smiling, taking pictures in front of period planes and jeeps, eating talking but most of all, dancing. It was all a wonder to behold, in a small airport, in a small town in the middle of Colorado. 

Lastly, my favorite pic; it's she beautiful?!

An amazing time was had and I can't wait to go back to the 40's next year.

All of these AMAZING photos were taken by my incredibly talented friend, Nicky Loughry. Check out the rest of her photos and other works here on her official website.

She Sure Plays a Mean Pinball...

I've got balls on the brain.

Wait. That came out wrong. I meant pinballs.

I recently watched "Special When Lit" a wonderful documenty about the world of pinball. It is to pinball what "Trekkies" was to Star Trek. Wonderfully sweet, humorous and fascinating. Not only the player and collectors but the history and the mechanics of it all.

As I watched, I was transfixed, literally. Watching the lights flashing, the silver ball controlled not only by gravity on the tilted board but the flippers, when it bounces off the bumpers, into the spinners, into the slingshots and hitting the drop target only to land right in between the flippers, just out of reach. Damnit!! No! Why oh why?! ...I want to play again!

I was in Portland last week, in a bar in a part of the city covered in shaded trees and hipsters. And in said bar was, lo and behold, the Indiana Jones pinball machine. I pumped in two bucks worth of quarters and played to my hearts content. This was more than just an enjoyment of the precursor to video games. Something had to be done.

Fatefully, The Rocky Mountain Pinball Showdown just happened to be coming to town the following weekend. So Nina and I packed our things and we were there in two shakes of lambs tail. Again, totally fascinating.

Barely a chick to be found, the average age was around 35-45. T-shirts and sneakers everywhere. (And just between you and me, compared to the conventions I usually frequent, the hygiene was much improved.)

There were pinball games from the early years, through the golden years (70's) and even the cutting edge, Tron and Avatar games. Those kitschy early games were my favorite, including what might be the best name for a pinball machine, "Balls-A-Poppin".

And for the tournaments, they had set up these wonderful camera systems so that a crowd could not only see the board on the giant flat screen but also watch the intensity of the players face via picture-in-picture. (and intense it got...)

Look! I found a girl!

Trade and buy parts, play games and chat with other enthusiasts. Or just take notes and shoot pictures like we did. (ok, we did play a little...)

And I know I'll never think of pinball the same again. Or walk past an arcade without checking to see if they have a Adams Family pinball machine. Or Jurassic Park, my sentimental favorite.

Let your pinball love fly free.

PS- Ever see the documentary "The King of Kong"? Then you're with me when I say... Ho-ly HELL! That is going to a whole lot of weird in one room and I just can't wait! See you all there!

"I wish to remain an eternal enigma to myself and to others"

I like this guy already.

This morning I find myself in Germany, both within my own head and surprisingly also in reality. So why not write about one of my favorite Germans? Why not indeed.

Anyone else think he's kinda hot?

King Ludwig II (or if you're not into the whole brevity thing, Ludwig Otto Friedrich Wilhelm.) was king for 22 years, and remains a beloved icon in Germany. (Don't call him the Mad King in front of the locals. They don't like that much.) He funded art, architecture and music and was a true lover of great and beautiful things. One more reason to dig this guy.

As with many royal children, he had a very structured young life with a regimented schedule of lessons and exercise. He was never close to his mother or father, relying on his eccentric grandfather for adult companionship. He was very shy and sensitive and the absence of regular comfort and love made him more so.

I imagine he was quite lonely at times and thus his imagination seemed to be his way to cope or escape his sometimes dreary childhood. He loved fantastical plays, operas and poetry. He would later develop a friendship with Richard Wagner because of his love of his particular brand of music.

He became King at 18 when his father died suddenly. He started not with policy changes or new laws but with adding to Bavarian culture with a new theater, commissioned operas from Wagner (Ludwig and Wagner = BFF) and other composers and introduced Shakespeare, Moliere and Mozart.

The young and handsome Ludwig was engaged to a cousin for a short time but after much postponing, the engagement was broken off. Scholars debate whether he was gay. He kept a diary that was lost sometime during the second world war but there were some copies that seem to share his struggle with keeping with his catholic faith and his desires.

Other than his cultural contributions to Bavaria, most people would probably know Ludwig for his castles. This was a man who loved his castles, so much so he nearly bankrupt himself funding his dream projects. This is probably the one most people know best.

When you wish upon a star...

He was an odd guy but I don't think he was crazy. He would often have private performances of ballets and operas with either just himself or one other guest. Mostly because, according to Ludwig himself, he didn't like people staring at him because he couldn't concentrate on the play. He was never one for formal events where there would be large crowds. He would often go on night time sleigh rides (with antique sleigh of course) because he fancied himself "The Moon King", sleeping during the day and living at night. Much of the "crazy" king stigma comes from what happen near the end of his life.

Death site memorial for Ludwig

His would have been a pretty interesting life all together but Ludwig wasn't going to go out simply, sleeping cozy in his bed or even dying in "glorious battle". No, this strange guy went out in an equally strange way. 1886, Ludwig was 40 and had pretty much receded into a quiet and solitary life. He was spending every penny he (and anyone he could borrow money from) had on his building projects and the Bavarian ministers had finally had enough. They gathered "evidence" from servants, and had him declared bat-shit-crazy. (I don't think that's the official declaration but it's more fun so there ya go.) The very next day Ludwig was found face down in Lake Starnberb. It was ruled a suicide. Although he had been prone to suicidal thoughts, things didn't really add up. There was no water in Ludwig's lungs and no one believed he had drowned anyway because he had been a strong swimmer since he was a child. One of the psychologist who declared him nutty coo-coo,  Dr. Gudden was bludgeoned/strangled and found dead near Ludwig. Some researchers theorize Ludwig was shot, others say he had a heart attack while fleeing. Perhaps he killed Gudden then died of shock. Honestly, no one knows what happened to him.

I have a lot in common with this "mad king" and I love him for so many reasons. Mostly though, it is because he is a mystery, not only because of how he died but how he lived as well. My favorite quote from Ludwig (and the title to the a little too long article) is "I wish to remain an eternal enigma to myself and to others."

Indeed.


http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/8b/Neuschwanstein_Fernblick_pano2.jpg
panoramic view from Neuschwanstein
http://www.oocities.org/gedojudea/ludwig/diary.html
Some letters to/from our dear Lugwig

Just call me Mary

I am the human petri dish.

Koo koo ka choo.

I've been stuck in bed for over a day now with some kind of flu and I am totally useless.  I crawled across the room, making pathetic moans and wimpers, grabbed my laptop, then just laid there, drooling into the carpet until TMS came upstairs and put me back in bed. (Then quickly disinfects his entire body, a la The Crying Game except without the shame. Ok, probably a little bit of shame.)

And since I find myself a hot bed of germs and cold medicine, I thought it would be apt to talk a bit about Typhoid Mary, since I am, minus the typhoid. And my name isn't Mary. Just shut up and read! I'm sorry, it's the phlegm monster talking.

Most people have heard the phrase "Typhoid Mary" and many more know that she was a real person. So let me expand, since she was a stubborn and tragic lady and deserves a few lines.

Mary Mallon was an Irish immigrant who came to America in 1884 at age 15 and grew up to work as a cook. Keep in mind that this was a time when no one knew that after handling raw meat, going to the bathroom or any other icky things that you were supposed to wash your hands. This is especially true if you happened to be a healthy carrier of Typhoid. (meaning, you look/feel totally normal, not sick at all, but carry the disease.) Also, if said carrier is preparing food that isn't cooked to a high enough temperature to kill the disease, it's easily transferred to the food and to those eating the food. With all that said, I'll tell you that Mary's specialty dessert for her families was cold peaches and ice cream.

Hi! I'm cuddly Typhoid!

An epidemiologist named George Soper found the trail and it lead straight to Mary.  He came to her and asked for her urine/feces to test for the microbes. She politely declined with a carving fork. Soper later returned with reinforcements, a chase ensued, and finally she was exiled against her will to North Brother Island with other quarantined people. She was later released, only if she pinky swore that she wouldn't work as a cook. Of course she agreed. She then went out and got another cooking job because opportunities are slim for Irish women and that was her skill. She was found again and sent back to the island.

I can see it both ways, can't you? I don't want this woman to infect me or my family. I also understand that she has to make a living. She wasn't treated well, made to understand and made a scapegoat for an entire epidemic. She was not happy on the island, the way most of us probably would have been.

She wrote in a letter, 

"I have been in fact a peep show for everybody. Even the interns had to come to see me and ask about the facts already known to the whole wide world. The tuberculosis men would say "There she is, the kidnapped woman."

I feel bad for her. She was truly a lady stuck between a rock and a hard place and there was just no winning. She had a stroke, then in 1938 died of pneumonia on the same island.

Well I don't know about you folks but I'm taking a page from 'Lessons that should have been learned by Mary' and keeping my germs to myself. I'm in bed until all this goes away. Or I go stir crazy and lose my marbles; then you will see me on the 9 o'clock news.

Either way, I promise not to make you peaches.


Check out the Nova special "The Most Dangerous Woman in America" and "Stuff You Missed in History Class" podcast for more info on Mary and other cool history subjects.

Don Cornelius was a dirty old man...and I loved it.

Don is dead.

I read a few weeks ago in the New York Times that Don Cornelius had died by his own hand and found myself profoundly sad. He was found in his apartment with an apparent gun shot wound to his head. He was recently divorce, had trouble with the law and there were rumors of health problems. Some say Parkinsons, others say Alzheimers. Either way, it was all too much for Mr. Cornelius and took a gun and you know the rest.

But you probably read this story too. I wanted to tell you a different one, the one and only time I saw the man himself. Though not monumental, it was something I have always remembered.

I was at The Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel on Mother's Day in 2002 having brunch with my mom. We had been traveling up and down the coast enjoying the sun and shopping our hearts out. I had decided that for mother's day we would splurge a bit and check out this historical hotel. (No sign of Balushi's ghost or any Marilyn sightings though.)

We sat in a booth near the back patio and enjoyed a lovely brunch when a lovely couple comes around the corner and sits in the booth next to ours. It was Don Corelius and his new Russian model and porn star wife Viktoria. I thought to myself, how cool! I never thought I would spot a television innovator, pop culture icon and advocate for social change at The Beverly Hills Hotel. And I have to say that I also patted myself on the back a little for even recognizing him, as I can't imagine most people under 40 knew of him.

As my mom and I finished our brunch, I noticed that a certain someone was looking my way. I leaned over to my mom and whispered, "I think Don Cornelius is staring at me..." I imagine I was a little his 'type' because I possessed some of the qualities his wife had. Red hair, tall, thin, pale. Perhaps he was just spacing out and was 'looking though' me, as sometimes people do. 

After brunch, Mom and I toured the grounds, wandering around the various paths and hallways in and out of the hotel. We decided to have one more mimosa before we hit the spa so we went to the bar, where a very tall man squeezed past me (it was a bit crowded) and stood beside me, apologizing for brushing past me in that deep smooth voice that made the hairs on the back of neck stand up. I look up at him and smiled, "That's ok."  I giggled internally and called my best friend who had no idea who I was talking about. And that was it.

I still joke that Don Cornelius hit on me at the Beverly Hills Hotel. People roll their eyes and laugh. That trip to L.A. as a young lady was a pretty strange trip in itself and that episode added to the strangeness. Perhaps that is why I'll always have a soft place for him. He helped contribute to my strange journey and I will always be grateful for that.

--------------------------------------------------------------

I very much recommend VH1's documentary on Don and his Soul Train for those who aren't familiar with the tremendous effect he had on music, fashion, dance and even civil rights, to a degree and helping launch the careers of countless superstars. Catch it if you can.

http://www.vh1.com/shows/vh1_rock_docs/episode.jhtml?episodeID=162182

Take a ride on the matrimony pony to babyland...

I want to stick my chopstick in this woman's eye.

But perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me start this post with a simple misunderstanding...  My mother in law left a message on my cell a few months ago when we were getting married that sounded like this: "Hi! Just had a couple of questions about some different things... When should we meet you tomorrow for the rehearsal dinner? Have you seen by blue scarf? Oh, don't forget to pick up Harold from the airport and then to the reception. Also, are you guys going to have kids? And lastly, who is delivering flowers? Ok, see you tomorrow!"

Wait, what? Did she just ask me if we were having kids? Did she just slip in that most dreaded of all bride questions between Uncle Harold and flowers? It's no one's business about my uterus or our life changing decisions or any of that! I worked myself into a frenzy until I blew up a TMS asking him why his mother was asking about our reproduction ideals. I made him listen to the message she left and he laughed. She was asking if we were having children at the wedding. As in, were we inviting kids... I'm an idiot.

But that little sitcom-esque misunderstanding does bring up something that many newly weds are asked more frequently than not. And to me wanting to stab my eating utensil into Lucile.

But why, you ask? What would make me, a mild-mannered artist, a peace loving girl, to make me consider severely maiming one of my mother's best friends while having lunch at Hiko Sushi? One simple question...

"When are you two going to have a baby?"

That's when I go deaf and blind and just start swinging. I'm sure it's just someone thinking of a topic of conversation, taking an interest in my life. I mean, that is how the song goes, right? "First comes love, then comes marriage, then come baby in the baby carriage." But it's not 1950 anymore. And I'm not June Cleaver. So I may have said one of the following things that may or may not have gotten me in trouble with my mom.

• We are waiting to see how your spawn turns out before we decide to get started.
• Ewww! No, we won't be having one of those things. And if my body starts to bio-terrorize me with brainwashed ideas of babies, I'll just get a puppy.
• Well you complain so much about your own kids we've decided that we may not want any...
• I knew I forgot to do something! Better make a note on my ipad... Hold on... 

Hey, it beats "It's none of your goddamn business."

The Drag Queen, the dead body and vouging

It sounds like a great way to start a movie.

A man dies in woman's clothes on a Sunday. In 1993, AIDS was more common in the obituary. Weeks pass and a friend is selling off some old clothes when she discovers a green plaid bag that is too heavy to lift, too overstuffed to find the zipper. With a pair of scissors, the bag is opened to find a rotting, half mummified corpse. It may have been there for decades. Why would Dorian Corey have a dead body with a bullet hole in it's head in a trunk in her New York apartment?

Dorian Corey was a drag queen, performer and one of the stars of Paris is Burning. (Which was a introduction to many on the newest dance crazy of "Voguing") His given name was Fredrick Legg and he was born in Buffalo. She moved to the city, became Dorian, rocked the drag scene for over a decade and then, sadly,  Dorian died at age 56 due to complications from AIDS. A tragically common way things ended in the mid-90s. Only this time, she left something behind. Or, I should say, someone.

According to the New York Magazine article from 1995, Robert Worely, the man in the suitcase, was last seen by his family in 1968. He was convicted of rape and assault in 1963. And sometime between then and 1993, he wound up in Corey's bag. The body was wrapped not unlike a mummy: layers and layers of fabric, tape, plastic, etc. When unwrapping, small things were found in between the layers. Rings and paper but most interesting, a flip top beer can. Not made since the seventies. Therefore, the coroner suggested he'd probably been there since 1980 or before.

Can you imagine having a body in your house for 15 years or longer? You're doing laundry or watching tv when that suitcase catches your eye. You know what it is and what it could mean for you if anyone found out...

Robert's brother Fred wasn't surprised when the reporter told him that he may have had a relationship with a girlfriend who happened to be a man. He also wasn't surprised that he was murdered either. "...we figured something had befallen him" (I imagine not many things must bother Fred.) Robert Worely was buried in potter's field.

No one will really know what happened to Robert except Robert and Dorian and they're both gone. So we're left with bits of their lives, photos and this strange story.


For more, check out the whole article in the New York Mag - http://bit.ly/pbwV72
Or these NSFW but amazing photos of Dorian and others who were on the scene in the 90's- http://www.sallys-hideaway.com/A_Pictorial_History.html