Yes. It's true. I love weirdness. Craziness of any shade. Madness in any form. Full blown bat shit crazy is mother's milk to me. Give me a big old bowl of delicious delirium and I am delighted beyond words. I have sought out the insane lunatic fringe since I was a sprout. Trust me, that crowd is a lot more fun to hang out with... The stuff they do is wonderfully entertaining and a joy to watch. I usually join in.
All of my life I have been up to my uni-brow in crazies. Hell, at times I have been forced to keep them circling in a holding pattern because I didn't have anywhere to put them. A few of them ran out of fuel. That wasn't pretty. First, there was my family. OK, enough said about that exit... Then there were the ones that I actively invited in. Willingly. Oh, my... Most of them have been fun. Some of them have been certifiable. That being said, they have all been sorely under or over medicated. Not unlike myself...
I once knew a "woman" named Marge. "She" was born Micheal. Micheal was a woman trapped in man's body. OK, I can deal with that one. Micheal starts going through the change. OK, I can deal with that one. Micheal gets the full monty and becomes Marge. OK, I can deal with that one too. Then the other high-heel hits the floor. Marge discovers that she is a lesbian... WTF??? huh??? I would later learn that she was deported from Australia after being busted for smuggling heroin while working as a flight attendant for Qantas. What can I say?
I once found a dead body in a basement at 2 AM. Most of you know this story so I won't go into details. Let's just say, 3-day old dead body, basement, middle of the night and an overflowing litter box. That only means one thing: TOTAL HOMO HANDS!!! For about half an hour, until the scotch kicked in. By the time I finally got around to calling 911 (after sanitizing the house) I was so fucking blind drunk it hurt. I spent the next week being torn apart as the prime murder suspect. Oh, just fuck me... So much for living my life like water.
While living in Minneapolis I knew someone that collected bear traps. Antique bear traps. Do you know what those things are? They're horrid. They're like a cross between a guillotine, a trebuchet and Dame Edna. He had damned near a hundred of these things. Antique bear traps??? I remember reading the newspaper article about him describing how he had been bludgeoned to death in his apartment. Hmmm... Lloyd, you should have picked up a better one night stand...
I once dropped kicked a roommate of mine through a plate glass window. He was drunk. I was drunk. I just picked him up and tossed him into a store front on a street in Minneapolis after the bars closed. I watched 100 square feet of glass shatter. I saw mannequins turned upside down. I saw blood. I heard sirens go off. I ran. OMg, did I run. Oh, lord... why is it the better part of my weirdness always happens in the middle of the night???
I know more than my fair share of 300 lb PLUS drag queens. OK, enough said on that matter... What can I say? Amusing? Yes. Pretty? No. But, still, through them I learned how to make balloons and dry oatmeal into tits. Hey, it's a learning curve.
In Portland, OR I met some of the most twisted, strange people I have ever known. Yes, Republicans. Gay ones. WTHIWWTP??? And they were into leather. Again, WTHIWWTP??? OK, so I hit on some them. What can I say? Beer, it's the great equalizer... Out there we had something called a "pounder and a shot". It's a sixteen ounce glass of beer and a double shot of schnapps. Trust me, a couple of rounds of those and you're fucked up enough to kiss a gay Republican in a harness and ass-chaps. The down side of that is that they always wanted you to spank them and call them Peggy... hmmmm...
Some of my best pieces of psychological unhingedment have been during happy hours. Surprised??? Especially if I happen to be on the other side of the world at time. Lord only knows what you're going to find setting next to you in a bar at 4 in the afternoon in Sydney. Or Hong Kong. Or London. Or in the transit lounge of Aeropuerto Internacional de Cuidad de Mexico. Shots. Trust me. LOTS of shots!!!
Then there were the prostitutes. OK, a caveat... It was 1978. San Francisco. 18th and Mission St. Rough neighborhood to say the least. The "girls" would walk 50 feet up 18th Street and keep under cover from the rain in my doorway. Or course, I got to know them. Two were college students, one was a divorced nurse and the other one was just, well... strange. I offered them coffee. And towels. Then we started having lunch. Soon, at least two of them had keys to the place. As long as they didn't "use" it. If you know what I mean. Aah, yes... a simpler time...
I am a magnet for strangeness. I draw it into me like a large gaseous planet. It goes into orbit around me. I am like the fly strip from "The Voyage Of The Damned". Don't get me wrong, I love it. But sometimes... sometimes... I just gotta sit back and wonder how the bloody hell did we manage to t-bone each other??? I looked like a good landing spot??? Why would we trust each other with our keys??? Wanna know my PIN numbers??? Hey, you got any gum??? Wanna pickle???
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