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| Is This Just Totally Morgan Fairchild, or What? |
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| The Real Me Dressed for a Hard Night of Work with Sucky Tips |
Written 27 March, 2007
Dakota Gets a Job
So, I show at the Dragon and they had put in a dance table, ya know? And of course nothing would do but I check it out. I mean, who wouldn’t? So I jumped right up on it and immediately got an audience. I got tips, too, woo hoo!
I wasn’t so sure about the music at first, as it was really old stuff, all the way from the ‘80s, but it was quite romantic and after I danced for a while—not only on the table, but on the way cool dance floor with a boy who I think likes me—it was sounding pretty good. The smoke and mist were romantic, too, and I liked all the avatars at the club that night, except I was prepared to dislike Doug Streeter, as he was hogging the dance table and I was afraid he was about to do me out of a job dancing, and then Doug gave me a cool evil halo and I decided I liked him, too.
Once I start dancing I kind of can’t stop. And they played Cindi Lauper, too! She’s one of my idols (Madonna is another. I mean, those women were THE pioneers in over-the-top bad grrl looks! I know I’m supposed to like Blue and Britney and that bunch, but they’re just copycats to me. Cindi is my particular personal favorite, and to some extent I model myself after her, and when they played Time after Time while I was in a particularly fine tango I was just overcome. The music at the Dragon has been fine by me ever since.
A bunch of us left the Dragon to go to a concert by Bill and Pam Havercamp. That music was REALLY old, like Paul-McCartney-back-even-before-he-was-in-Wings-old, but Bill and Pam were so funny and Pam is such a good singer and Bill such a talented guitarist that I just rocked out. And who could dislike the Beatles, anyway? I grew up listening to them on the 8-track in my dad’s ancient El Camino.
I was so overcome with emotion that I even let my hair go back to its natural blonde color and traded my worn-and-torn leggings for a beautiful peach bridesmaid’s gown.
And I might we wearing it still, except I happened to walk by a mirror and thought, “What is Morgan Fairchild doing here?” And a young Morgan Fairchild at that!
Except of course it wasn’t Morgan Fairchild. It was me. Scared the shit out of me. And so I’m back to blue and pink hairdos and Madonna’s cast-offs, at least for now.
It will be a lot harder to maintain my professional virgin status if I stop being a blue-haired freak of nature (I got called that once) and go around looking like Morgan Fairchild now, won’t it?
And I am absolutely resolved to retain my status as a virgin.
Am I tempted?
Yes I am. Sometimes
Will I yield?
Absolutely not.
Pele depends on me.
-----
The closest I came to not being a virgin happened in Bisbee, near the Mexican border, when I went on a tequila run with a boy from my h.s. He was driving his dad’s Mercedes sedan, a big old honker of a car. Some time during the night he talked me into the back seat and wouldn’t stop when I told him to.
I mean REALLY told him to. Not like “Don’t! Stop!” “Don’t stop!”
So I climbed over the seat into the front and when I did I knocked the transmission out of Park and into Neutral. Masher boy was trying to get over the seat too, but he was sort of fat and having a time of it.
Knocking the transmission out of gear was an accident, but I deliberately took off the parking brake and jumped out of the car.
Masher boy had parked at the back of the Super Wal-Mart lot and you know how Arizona is. It’s either flat or straight up and down—and they had for some reason (who knows why they do such things) put the Wal-Mart on a hill. That Mercedes rolled right out of its slot and down the row of cars and smashed into a brick retaining wall.
The damage, or so I’m told, was $3500, but it didn’t look so bad to me.
Maybe it was those cars it clipped before it hit the wall.
I went straight home and told my dad what had happened and only JUST managed to talk him out of getting his shotgun.
The next day the boy’s daddy came over and was giving my dad a hard time until my dad looked at him and said, “And just what was your son doing with my daughter in the back seat of your car?” That brought matters to a swift conclusion. I never saw that boy again, although I still see that banged-up Mercedes about town from time to time.
As fate would have it, it wasn’t a week later that I forgot to set the parking brake on my Camry (1981 model, 285,000 miles and runs like a top, thank you) at that very same Super Wal-Mart and it wound up against the fence in the garden department. I had to get a new fender. It’s still primer gray because I’ve not had enough money to get it painted.
I should have the money now, though, ‘cause I’ve got a job!
Woo hoo!
Chey gave me a job working the dance table. She left me with strict instructions to keep at least some of my clothes on and not to run the trivia. I’ve had no problem keeping my pants on, but it’s darn difficult not to type in “Tallahassee” when the machine wants to know the capital of Florida.
Chey isn’t actually paying me, but she says I can keep 100% of my tips and she’s allowing me to put up a little tent I bought and so have an actual home. That’s good enough for this girl. I can’t wait until my Camry is maroon-colored all over once again.
So my life is picking up! I have a job and a place to stay and friends.
And I swear on the name of Cindi Lauper that I am going to live up to the Virgin Sacrifice group title Chey created for me.
Dakota Gets a Job
So, I show at the Dragon and they had put in a dance table, ya know? And of course nothing would do but I check it out. I mean, who wouldn’t? So I jumped right up on it and immediately got an audience. I got tips, too, woo hoo!
I wasn’t so sure about the music at first, as it was really old stuff, all the way from the ‘80s, but it was quite romantic and after I danced for a while—not only on the table, but on the way cool dance floor with a boy who I think likes me—it was sounding pretty good. The smoke and mist were romantic, too, and I liked all the avatars at the club that night, except I was prepared to dislike Doug Streeter, as he was hogging the dance table and I was afraid he was about to do me out of a job dancing, and then Doug gave me a cool evil halo and I decided I liked him, too.
Once I start dancing I kind of can’t stop. And they played Cindi Lauper, too! She’s one of my idols (Madonna is another. I mean, those women were THE pioneers in over-the-top bad grrl looks! I know I’m supposed to like Blue and Britney and that bunch, but they’re just copycats to me. Cindi is my particular personal favorite, and to some extent I model myself after her, and when they played Time after Time while I was in a particularly fine tango I was just overcome. The music at the Dragon has been fine by me ever since.
A bunch of us left the Dragon to go to a concert by Bill and Pam Havercamp. That music was REALLY old, like Paul-McCartney-back-even-before-he-was-in-Wings-old, but Bill and Pam were so funny and Pam is such a good singer and Bill such a talented guitarist that I just rocked out. And who could dislike the Beatles, anyway? I grew up listening to them on the 8-track in my dad’s ancient El Camino.
I was so overcome with emotion that I even let my hair go back to its natural blonde color and traded my worn-and-torn leggings for a beautiful peach bridesmaid’s gown.
And I might we wearing it still, except I happened to walk by a mirror and thought, “What is Morgan Fairchild doing here?” And a young Morgan Fairchild at that!
Except of course it wasn’t Morgan Fairchild. It was me. Scared the shit out of me. And so I’m back to blue and pink hairdos and Madonna’s cast-offs, at least for now.
It will be a lot harder to maintain my professional virgin status if I stop being a blue-haired freak of nature (I got called that once) and go around looking like Morgan Fairchild now, won’t it?
And I am absolutely resolved to retain my status as a virgin.
Am I tempted?
Yes I am. Sometimes
Will I yield?
Absolutely not.
Pele depends on me.
-----
The closest I came to not being a virgin happened in Bisbee, near the Mexican border, when I went on a tequila run with a boy from my h.s. He was driving his dad’s Mercedes sedan, a big old honker of a car. Some time during the night he talked me into the back seat and wouldn’t stop when I told him to.
I mean REALLY told him to. Not like “Don’t! Stop!” “Don’t stop!”
So I climbed over the seat into the front and when I did I knocked the transmission out of Park and into Neutral. Masher boy was trying to get over the seat too, but he was sort of fat and having a time of it.
Knocking the transmission out of gear was an accident, but I deliberately took off the parking brake and jumped out of the car.
Masher boy had parked at the back of the Super Wal-Mart lot and you know how Arizona is. It’s either flat or straight up and down—and they had for some reason (who knows why they do such things) put the Wal-Mart on a hill. That Mercedes rolled right out of its slot and down the row of cars and smashed into a brick retaining wall.
The damage, or so I’m told, was $3500, but it didn’t look so bad to me.
Maybe it was those cars it clipped before it hit the wall.
I went straight home and told my dad what had happened and only JUST managed to talk him out of getting his shotgun.
The next day the boy’s daddy came over and was giving my dad a hard time until my dad looked at him and said, “And just what was your son doing with my daughter in the back seat of your car?” That brought matters to a swift conclusion. I never saw that boy again, although I still see that banged-up Mercedes about town from time to time.
As fate would have it, it wasn’t a week later that I forgot to set the parking brake on my Camry (1981 model, 285,000 miles and runs like a top, thank you) at that very same Super Wal-Mart and it wound up against the fence in the garden department. I had to get a new fender. It’s still primer gray because I’ve not had enough money to get it painted.
I should have the money now, though, ‘cause I’ve got a job!
Woo hoo!
Chey gave me a job working the dance table. She left me with strict instructions to keep at least some of my clothes on and not to run the trivia. I’ve had no problem keeping my pants on, but it’s darn difficult not to type in “Tallahassee” when the machine wants to know the capital of Florida.
Chey isn’t actually paying me, but she says I can keep 100% of my tips and she’s allowing me to put up a little tent I bought and so have an actual home. That’s good enough for this girl. I can’t wait until my Camry is maroon-colored all over once again.
So my life is picking up! I have a job and a place to stay and friends.
And I swear on the name of Cindi Lauper that I am going to live up to the Virgin Sacrifice group title Chey created for me.
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