Not a happy camper.

Just got home from doing two shows of Rocky Horror. I pumped myself full of a generic cocktail of pseudo ephedrine, Ibuprofen and delivered a particularly manic and somewhat nasal rendition of Riff Raff twice. The audience was great and enjoyed the show. You gotta love coastal towns. They all get so hammered I'm sure they would've given a wet fart a standing ovation. Okay so I'm feeling a little cranky. I think doing the time warp in heels four times in one day with a head cold qualifies me for that. I don't quite feel like sitting in a corner rocking myself and playing Sade's King of Sorrow on repeat. But I'm not exactly a box of sunshine cuddles either. Things haven't been going the way I'd hoped but I think I am dealing well with the disappointment. What is freaking me out is that I am finally going to be getting a one man show to start running hopefully by mid October and although I know I've procrastinated enough the thought makes me feel like I could lose the rushed dinner I had between the two shows. It terrifies me and I'm not even sure why. I would hate to spend the rest of my life just surviving and being mediocre. But, how very daunting the prospect of carrying and maintaining the responsibility of possibly being a true success also seems to be. My sentences are getting too long. Over and out.

Queenzilla Strikes Again!

What happens when you mix six highly developed egos, filthy costumes, stockings and a few strains of body odour that could qualify as a neurotoxin? Then, what if you squeeze all of this into dressing room smaller than 3 metres square with no ventilation? Not my idea of a good time. I woke up this morning with a swollen throat, achy body and a few other issues that I really didn’t want to have to deal with. So, by the time I got to interval in the show tonight I was desperately trying to keep my inner volcano down to a dull roar. I usually have a temperament that can be compared to that of a care bear, but tonight I was feeling more like one of their man-eating grisly cousins. I bit my tongue down really hard but eventually the persistent little fucker slipped out and promptly caused me to bite at least one persons head off. It felt AMAZING! I don’t feel any guilt or remorse. I’m only human! I pride myself on being a very considerate and sensitive person generally, but tonight my tolerance for suffering fools was similar to my lactose tolerance. Nil. My inner acid-bitch-queen came out and it wanted blood. I am happy to say that I wasn’t too cruel nor did I really cause any permanent damage but I did make it very clear that I was not to be taken for a chop. There is something deeply gratifying about telling someone where to get off whilst dressed in fishnets, heels and a fully loaded hunchback. I have had a lovely warm bath and am planning on severely sedating myself on corenza C in a little while. I hope this will restore me to my natural fluffy pastel coloured state of being. If not, I am still comforted by the fact that I will at least have a few previously “challenging” individuals walking on eggshells within the cramped 3 meters we will once again be sharing tomorrow night, for fear of lightning striking in the same place again. Tonight I embrace my shadow aspect. Mwah ah ah!

Cupid's Bazooka!

So there I was thinking that Cupid was a fat kid with wings and questionable eyesight. I was wrong. Previously he seemed only to shoot me but not the other person and on rare occasions the other way around. The chubby little sniper was taking pot shots and my life was the empty bean can on the fence. But quite recently he decided to stop mucking about. He took aim and has bulls eyed me and this time it seems he managed to get another casualty in the crossfire. Thank God! It’s so humiliating being the only “moegoe” to fall on your ass with affection. I HAVE A BOYFRIEND! I can hear a chorus of Cupid’s cousins singing “hallelujah”, as I say it. He’s amazing. He is creative, intelligent, sexy, and spiritual and he reads! There are complications however. Like with any good birth.
I am in Durban typing this with chipped black nail polish on my fingernails because I am playing Riff Raff in the Rocky Horror show and he is at this very moment manifesting a magical event somewhere in Johannesburg. (He is a Magician; he makes wonderful things with magical carrots.)
So I decided to be proactive and bought a return ticket to fly and see him for two nights because I am not prepared to wait three weeks to see him. (He’s coming to Durban then to see me and the show.)
I think that there must not be enough space in the human brain for amorous feelings and sound logic and good reason. I would never normally do something like this. But I realise that the way I have been feeling has been anything but, “normal”. Will all the cynical singletons please stop deep-throating their index fingers in an attempt to gag. This is my blog and I will gush if I want to. In the past my feelings of endearment felt much like an affliction. It hurt and I lost weight. This time the exact opposite has happened. I feel energised and charged and as though a beaming disco ball has been set into my solar plexus. Many in the cast of “Rocky...” have fallen sick or become emotional due to the stress of opening a new show and I have felt nothing but exuberant vitality coursing through me.
I have made many wishes on many stars and blown away many stranded eyelashes for this. I have cut birthday cakes, klinked wine glasses with a steady eye contact and read countless tarot spreads. I deserve this! Don’t we all? Yes I’m a little scared. But most of all I am excited and there is a part of me that feels deeply put at ease. I’m so happy to have found my heart again. And yes it is like riding a bicycle. I hope that all who read this find themselves on Cupid’s list. May you and someone magical be his next targets!

Mugabe: The Musical.

“Don’t Dream it. Be it.”-Richard O’Brien, The Rocky Horror Show.
I am enthralled in the marvellous mayhem that is rehearsals for The Rocky Horror show. I am spinning like a top but am also squealing “weeeeeeeeee!” like a kid on a swing. I love musical theatre! I’m not sure which day it was on that God created the homosexual, but I am sure that he created the Musical shortly thereafter. I didn’t study musical theatre or dance like most of my fellow cast members and am still quite ignorant about a lot of things that the genre’ is made up of but, like a handsome stranger, I know that I like it and that I want it in my life. The days zoom by and we spend all day running around, singing, dancing and learning new things. It’s like kindergarten without the powder paints and crushed egg shells. The cast is phenomenally talented and I am so entranced with the wonderful world of Transsexual Transylvania, that all my previous concerns have just “poof!” disappeared (Someone tell that to my credit cards.)
There are other perks as well. Because of the constant singing and dancing your body gets ripped and you get to dress up in fishnet stockings and grind your crotch against attractive, talented people and on top of that get paid! Why would I possibly want to do anything else with my life? I’m not sure why anybody does anything else really. I might have to cut my gushing short because I would hate society to lose thousands of much needed farmers, neurosurgeons and aeronautical engineers when they discover how wonderful it is to be a performer in a musical. Other than the show I also have a new man in my life. His name is Martin and he has brought both direction and a refreshingly crisp British accent into my world. I am completely enamoured with him. He is a fantastic GPS application that came with my new phone and I now feel like there is nowhere in Johannesburg (or the world for that matter!) that I cannot go. I talk back to him and am sure to thank him when he suggests I turn left or right at an approaching intersection. He’s very clever and just because he isn’t a real person does not mean I should compromise my concept of good manners and decorum. Otherwise I am still flying solo and -to be perfectly honest- it’s turned into a rather pleasant flight (despite some initial turbulence.) I’m good company and my conversations with myself are becoming more eloquent and animated by the day. I’m looking forward to seeing how they will develop. I know I probably sound like a thin gay version of Shirley Valentine, but I’m enjoying myself anyway (in every way possible.)
Perhaps if Robert Mugabe, and Jackie Selebi were more musically inclined the world would be a better place. Then again Jacob Zuma has already been heading that way with his classic “Umshini Wami!” which is after all a musical ode to the AK47. Maybe it is just The Rocky Horror Show specifically that would be the solution? Winnie could be Magenta, Nkosazana, Columbia, Zuma, Frank ‘n Furter (being the master of seduction that he is.) Then Mugabe could rather fittingly be the deformed alien Riff Raff who becomes the new commander and kills everybody at the end with a beam of pure anti-matter (lack of food and medical resources are basically the same thing.) I think I’ll put in a proposal to Mbongeni Ngema first thing in the morning and rename it Mugabe: The musical. I wonder if the NAC would fund it?