And so begins the song Killer Queen, my favorite song by Queen. Why? Because long, long ago, in one of my previous incarnations, in a galaxy far, far away, called New York City, "Killer Queen" was the nickname given to me by my fabulous drag-queen friends. We’d just seen Queen at Madison Square Garden. I was young; I was hot; I was a fox. All of the straight men wanted me, and all of the gay men wanted to be me. Really? I have no idea. But that’s the way I like to remember it..:)
I lived in a minuscule apartment, in a scary neighborhood, with a succession of psycho roommates; knee-deep in sequined dresses and platform shoes. I had quirky parties, and held court wearing a Japanese wedding kimono and a rhinestone tiara. I served goldfish crackers and cheap wine to my guests, by candlelight; because "everyone looks attractive by candlelight.” I didn’t have a pretty cabinet, but I did have a refrigerator painted with hot pink, automotive paint. There wasn't any Moet et Chandon in my fridge, and to be honest, if there was cake, I was probably the one eating it.
I remember those years fondly, albeit, through the misty, watercolored, progressive lenses of middle age. I was so broke; and yet so glamorous. I worked all day at my dull, low-paying job, barely making enough money to make ends meet. But in the evening, I was the Killer Queen. I painted my face with glitter, slipped into silk and feathers and mile high shoes, and hit the dance floor. Sometimes, I literally hit the dance floor; I broke my foot twice.
At the end of the evening, we'd go to Katz's Deli, eat pastrami sandwiches, drink lots of coffee to quell the inevitable hangover, and then watch the sunrise as we limped back to the hood. We thought it would last forever.
But eventually, we grew up, got real jobs and moved on. Still occasionally, like this morning while I was driving to CVS to pick up my Lisinopril, I turn on the radio and hear click…click…click…, and I crank up the volume and sing along with Freddie. Good times...
I lived in a minuscule apartment, in a scary neighborhood, with a succession of psycho roommates; knee-deep in sequined dresses and platform shoes. I had quirky parties, and held court wearing a Japanese wedding kimono and a rhinestone tiara. I served goldfish crackers and cheap wine to my guests, by candlelight; because "everyone looks attractive by candlelight.” I didn’t have a pretty cabinet, but I did have a refrigerator painted with hot pink, automotive paint. There wasn't any Moet et Chandon in my fridge, and to be honest, if there was cake, I was probably the one eating it.
I remember those years fondly, albeit, through the misty, watercolored, progressive lenses of middle age. I was so broke; and yet so glamorous. I worked all day at my dull, low-paying job, barely making enough money to make ends meet. But in the evening, I was the Killer Queen. I painted my face with glitter, slipped into silk and feathers and mile high shoes, and hit the dance floor. Sometimes, I literally hit the dance floor; I broke my foot twice.
At the end of the evening, we'd go to Katz's Deli, eat pastrami sandwiches, drink lots of coffee to quell the inevitable hangover, and then watch the sunrise as we limped back to the hood. We thought it would last forever.
But eventually, we grew up, got real jobs and moved on. Still occasionally, like this morning while I was driving to CVS to pick up my Lisinopril, I turn on the radio and hear click…click…click…, and I crank up the volume and sing along with Freddie. Good times...
What fun!
ReplyDeleteIt really was!
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