Mother May I Sleep With Donna?

I love my mom. Times I said that, I would’ve been lying. Now, we have a delightful relationship. Even if she made my home life unsatisfactory at times, it was nothing compared to her childhood. Where there’s love, there needs to be grace too.

Last year I invited Mom to a storytelling showcase I was doing during a visit to hometown Kansas City. Theme was “Teenager of the Year.” The first few performers told stories of horrible, drug-addled mothers. As I was welcomed onstage, my mother whispered, “She’s not going to tell a bad story about me, is she?”

I didn’t. How awkward—airing Mommy issues to a crowd, Mommy included? Save it for a therapist, or the shitty poetry you write and show to no one. Or Barbara Walters, who confronted Tori Spelling on a recent airing of the View.

Tori, like me, took the high road, saying it should be settled between herself and Candy, widow of Aaron Spelling, producer of one of my favoritest shows ever, Beverly Hills, 90210. 9-0 is Tori’s biggest claim to fame for role of virtuous, booty-short wearin’ Donna Martin. Tori. Gob love ya, but my father doesn’t call you “Jo-Jo the Dog-faced Boy” for nothing.

Tori wouldn’t talk about her moms with Barbara, but she didn’t have a problem dishing in her recent “book,” Mommywood.

Now a mother of two, Tori shares the joys and woes of rearing little ‘uns, hoping she doesn’t fuck up their lives as much as Candy fucked up hers. All young Jo-Jo wanted was a normal childhood, not a daddy producing Dynasty and Love Boat, or a house with 400 rooms or a mom named Candy, who constantly reminded Tori what a dog-faced little girl she was.

The line at Tori’s Columbus Circle Borders book signing was surprisingly immeasurable. I didn’t stay (it was a Friday night, c’mon), but I did pass Tori and husband Dean talking to press. I must say, while homegirl was stupid skinny (People at the Borders’ register shows an indignant Tori, caption “I’m not anorexic!”), she was actually kinda cute. Seriously.

Tori’s book tour comes on the heels of her recent guest stint on horribly revamped 90210. The original never won a Peabody, but at least Dylan was a fucking fox and even if you hated Brenda, it was an enjoyable sort of hatred. Annie, the neu-Brenda, portrayed by lolli-pop head Canadian Shenae Grimes is intolerable at best. The show’s blatant Dr. Pepper product placement (they have pregnant teen Arianna, the only likable character on the show, downing Dr. P in her third trimester) is the strongest plot staple. They’ve raped the memory of Jackie Taylor, mother of Kelly and Erin Silver.

If in need of an evil mother, Felice Martin would’ve been fine. Gawd, Donna’s mom was a sanctimonious shrew. Like when Kelly, Donna, Brenda and David tried to sneak into Color Me Badd’s hotel room, and Donna discovered her mom in the arms of a man who was not Dr. Martin? What a hypocrite bitch! I digress.

Tori and Donna both had shit moms. On Candy Spelling’s web site, she more or less blames Tori for Aaron’s death, even though dude was like 107 years old. Not cool. Though we’ve had our rough spots, my mom would never do that to me.

–Megan Metzger

Where My Gays At?

In a backwards mode of thinking I don’t ascribe to, all girls are destined to fulfill a particular station. Some are destined to become wives and mothers, successful business ladies, or have it all: man, kids and career. I was born into this world to excel at the art of faghag-dom.

To paraphrase my main bitch Jane Austen, “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman in possession of an Absolutely Fabulous box set must be in want of a gay BFF."

Well, color me Mr. Darcy.

The day I realized I was most likely to succeed as a bestie to the gays was in high school. The cutest boy ever was a junior and I loved him sooooooooo much. He was artistic, funny, cute, adventurous and like, the best actor ever. He gave me butterflies in my tummy and I wanted to die when I saw him. Eventually, the crush blossomed into a close, fulfilling friendship, culminating in his coming out to me. This happened a couple more times in my teen years. A pattern was developing. I didn’t choose to be a fruit fly. They chose me.

My grooming began at birth. Mom and Dad were still kids when I danced myself out of the womb, and so was MTV. Brash, loud and tacky as hell, the fledgling music channel aired videos by gay icon Boy George, fellow fruit fly Cyndi Lauper and Madonna. The sugary pop music went down like a bowlful of Applejacks, and Cyndi’s hair colors far outshone any color in my crayon box. I was in love. Unlike my fellow Catholic grade school kindergarteners whose square folks enforced rules and structure, cable TV was not verboten to me. I had young, cool parents.

In fact, cable is responsible for just about everything I learned way too soon. Shows like HBO’s titty-thriller and the Hitchhiker taught me every usage of the word “fuck.” While I took in an HBO airing of the first Police Academy movie I became aware of just what homosexuality meant. Remember that scene where those ridiculously stereotyped leather daddies slow-danced at the Blue Oyster Bar? At first, five year-old me was a little puzzled. Then slowly, I figured it out. It was easier for me to accept homosexuality than it was for me to accept Steve Gutenberg being cast as a loveable cad, I’ll tell you that much.

When I wasn’t subjected to highly inappropriate adult content, I was dancing. I love to dance. Always have. While the future homemakers of America played “house,” I was in my room wearing out my Madonna cassette. I replayed “Burnin’ Up” over and over again so I could perfect its choreography. I’d pay a queen’s ransom for footage of six year-old me in Mom’s bra reenacting Madge’s moves. “Do you wanna see me down on my knees, bending over backwards/Now would you be pleased?” Paging Humbert Humbert…

After high school, I took my dance moves out of the bedroom and onto the dance floor. Every Sunday, my older cohorts snuck my underage ass into the Cabaret, Kansas City’s biggest and best gay club for the drag show.



In between stuffing dollars down queens’ stuffed chests as they mouthed Donna Summer and tireless dance sessions among sweaty shirtless hunks, I downed rum and cokes with three limes. This was my first foray into drunky town, so it never occurred to me to hydrate myself. I spent many nights facedown on the cold linoleum of my friend’s bathroom, swearing to gawd that some jerky twink drugged my drink. Looking back, I’m pretty sure that wasn’t the case.



Shortly after my 21st birthday, Club Cabaret closed its fabulous doors. Now, there are plenty of other gay bars in Kansas City, but none quite as magickal as the Cab. With no truly inspirational dance parties to turn to, I discovered the theat-tuh.

Kansas City’s Late Night Theatre featured a cast of beautiful drags who excelled at bitchy satire, recreating cult classics like “Valley of the Dolls” and “The Stepford Wives,” as well as their own original productions. My wicked, pop culture-saturated self ate it up. The Late Nighters were fun, genuine, flippant and clever. They threw parties where everyone was a star. It was Kansas City’s answer to a modern day Factory, but with better art and kinder drugs.



But, like the Cabaret before it, LNT too had to close its doors. Fortunately, I maintained lasting friendships with its members. The day Late Night Theatre folded, Kansas City lost a lot of sparkle, and I was ready to move to more thrilling pastures.

Now I live in New York City. The home of Stonewall, Christopher Street and Lady Bunny. And I have like no gay friends. What the hell? Where my gays at? Sure, I’ve been to parties and met some lovely boys who’ve found me adorable and charming and blah blah blah, but they never call like they say they will. I’ve considered taking out a Craigslist ad: “Fruitfly desperately seeking fun-but-not-flaky gay boyfriend for drinks, dancing, ANTM marathons, trips to the MOMA, karaoke and smack talk.” If anyone reading this knows of anybody, hook a sister up.

-Megan Metzger

Catwoman in Dogtown

I’ve always been a cat person. I identify with their inherent hunger for individuality, their effortless cool, their blasé attitude towards humanity. Also, they have really cute tummies and ears.

Growing up, our household was sans feline because my father was deathly allergic to them. He made jokes about strangling kittens with his bare hands or tossing them in gunny sacks and sending them down a river. As a sensitive eight year-old, I failed to see the humor. His teasing and my indignant silence created an emotional chasm between us. My mother, who also longed for a housecat, among other things, exploited my ill feelings towards cat-hating Daddy to fool herself into believing I‘d be cool with her leaving him.

“Wouldn’t you just love to live in a little house with a sun porch and a kitty?” she would ask.

”Yes!” I exclaimed. Having a sun porch was only second to cats on my list of things I was deprived of as a child.

“But, what about daddy?” I queried.

“He wouldn’t come. But you’d get a kitty!” she countered.

”Can we name it Dangermouse?!?!”

Dirty pool, Mom! Anyway, they divorced (surprising, huh?) and I got the kitty I was promised. A giant Maine Coon. Mom named her Cleo, after my great-grandmother, which was fine. Cleo didn’t really look like a Dangermouse anyway.

At 19 I got my very first apartment on my own, which meant I could get my own cats and name them whatever I wanted. My mother’s cat had a litter, and I picked out a boy and a girl. The brother was a tabby I christened Cletus the Slack-tailed Kitty (he was born with a crook in his tail). Cletus’ sister was a tortoiseshell calico beauty called Stella Marie You’re My Star (I was going through a PJ Harvey phase). They were my bestest buds. Cletus was like, obsessed with me. He watched me shower. He spooned me. He wrapped his little orange paws around my neck and massaged my shoulders. Best boyfriend ever.

Ten years later, Stella’s in kitty cat heaven, Cletus is someone else’s boyfriend, and I’m petless. Strange feelings are stirring inside me. Urges I've never felt before. Puppy urges.

Dogs represent everything I’m against. They’re born with an innate sense of co-dependency, a blind love towards humanity, a dorky disposition that reeks of desperation, and a tendency to eat shoes and dirty underwear. Yeah, okay, they have really cute tummies and ears, but still, not even the cutest lil’ puppers can make up for all that slobbering neediness. Right?

I’m not so sure. I see some pretty cute little buggers messing our Manhattan sidewalks. I wave at them as they’re walked by. Terriers, Labradors, Poodles, Labradoodles. My friend Chris from back home in Kansas City sent me a photo of his brand new beagle puppy Blossom, and my head nearly exploded because she’s so g’damned adorable.


(Photo by Angie McDaniel)

My father, who’s since remarried, lives in Massachusetts with the rest of my family, including a miniature dachshund I named Klaus. My dad loves Klaus. Even if he gets a little sneezy around him, he is not compelled to send Klaus down the river in a gunny sack. I love Klaus too, mostly because the little bugger’s more feline-acting than your average dog.

So, why this newfound interest in newfoundlands and their brethren? Is it because I’m fast approaching 30, meaning I only have like 10 years max to get a baby in me before I’m all dried up?

In my sexually reckless early-to-mid 20s, I never really thought about biological clocks ticking and all of that, aside from the occasional pregnancy scare (thank gawd for Plan B!). Now I realize time’s passing me by, and if I want to make sure at least one living creature will love and need me as long as she shall live, I better get preggers. Or a dog.

And since I haven’t met a dude I want to share a meal with, let alone a child, looks like this cat lady just might do it up doggy style. Yeah, I went there.

–Megan Metzger