I dreamed I was bowling with Hedy Lamarr, and we looked real cute dressed up like teddies, dyked out in dungarees and tied with neckerchiefs, but we were skeeved by the shoes. We were about to bail when we spotted Gram Parsons in his Pill Popper nudie suit. He was illuminated by the cigarette machine, glowing green, so we knew he was back from the dead. I could’ve inquired about my Dad, but I wanted to look cool in front of Hedy, so I name-dropped Lester Bangs. The pills on Parson’s suit were wiggling like bugs, and the bastard kept eating them. Okay, I admit it; I was checking out his package. Parsons looked at me dead center, and diagnosed me as a Freudian. In front of Hedy!
He said, “You’re no teddy, you’re a dandy.”
I woke up with a raging hard-on and a bad case of penis envy.
(All I want for Christmas is a bulge in the crotch of my Marc Bolan tuxedo—speeding jaguars and sleek jungle cats.)
About the Author
Dia VanGunten explores overlaps between genres, between poetry and prose, between the real and the magical. Her current fiction project is Pink Zombie Rose. Follow @pinkzombierose for more updates.