2013-05-20T16:27:50-04:00 Pandora Boxx http://www.huffingtonpost.com/author/index.php?author=pandora-boxx Copyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc. HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Pandora Boxx Good old fashioned elbow grease. tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3220473 2013-05-06T14:36:34-04:00 2013-05-06T14:36:40-04:00

Pandora Boxx http://www.huffingtonpost.com/pandora-boxx/ RuPaul's Drag Race has almost come to the finish line, it's time for me to put in my two cents about all this comedy-queen bashing that has happened. Quite a few queens were saying that drag is not about comedy and that you don't tour the country as a comedy queen and blah, blah, blah. I've enjoyed quite a successful career touring the country and other countries as a comedy queen -- a comedy queen who lost Drag Race both times I was on the show, I might add.

It's this whole pageant-queen-vs.-comedy-queen thing that they played up on the show. I certainly know about editing and all that jazz, but we are talking about what was actually said. You can't put words in people's mouths. So they claim that the pageant queens take their jobs as drag queens very seriously. Guess what? So do comedy queens. We just do it differently, through, you know, that thing everyone hates so much: laughter. If we really want to break it down as to which one is a tougher job, well, have you ever had a joke bomb? Nobody laughs. You know it didn't go over well. But if you are out there lip syncing for your life on a club stage and people aren't that into it, you can't always tell. You could be spinning and splitting and shablamming while the crowd sips their martinis and rolls their eyes. That said, I think all good drag queens work hard for their money. So hard for it, honey.

Then there was Roxxxy Andrews' whole tirade about how comedy queens are making fun of drag. Isn't the whole art of drag a little tongue-in-cheek? Aren't we poking fun at society's definitions of gender? Isn't that part of the point? To break apart what is deemed to be "feminine" and "masculine"? It's also about celebrating individuality and being whoever we want to be or who were feel we were born to be.

I found the camp-queen hatred on Drag Race to be completely nauseating and utterly ridiculous. Do any of these queens know any drag history? Do they know that drag is heavily rooted in camp? Drag is all-encompassing. That's part of its attraction. You are supposed to be whatever you want to be when you dress up. To me that is what drag is all about. No one style of drag is more important than another. All forms are valid in the art of drag.

Comedy queens have been ruling the drag circuit for years. To unequivocally prove a point, I've compiled a list of 10 fantabulous drag queens currently making a living as comedy queens. This is also meant to educate the children who think there is no drag culture outside the world of Drag Race.



Other notable comedy queens for you to Google and love: Charles Busch, Joey Arias, Heklina, Bianca Del Rio, Daisy Deadpetals, Nina West, Dee Ranged, Darienne Lake, Kasha Davis, Vicky Vox, Roxy C. Moorecox, Logan Hardcore and the list goes on.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.2186252 2012-11-27T15:18:00-05:00 2013-01-27T05:12:01-05:00

Pandora Boxx http://www.huffingtonpost.com/pandora-boxx/ RuPaul's Drag Race. I started performing when Abraham Lincoln was president. Since I've been around and around the block a few times, I have quite the tales to tell. I thought I'd start sharing them with you, and hopefully you'll enjoy them as much as I do. Without further ado I give you "The Misadventures of Pandora Boxx."

One night I was out with my friends after the Sunday-night drag show. We decided to go to a different bar after the show for a little nightcap. It really wasn't busy at all: just a few random habitual drunkards. This one guy walked in, and he was obviously blitzed. He proceeded to put the moves on my drag queen companions. He was all about the "ladies," if you know what I mean -- you know, those of us sitting on a secret. Not one of us was interested in him at all, but clearly, being that drunk, he thought he was giving us Ewan McGregor when really he was serving up Rob Schneider. Acting like any good queen should, my friend Cooki Krisp decided to at least check the meal to see whether it was a regular-sized or super-sized. She reached down, and all she felt was wetness. Jokingly, she asked if he had pissed his pants. In shame, he put his head down and said that he'd been at another bar and had had a little "accident." Faster than a lesbian trying to catch karaoke night, she fled to the bathroom to scrub her hand with Ajax and hydrochloric acid.

I'm not sure which part of the whole "Pissypants Incident" (as it has been dubbed) is funniest to me: the mere fact that he actually pissed his pants at a bar, the fact that he went to another bar with his pissypants, or the fact that he was trying to hit on drag queens with his urine-soaked jeans? I'm still completely boggled. All I know is that if I ever piss my pants because I'm too drunk, I would rather pass out in a dark, dank alley with rats eating my new nylons than go to another bar.

This got me thinking about drinking, alcohol in general and how people act while under the influence. I know that there have been a few random occasions when I was out on the town and I was sober. Though rare, it does happen. Watching drunk people can be amusing and sometimes downright sad. Everything becomes magnified. Jokes become funnier. Stories become more interesting. People get prettier. Heartache gets sadder. Fights get bigger. Bellies grow larger. Like most things in life, there are some good things and a lot of bad things that go with being a lush.

I know from my years of drinking experience that I tend to have a few of those light-drinking nights when I laugh with friends, go home and wake up feeling fine, and then I have a lot of those nights when I drink pools of vodka, act a fool and wake up feeling like I slept under an elephant's foot. I may or may not also utter phrases like "where am I?" and "how did I get here?" and "who the hell are you, Sasquatch?" Some people drink because it helps them break down the walls they keep up. They say it relaxes them. It can also bring people out of their shells. It can make people act more like "themselves." The other side would say that it makes people act like idiots. It makes them do things that they wouldn't do if they were thinking clearly.

I believe that moderation is the key, as with everything in life. Cut to me dressed as Janis Joplin, knocking things over, spilling other people's beer, falling over and singing "It Had to Be You" while having people put straws and various goods in my wig that I don't even feel, all while my friends laugh and film me. I don't regret things like that, because those are the tales that become legendary. Yes, there are a few tanked times when I may have wished that I wasn't so lit, like the time I fell off a porch after leaning over to watch this straight boy pee so that I could see how big his penis was. Or the limo ride to Buffalo, N.Y., during which I crawled through the limo to pass out in the front seat with my head out the window, puking all the way, thinking my wig had blown off (only I wasn't in drag), and then was hung over for two days, thinking I was going to die. Or the time I ran down the street naked, wearing only Prada boots and a boa, singing "I Am the Walrus" by the Beatles. OK, I made that last one up, but you get the point. I wouldn't trade my drunken memories for anything. Embarrassing though some of them were, I have to admit that they are funny to think about and even funnier to tell.

Always drink responsibly, and never use it as a social crutch. You know, even if you aren't drunk, you can still use alcohol as an excuse when you do something stupid. For example:

"I didn't mean to sleep with your boyfriend! I was so drunk that he tricked me!

"I'm sorry I told everyone that you own the movie She-Male Chocolate Suckers 9. I was drunk!"

"I don't know what happened to your $300. I was drunk!"

"I'm sorry I let it slip to everyone that you dress up like Harry Potter and reenact the Quidditch scene in your bedroom every night, with no pants on. I was drunk!"]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1745893 2012-08-07T16:04:00-04:00 2012-10-07T05:12:03-04:00

Pandora Boxx http://www.huffingtonpost.com/pandora-boxx/
My father looks into the camera with his typical, barely-there smile while my sister has her typical grin from ear to ear. I have this look of bewilderment on my face, because I had grown tired of having my picture taken yet again that day. From behind us the mist of the Canadian Falls rises into the air, draping its cooling droplets over the flock of people. The sky is overcast, a dull, gray, unsure color.

My father stands. I sit, and my sister poses behind me. She stands on the bench where I sit and still only comes to my father's head. My father's smile looks as if it is but a mere crack in the pavement, which makes him seem as if he almost isn't really part of the picture. As life sometimes imitates art, sometimes photographs can speak miles. It seems as if he was added to the photo as an afterthought. That's almost how he seemed to be added to our family at times. For every good memory of growing up with my family, there is always one moment of that remembrance that is ripped, like some of these family photos, by my father. Like a bull seeing the color red, he had a temper that seemed to be set off by anything and everything. Not a day went by that he didn't scream and yell about something. He has been present throughout my entire life, yet never really there, much like this photo. The body is present, but the mind is lost in his own worries, his own cares, his own self. Seeing his children through foggy lenses. Perhaps seeing nothing at all, really, nothing of what truly lies before him.

My sister, with her bright and cheery face and bubbly little blonde pigtails, is the only smile in sight. She beams with the energy and innocence of the child she is, seemingly untainted. She was a beaming light of fearlessness that I often envied. This picture was taken at a time when we were very close. She was not only my sister but one of my best friends. We were inseparable then. We grew apart, then back together again, but never recapturing that bond of youth.

My photo face looks like the face that you would make if your oversized Aunt Patty were coming in for a big hug and a sloppy kiss, like a 747 heading for a crash landing right on your face. Not only with the feeling of not wanting my photo taken for the umpteenth time but a deeper-seated distress. It was that long period of time in my life where my own skin held no solace. My mind was elsewhere while my body was on a different path. Every glance in the mirror, every photo made me realize that I knew not the person who looked back at me. Who was this shadow of a boy who awkwardly looked back? That is not me. Not the me that I thought I was. Not the me I so longed to be.

My mother is absent from the picture itself, much like the unseen glue that binds many things together. Like the bolts and screws that hold together a curio, never seen, yet without them the beautiful things in the cabinet would crash and break into irreparable pieces. She was always there. She is always there. She who would mend the wounds. She who would cradle the crying. She who would heal the soul. She was and is that bond that holds the makeshift family together, that one piece of the puzzle without which the picture would be forever unclear. Without her my family would not exist. Without her I would not have crawled out from the fictitious image I sadly believed I was. Without her there would just be an empty void where my family was supposed to be in the interwoven web of life.

With the last picture put into place on the large board, my collage is complete, a somewhat telling tale of the good times my family shared: the trips, the holidays, the reunions, the love that is there even if it is not always so clearly visible. As the anxiety of the day slips away, I realize that perhaps this was the best gift I could give at this time. Memories are cherished pieces of our individual histories. Whether they are good or bad, all that came before us makes up who we are today. They guide us to our futures and remind us of our pasts. On the copy machine lies part of my family and its history. Like folklore past on through villages and great lands, I take this memoir and pass it on to my family so that the memories will live on.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1654641 2012-07-06T14:21:25-04:00 2012-09-05T05:12:07-04:00

Pandora Boxx http://www.huffingtonpost.com/pandora-boxx/
LAW: A person may not cross state lines with a duck atop his head. (Location: Minnesota)

In high school, I was very experimental with my hair. I just felt like it needed to be a different color every week. I'm not exactly sure why, but for some reason, I thought this was a good idea. I wanted to look different from the person I was, and I hated blond hair. In fact, I actually came to loathe the dirty blond creature that perched on top of my head. I guess I felt that my blond hair made me stand out to much. I wanted to be like the guys I saw on television who all were abnormally good-looking and they all had dark hair. Why couldn't I be like everyone else?

Of course, if my goal was to blend in, like everyone else, the fact seemed to elude me that no one else's hair color changed every week, although the interesting dichotomy was, in some ways, I wanted to stand out. I wanted people to take notice of me because I was different; yet, part of me just wanted to fit in. My mind was like a big tub of yogurt with the fruit on the bottom that you could swirl around. One part wanted just the plain vanilla and the other wanted that fruit all swirled around for everyone to taste. I guess one way to accomplish both was to change my hair. One week my hair was the color of a copper kettle. The next it would be the color of fudge. Another time it was the color of rusted metal and like the Sonny and Cher song says, "the beat goes on," and on, and on.

I was also completely influenced by the media. I lived for MTV. I dreamt of being a rock star, but my singing sounded like a dying cow so it was never going to happen. I worshipped all of the Pop/Rock Gods and none of them more than Madonna. From floor to ceiling, my bedroom was slathered in pictures of Madonna in every incarnation. Every time she changed her look, I would get that itch that I couldn't scratch and I'd want to change my hair again, too. I wanted to be like Madonna and all the other gods with the cool hair.

One adventurous time I was feeling a little on the edge, thinking I was Cyndi Lauper or something, and I thought coloring my hair jet black and leaving the front light blond would look extra cool. And with that thought, I rushed to CVS to buy myself some magic-marker-black hair color. I rushed home barely able to contain the excitement for my latest hair "don't."

I watched the seconds tick away on my aqua Swatch Watch, waiting for the 45 minutes the directions said it took. As I waited, the dark slop on top of my head grew darker and darker. It looked like I poured a cup of tar on my head. I briefly thought that this may not have been the best choice for me. Yet, after I rinsed all the muck out of my hair, I actually thought I was looking pretty fucking cool.

On a trip to the optometrist's office shortly after my new hair session-de-jour, I was sitting in a chair, waiting for them to bring me my new contact lenses to try on. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of something in the mirror and I nearly leapt out of my chair, because I actually thought, for a split second, that a skunk had somehow landed on my head. I looked like I had Pepé Le Pew sitting where my hair should be. I could barely muffle my screech as I quickly made a mad dash out of the office and straight to the drug store.

As quick as I could, I ran home with my hair color removal kit. I just prayed it would work and could salvage this cartoon skunk on my head. I read the instructions and I thought, in my brilliant reasoning, that I would not leave it on as long as it said, so I could just lighten the color a bit. I applied. I waited. I rinsed. I looked in the mirror and this time the cry came out like the wail of a banshee. Instead of my friend Pepé, I now seemed to have something that resembled a dead duck on my head. I went from skunk to mallard in just 15 minutes. It was every which color but right.

I called my mother, who quickly ran to the bathroom, not sure what the hell I had done this time. When she first saw me, she literally jumped back a few feet and then quickly tried to maintain her "Mom" composure.

"It doesn't look that bad," she said.

"Mom, it looks like a duck died on my head."

"Well, yes," she said, with a smile that looked like someone was stepping on her toes while she was doing it. "You're kind of right."

"Thanks, Mom. You weren't supposed to agree."

"I know, let me go make an appointment at my salon."

After going to the salon and sitting in a chair for almost four hours and embarrassed beyond belief, my hair was fixed. My desire to ever color my hair again myself was also fixed, at least for that week.

LAW: Persons classified as "ugly" may not walk down any street. (Location: San Francisco, California)

I remember one time being in Marketplace Mall in Henrietta, New York. It was the place my friends and I would always go to hang out, even if we had no money to buy anything. I remember skipping school one time and driving up to the big city. It was a big deal because we were from Canandaigua, NY, and the name of the town was bigger than the town. There wasn't much to do in the uptight little village so we'd always want to venture out into the great beyond, and back then, that would be the mall.

We were sitting in the food court, eating some processed food (if you could even classify that fast food gunk as food) and in through the glass doors walked something -- and I stress the thing at the end of that word. I think I had to close my eyes and rub them to make sure I hadn't gotten something on my contact lenses. All I could think when she or it walked through those doors was the character, Augra, from the movie The Dark Crystal. The red, tattered, moth-eaten dress she was wearing looked identical to the one the character wore. She had this hair that was piled so high that it doubled her height. It was so matted and frizzy that it no longer looked like hair. Maybe it was just a 300-year-old wig. The color was this dead gray color, like the color of a tombstone, but it had chunks of red strands of straw strewn throughout.

I thought about this creature as she proudly walked through the mall past all the stares, the snickers and the people blatantly pointing at her. Though I couldn't really see her face, because it was covered by the monster she let live on top of her head, I caught a glimmer of something that looked like her teeth in the shape of a smile. I wondered how she could march through that place without caring what people thought. I thought about myself as I walked down the halls of Canandaigua Academy and how I was always afraid that people were staring at me, giving me the same jabs and jeers. I always felt like someone had took my mind and shoved it into this strange body that never seemed to move the way I wanted it to. And yet, this creature strutted through the mall as proud as a peacock displaying its grand feathers.

I wondered what mirror she was looking in when she got ready to go out on the prowl. Was it some crazy funhouse mirror that showed you in some distorted view or did she have a mirror like Malificent had in Snow White that lied to her and told her she was the fairest in the land? All I knew was that I wanted that mirror. I wanted my mirror to tell me I looked good. I wanted my mirror to stop crying out that I was not even close to the fairest of them all.

Augra continued her stroll down the mall, pushing her own personal cart, filled with bags of mysterious contents that I was probably better off not knowing what was inside, further into the heart of the mall. I thought if she could walk with her head held up high, especially holding what could have been her house on her head, then there was no reason for me to even think there was anything wrong with me. I realized I didn't need a lying mirror, I just needed to look past what I thought I saw. I also didn't want some mirror lying to me and letting me go out in public looking like I was rode hard and put away wet.

LAW: You're not allowed to park your elephant on Main Street. (Location: Minnesota, Virginia)

I remember my second grade teacher Miss Ismann. Her high-pitched voice still rings in my ears. I can't recall the exact words, but she always reminded my of Edith Bunker from All in the Family. Well, more like what Edith's mother would be like. Sometimes her perfectly coifed do would be slightly crooked, much to our glee. I used to love watching The Carol Burnett Show and I always thought Miss Ismann's wig looked like Carol's character Eunice on the show, sort of like a brown bob with a poodle puff in the front and along the bottom edges. In her dark monotone colors, her favorite was gray, she looked like an baby elephant with a winter hat on. I used to imagine someone walking her down Main Street in our annual Christmas Day parade or maybe, more appropriately, St. Patrick's Day, since I think she liked to sneak a nip of the bottle now and again.

When we would take tests in class, we would have to all line up in a single file line at her desk and wait for our papers to be graded. I'm not exactly sure why Miss Ismann was the way she was. I don't know if she had a bottle of gin tucked away in her large purse she always carried or if she was just old, but as she got further down the line, she would start to fall asleep while she was grading our papers.

"Miss Ismann, Miss Ismann," someone would call out.

With a loud snort, she'd raise her head and push back her wig that had fallen far over her forehead. The kids used to whisper about how she was completely bald underneath. They used to talk about how one time a boy had brought a fishing pole to school, and how, during one of Miss Ismann's naptimes, he had thrown the line over the large movable walls of our classroom that looked like big Legos. Supposedly, the hook had landed right on top of her wig and pulled it right up off her bald head. I imagine if it did happen, it probably took her a few minutes to wake up and even realize what had happened.

If you were one of the lucky ones, you got your paper graded while she was falling asleep, like I always seemed to. She would take her red pen and check the answers that were wrong and when she went to put your letter grade on it, that's when it happened. Just as she finished writing my "A" her head fell lower as if her wig were made of lead. As her head fell down, her hand started to drift on the paper like a psychic doing automatic writing.

"Miss Ismann," I said, gently taping her mushy shoulder.

"Ten divided by two, oh," she mumbled as she kick-started back to life. "Good job, Billy, you got an A."

"It's Mikey."

"What?"

"Never mind," I said.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1561036 2012-06-01T18:55:00-04:00 2012-08-01T05:12:19-04:00

Pandora Boxx http://www.huffingtonpost.com/pandora-boxx/
What was I afraid of? Afraid that I would sound stupid, afraid of being laughed at, afraid of being wrong, or afraid of what people would think? One? All? No matter what the root might have been, the solution became writing. In writing I was afraid of nothing. I became fearless. I became what I wanted to be, if only on paper. I could speak those things cluttered and clutching in my mind to be free. My writing became my second dream world, my second escape from the world I had grown to loathe, that world where I had felt like I didn't belong, that world where I felt I had no place, that world I so desperately wanted to escape. When I wrote, I did.

The root began back then, in my time of being painfully shy. The seed was planted in my head. Well, perhaps it wasn't planted then but was always there, instilled in me at birth. That power to create visions in words on paper has always been a powerful entity to me. Words are powerful creatures. They can mean so much yet so little at the same time. Words are given the power we grant them. They can be used to harm, but they can also be used to enlighten and transport the mind to endless adventures. To me, writing was creating worlds in which to dwell for a brief moment in time. At one point I wrote to escape the world I so longed to be far from, but now it's something that allows me to craft vast universes to revel and partake in.

In the roads of our individual lives, I believe we have a somewhat destined path. It is not laid out like a yellow brick road, so clear to the eye. There isn't just one way to get where you are meant to be. The road comes with its twists and turns, with detours and shortcuts. Life has its way of placing the signs along the way. It is up to us to pay attention and see them for what they are. Eventually, if you are open to it, you find your way along your road. You find your passion. You find what is in your soul to do. You fulfill your own personal destiny. It is most often the thing that you have done all your life, that thing that is in your nature to do. For me, my passion is writing. "I write, therefore I am" -- that's how I feel, without sounding too over dramatic. Being a writer is embedded in my very core. To me, being a writer is everything.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1450353 2012-04-25T16:18:00-04:00 2012-06-25T05:12:02-04:00

Pandora Boxx http://www.huffingtonpost.com/pandora-boxx/ "You send a letter with photographs,
And I'll tuck them under my dreams,
And if we wake up old beyond our years,
Not quite as brave as we seem,
It's just the pain that never disappears.
Tell me where is boy blue..."
--From "Boy Blue" by Cyndi Lauper

I'm flying, swirling through puffs of translucent pillows and beams of ardent light. The wind whistles past my ears, gently whispering words I cannot completely hear. They are with me, smiling like Cheshire Cats. This is my "Wonderland." No worries. No fears.

"Momma, I'm flying."

Like a bolt of reality lightning, my bedroom light flicks on. My peace, my dream world, shatters in an instant. I'm ripped from my serenity like a child from its mother's womb, forced to face my reality, wondering what horrors lie ahead.

"Hey, bud, time to get up. It's 7," my father shouts. "Get up! It's 7!" He sounds like he is speaking from the end of a long tunnel. He leaves my room, and I hear him go to the bathroom one door down from my room, to continue his morning ritual. My father is quite noted for repeating himself. Even in my groggy haze I know that in a few seconds he'll come back and tell me the same thing again, almost as if he's forgotten he said it only a few moments ago. Right on cue the door opens, and he yells, "Hey, it's 7, bud, time to get up! It's 7!" He is also noted for stating the obvious; I have a large digital clock brightly shining the time in my face.

I hate mornings.

I roll over and close my eyes in an attempt to go back there.

It didn't work.

I know I prayed it wouldn't, but now I wish I had just let it happen.

The lights flick on yet again.

"Get up! Come on, bud, it's 7. Get up!"

See? Mind you, this has all happened within 60 seconds.

Oh yeah, "bud," as he calls me, is some term of endearment, I suppose. I have always found it nauseating. "Buddy," as defined by Webster's dictionary, means "friend." That would not describe my relationship with my father, then or now, considering that he talked to the dog more than me. The same dictionary defines "bud" as "something that is still underdeveloped." Curious.

My eyes feel as heavy as bags of sand. I didn't think I was going to wake up at all today. I was scared I had done it. I feel like I am looking at my room through a telescope. I'm here, but I still feel like I am not. I have to get out of bed before he comes back. Dealing with him this morning is like listening to someone drag a metal shovel down a blacktop driveway.

That was the first time. There were more that followed. I remember them all. The idea of it seems so foreign to me now. I can't fathom being in that place again, though sometimes the thoughts creep into my mind for brief, fleeting moments. It isn't the same as it was then, though. Then, it was sheer desperation. It was that feeling that there was no way out.

Holding myself up against the wall outside the bathroom, I wait for what feels like decades. My father finishes bathing himself in cheap cologne and combing, for the 50th time, his three strands of hair. He walks out of the bathroom and walks by me as though I were a ghost.

I almost was.

I finally get into the bathroom. "Ew! Yuck," I say as I walk in. Clarity stabs into my head like the teeth of a piranha. A faint smell like roadkill and rotten eggs, barely masked by the drugstore cologne, lingers in the air. The smell almost makes me vomit. This is what's left of his hour-and-a-half-long dumping session. That is the second step after his first cup of coffee in the morning. The newspaper and the toilet seat, his home away from home. The whole ritual never changes and barely alters, ever.

As I stand above the toilet and watch the stream of cloudy melted butter swirl into the clear water, my mind wanders through scenarios of drudgery. I have to think of a way to stay home. I can't bear it today, especially not today.

As I wash my hands, I look into the mirror. My eyes feel heavy. My eyelids look like sandbags, filled to the breaking point. My pallid, lucid face looks like the ghost I feel I am.

What have I done?

My mom is in the kitchen making my lunch for school. She looks up as I walk in. My blue eyes meet their twins, and she quickly masks her slight concern at my appearance with her motherly smile, saying, "Good morning, Mikey." But I see it.

She knows.

There were only a few people I allowed access to my introverted world. My mother got access, but not to everything. If she had known what really was going on in my head, it would have destroyed her. I realize now that she would do anything for her children. Then, I couldn't even be honest with myself, let alone her. I was crying for help, but the cry wasn't loud enough that time. Not nearly as loud as it should have been. Not nearly as loud as it was later.

I sit down at the kitchen table, ready to eat my traditional morning breakfast: cereal, buttered toast, and orange juice. Across from me, with her perfect blonde pigtails, is my little sister, Susanne. She proceeds to stick her tongue out at me. I reciprocate and move the cereal box in front of her face so that I don't have to see her for the rest of my meal. Of course, this starts the first argument of the morning, because she wants to look at the other side of the cereal box.

"You're a barf bag!" she says.

"Oh, well, you've got dog breath!" I respond.

My sister tosses an orange at me, which lands dead center in my cereal bowl, splashing milk all over my face and clothes. I sit shocked for a moment while Susanne breaks into hysterics.

This is my way out.

"Mom!" I exclaim. "Susanne threw an orange at me, and it got milk all over me!"

My mom turns around to witness the great tragedy.

I know she thought it was funny. You couldn't help but laugh a little. I also knew I could use this as my golden ticket. I knew how hard it was for her to say no to me, especially when I was upset. In those days it really didn't take much for me to get out of school; any tiny excuse I could find, I would use. There were days when I just couldn't bear to go. That day, there were more than the usual reasons. I think she knew, maybe -- not the whole truth but her accepted truth. She at least realized how much I didn't like to go, but I don't know whether she knew the true reason why, or, if she did, whether she wanted to admit it to herself.

"I can't go to school!" I say. "I'm soaked, and it smells!"

This has to work! Please let this work!

"All right, Mikey, you can go to your room," she says, lovingly, yet there is an underlying hint of growing concern in her voice.

Yes!

"Fag." "Homo." "Queer." Every day. Every day. That's what I heard as I walked through the halls. That's what I heard when I couldn't catch a ball. Sometimes that's all I felt I ever heard. I didn't even know what those words meant. They were just horrid little gnats that gnawed at my skin, pecking away my flesh, stripping me to the bone.

I slip into my bed. As my bare feet slide down the sheets, I pierce the cold pockets, and my legs quickly dart back up to the fetal position. I pull all the comfort of the blankets around me like a cocoon. And I close my eyes.

"Momma, I'm flying..."]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1360805 2012-03-22T10:41:00-04:00 2012-05-22T05:12:01-04:00

Pandora Boxx http://www.huffingtonpost.com/pandora-boxx/ I wrote this a few years ago, but I felt so many thing still hold true. I feel like when we share our pain, we may help others alleviate their own. So here is a little story about a drag queen named Pandora Boxx.

I sit here in front of my mirror, staring at myself. I don't look vainly; I look contemplating, reflecting. I think about who I am, who I was, how I got where I am. I look at someone I barely recognize at times. I gaze at the image before me: long, golden-blond hair that flows just past the shoulders; deep-blood-red lips; long, dark eyelashes; touches of color around my eyes and on my cheeks. Sometimes it makes me laugh a little that only an hour ago I was a boy.

Looking in my eyes I see such emptiness tonight. My stone-gray eyes seem to reflect nothing but the bright lights of my dressing room. Could it be that I have reached the point where I can go no further? Is this circle of my life complete? Or is it just that ever-constant feeling of "why am I here?"

I look around my little dressing room, all decorated in pink and white, fabric draping all over the ceiling and the walls, pictures of Madonna, my muse, placed here and there. When I am in here, I almost forget the fact that I am in a dank, dirty basement of a nightclub. My only constant reminder is the loud, pounding music from upstairs, vibrating the ceilings and walls. I can feel the vibrations of the bass throughout my body. The old floorboards creak and groan with every step the dancing patrons make above me, dancing wildly with abandonment, not realizing that below them, this shy little boy is undergoing a complete transformation.

I jump slightly when I hear a loud knocking at my door.

"Ten minutes, Pandora," the muffled voice shouts.

Ten minutes. Another show, another crowd, just another night.

Pandora. Who is she? In a way she is me, and in another she is my creation, and in another she is what I wanted to be.

According to Greek Mythology, Pandora was the first woman created. She opened the forbidden box and unleashed all the evils into the world, leaving only man's hope inside. My choice in names would ironically prove to be very fitting. I never realized the Pandora's box I was opening when I created this character, or how many sides the box had. Although it was not evil I unleashed when I opened the box, it definitely came with its twists and turns.

I was born in Jamestown, N.Y. My earliest memories are very happy, normal childhood ones. I was well liked in school. I got good grades, although my teachers did say I was a little chatty. The turning point came in second grade, when my father's job transferred him to Olean, N.Y. This was the beginning of a change in me. It began my introversion into myself, and the self-hatred that has plagued much of my life.

Olean was very different. I no longer felt very comfortable. This was also when the teasing began, something that would haunt me for most of my life.

I remember walking down the halls of school or being outside during recess and praying, "Please don't let anybody say anything. Please don't let them hurt me today."

It rarely helped. The taunts and torment were daily occurrences. I don't even remember if there was a day that went by without me getting picked on. The names and phrases whispered and shouted: "Fag." "Is that a boy or a girl?" "Hey, faggot!" "Homo." "Queer."

Everything I was called and every hurtful phrase just forced me further into myself. I always wished that I could be one of the kids everyone liked, someone who was very popular. I wanted to be a part of a world I felt so distant from.

I remember walking into the boy's restroom of my elementary school only to find my nemesis and his friends. I wanted to leave without trying to make it look like I was running, but it was too late. He came up to me, backing me into a wall, pretending like he was going to kiss me. I turned my face away, not knowing what to do. He was bigger, and I was definitely not a fighter. He just laughed at me.

"What are you, some kind of faggot?" he said. "If some guy tried to do that to me, I'd punch him in the gut. You must be a faggot!"

"Yeah, look at the homo," his cohort said.

The funny thing is that at the time, I didn't even know what a "faggot" was. They were just words to me, words that were bad to me because that was the reason I was not like everyone else: I was a faggot.

The overture for the show begins to play. I can hear the clicks and patters of the shoes upstairs walking to their seats. The crowd starts to cheer and scream. I fumble through my rack of clothes, looking for the outfit I want to wear. I push through the different plush fabrics, the shades of black, pink, and blue. I think about how each outfit is like a different skin, a different mood, a different character.

Characters. That was my only escape when I was young. I discovered acting at a very young age. I could become someone else, if only for a brief moment. I could be anyone; I could escape my fears and my shyness. Most importantly, I could be somebody else besides me. When I discovered "drag," it was as if someone shined a floodlight on a dark room: the way the audience would scream and cheer for the performers, the way they loved them and accepted them. Everyone knew who they were.

Thus Pandora was born -- born out of need and desperation, born out of a longing and desire, the key to being free of the desolate world of shyness. I could be the one everyone wanted to know. I could be in the place I always wanted to be: the center of attention.

As Pandora I have been loved, adored, hated, revered, envied, and accepted. I became what I wanted, but with prices to pay. Pandora gave me the extroverted side I needed. She gave me the opportunity to break down walls and learn more about myself than I ever thought possible. She also created a sense of duality inside me, a feeling that I was only liked or accepted when I wore that mask. I began to feel lost in Pandora, that she was taking over my life. I felt I was leading two very separate lives.

Only recently do I feel the beginning of a true balance in what I do and who I am. I have a true yin and yang. I have the equality I have been searching for, to love what I do without letting it consume me.

As I walk up the small staircase to the stage, I glance at myself one last time. I don't see Pandora; I see me. I see the actor, the performer, the character. I see through all the makeup and the costumes to see just me. I see where I have been and what I have been through. I see heartache and tears. I see laughter and joy. I see triumph and pain. I see hope. What I thought was emptiness in my eyes was not emptiness but an ending. It was an ending to hatred and to the prison I kept myself within. This moment in time is one I will remember forever. This was an ending but also a beginning. It is the beginning of a new road to my life, because for the first time, when I look into that mirror, I like what I see.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1304932 2012-02-28T13:55:00-05:00 2012-04-29T05:12:01-04:00

Pandora Boxx http://www.huffingtonpost.com/pandora-boxx/
Halfway through second grade, I came home to our upstairs apartment, which was in my grandmother's house. My mother stood in the kitchen wearing her favorite canary-yellow bell-bottoms with the waist almost at her armpits. I always thought she looked like a blonde Cher, with her long hair, parted in the middle, that went almost to her thighs, and the snow-white eyeshadow that went from lid to brow. Usually she greeted me with her big, warm smile, but that day was different. She had this look on her face like someone had kicked her in the shin but gave her a wad of cash right after.

"What's wrong, Mommy?" I asked.

"Nothing's wrong, Mikey, but I have to tell you something," she said as she pushed her long, blonde hair behind her ear.

"What?"

My mother guided me to one of the rainbow-sherbet-colored kitchen chairs. I just hoped she wouldn't tell me that The Muppet Show had been cancelled. She poured me a large class of whole milk and sat in the chair next to me.

"You dad is being transferred," she said, looking into my eyes.

"What's that mean?"

"It means that we have to move to a new town."

"But what about everyone here? Are they coming, too?"

"No. It's just us. You, me, your daddy, and Susanne."

I felt as though I was underwater. I continued to listen to my mother talk about how my father was going to make more money and that we'd have a house of our own, but all I could think about was whom I was going to talk to and whom I would play with. It felt like the end to my 7-year-old life. I wouldn't even be able to finish the second grade at Northside. I was going to have to transfer in the middle of the school year. All I could think about was the horrors that awaited me in this place called Olean. Would I have a wild, she-beast teacher with hair like mangled roadkill and breath like melted metal? Or would there be little gremlin students who chanted bizarre songs and spoke in ridiculous rhymes? Or maybe this new house would hold the ghost of a 7-year-old who died when his heart broke into a zillion pieces.

The day we moved was warm and sunny. It felt like the world was sticking its tongue out at me, although by this time I was a little more excited. I was anxious to have a yard the size of a football field and a big forest behind it. That day I got to go to school for half the day, mainly to see my friends one last time. Everyone in the class had made me going-away cards out of construction paper, glitter, and noodles, all the standard grade-school fare. Nowhere else can you make something out of old food and mismatched, ripped-up paper and have people proclaim it a "work of art." Well, maybe in Manhattan.

As I waved goodbye to my adoring fans, my mother led me down the Northside hallway, past my second-grade classroom, and then past Mrs. Bowling's first-grade classroom. Mrs. Bowling glanced out of her room and stared down her librarian spectacles at me, her pinched lips held firmly in place. I always thought she looked like the old maid on my deck of Old Maid playing cards.

My mother and I walked by the boy's lavatory, and I thought of the time during the prior year when my friend Corey and I hid in the stalls to scare chubby Martin as he walked into the bathroom. As we jumped out and yelled, we looked down the long corridor of the lavatory, and there was Mrs. Bowling in the doorway, waiting. I knew what was coming next. Everyone whispered about the notorious Bowling Spank Machine.

Corey walked out before me as I began to wash my hands. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her hand grab his arm, like the claw in a crane game clamped onto a stuffed panda bear, while her other arm went high up in the air and smacked down on his butt with the gusto of a pro golfer driving from the tee. It sounded as if she had broken his bones, or hers. I imagined that her bones were very brittle, given that I thought she was older than dirt. I washed my hands so much that they began to look like pieces of raw meat. I tried to walk to the paper towel dispenser as slowly as I could manage. I dried my hands until the paper felt like sandpaper scraping the rest of my skin away. I put my head down and began the walk of shame toward my turn in the dreaded machine. The hand of doom went up and, in a split second, cracked on target. It felt like someone had just burned me with a cigarette the size of a grapefruit. I quickly walked back to the classroom and sat down, making sure to sit on the unbruised cheek.

"You know, I'd hate to get one of Mrs. Bowling's spankings," said know-it-all Norman. "I heard they really hurt."

"Yeah," I said. "I'd hate it, too."

I don't think it was the first time I had ever lied, but it was then that I realized that it was much better to save face, to lie rather than admit one's shameful moments. I never spoke of my spanking to anyone, especially not my mother.

Now, my mother and I continued walking down the hallway, past the gymnasium where I had had my special gym class. I'd only been in it for a short time; I was in either kindergarten or first grade when I was put in the class. I've always thought of myself as athletically challenged, but I don't know if I'd go as far as saying I needed a special-needs phys ed class. The whole gym thing never made much sense to me. I guess I never really understood the point of taking a large, textured, rubber ball and hurling it as hard as you could at someone's face. Maybe I never saw the point because it was usually my face. I don't remember the specifics of the class, just that I was in it. I can't even begin to imagine what the hell we actually did. Would we have jump-roped without the rope or the jumping? Or instead of "Duck, Duck, Goose," would we have played "Duck, Duck" because they didn't want to strain us by actually making us run?

The gymnasium also doubled as the school auditorium, where I had had my stage debut in a Christmas concert. I was part of the chorus singing along to one of the 10 standard Christmas songs. According to my mother, who sat proudly in the audience, along with my father, my aunt, my grandmother, and my baby sister, I began to sing along with my fellow classmates, and suddenly I began to slowly sink down to the floor. I remained on the floor until the concert was over, and then I stood up and walked off with the rest of my class. I don't remember this at all. but perhaps I purposely blocked it out of my memory. I later redeemed myself in the Christmas play the following year, where I was to play the Easter Bunny.

The day I got that part, I rushed home from school and cheered, "Mommy, I'm going to be in the Christmas play!"

"Oh, that's nice, dear," she said with a soft smile. "What are you playing?"

"I'm going to be the Easter Bunny."

My mother stared blankly at me for a moment, perhaps desperately seeking something to say.

"That's nice," she finally said, her standard reply when she had no clue what to say, or when she got a gift she hated. "But Mikey, why is there an Easter Bunny in a play about Christmas?"

I sat there for a second with a glazed look in my eyes and said, "I dunno."

Apparently the bunny got confused as to which holiday it was and ended up coming down the chimney, or something to that effect. Either way, I had my first major role. Fittingly, it was a bunny, my favorite animal. At age 5, my first pet had been my rabbit Buttercup, named because she and the flower were similar in color. I used to draw pictures of her, and one of my drawings won the first prize in a contest and was going to be sold as an Easter greeting card. The picture I drew was a boy (well, actually, it was a red box with something that resembled a square head with two black-dot eyes and a black-line smile) who had a rabbit (or a big, yellow blob, also with black-dot eyes and a black-line smile) on a leash. This was a self-portrait, and yes, I did walk Buttercup on a little leash around our backyard. The card read on the outside, "Get in the Easter habit..." and on the inside it said, "Go out and walk your rabbit!" I only did the artwork, not the moving poetry that accompanied the card. I also got my name and picture in the local paper. For this incarnation of my rabbit habit, my mom made my full bunny costume (which I wore for Halloween the following year, and then, when my sister was old enough, she wore it). This time I actually said my lines and remained standing for the duration of the performance.

When we reached the entrance of the school, our Creamsicle-colored Chevy Oldsmobile was parked in front. My father sat in the driver's seat smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer. My little sister sat in the back of the car. She pointed her stubby finger at me and cried out, "Mikey!"

Susanne was just at the age of discovering the wonders of speech. I like to say her first word was "Mikey," but I know it was something like "dada" or "mama." I do, however, know that her first full sentence was, "I go ask Mikey."

One night my mother said to my sister, "Susanne, you need to put your toys away, because it's bedtime."

"You sure? I go ask Mikey."

"I am sure. I am your mother. I know when it's bedtime."

"No, I go ask Mikey."

That was the time I had power. I had a little disciple who would listen to me above her own mother. I wish I could say I never used it to my advantage, but that would be lying. Of course, I can't lie, because pictures don't lie. I had taught my sister that when people told her to "smile pretty," what they meant was for her to crinkle her nose and squint her eyes and breathe quickly through her nose. So every time my mother would say, "Smile pretty, Susanne," that's what she got, and with that, photographic evidence of my deviance.

My father beeped the horn and yelled some indecipherable obscenity. My mother looked down at me and grabbed my hand.

"It'll be OK, Mikey. We'll be better off."

"OK, Mommy."

I don't know if she was trying to convince me or to reassure herself, but either way, we climbed into the orange monster we called a car. We were off to this placed called Olean, which sounded to me like some town where they played banjo with their toes, and you were expected to marry your first cousin. I didn't have much of a choice, though, being 7 and all. I thought maybe I could join the circus and be a carnie for the rest of my life, either cleaning up piles of elephant poop taller than I was or getting shot out of a cannon. For a fleeting moment I actually considered it, but then I thought it was probably best to just go with my family. Besides, clowns scared the shit out of me.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1251097 2012-02-03T18:27:00-05:00 2012-04-04T05:12:01-04:00

Pandora Boxx http://www.huffingtonpost.com/pandora-boxx/
Who the hell are these so-called normal people? It's really ridiculous when you think about it. There is no such thing as normal. Normal people to one person are complete oddities to someone else. But for some reason, human beings have this subconscious fear of what they don't know, don't understand, or deep down are themselves. So we make fun. We verbally jab at people to make ourselves feel better. What other reason would kids have for tormenting other kids for being gay? I hated every time I was picked on, but in hindsight, it made me who I am today. It gave me a thicker skin. It still hurts when someone says something today, and if anyone tells you it doesn't, that person is a complete liar. Nevertheless, now I feel I'm able to cope with it better.

From my earliest memory, I knew I was different from most. I just didn't know what it was that made me different. My mother used to say that aliens had brought me to Earth to test her. If those aliens were cross-dressers with a passion for pop divas, she might be right. I wasn't the easiest child. Yes, even then, I was ready to have my diva status. I was also painfully shy. So my mother spoke for me, a lot. Even to this day, I catch her doing it. She thought she was protecting me, but she was really covering me with a security blanket and then throwing me to the wolves. I was totally ill-prepared for the type of mental abuse I would receive on a daily basis. It is abuse. Mental abuse can be just as damaging as physical abuse, just without the visible scars. All the taunts and jeers just told me that I wasn't good enough, that I wasn't worthy, that I was nobody. I got it from school, and then I would return home, where my father would either ignore me or scream at me because I hadn't put the cap on the milk jug or some other miniscule thing.

I had friends, I had my mother, and I had my sister (when she was younger, at least; popular teenage girls and older gay brothers do not always mix well), but still there were so many times I felt utterly alone. Invisible. I just wanted someone to notice me or care about me. I just wanted validation. Validation, I've learned, is what most people want. We want someone to validate us. We seek it all the time, through our relationships, our jobs, our children. We just want someone to say that we are important and we are valued. We just want simple validation. I wanted it so bad at one point in my life that I tried to take my own life to get it. It was the ultimate cry for help. I needed someone so desperately to love me and make me feel whole. The reality of it was that there were already so many people around me who did, but I couldn't see it through my pain. I couldn't see the love around me because I had no love in my heart for myself. I believed I was this horrible person because everyone had made fun of me. I let them take control of my life even when they weren't in it any longer. I was so damaged that I couldn't see that all I really needed was myself. I needed the love from myself.

Fag. Homo. Queer. To that I say, "Yes I am!" I am all those things that they said I was. I am effeminate. I do like other men. I do walk with a swish. I am proud to be a gay man. I am proud to be who I am, and who I always was deep inside the shell of that scared little boy. I wear those names as badges of honor now. I know that those were the words spoken by ignorant children who were raised by ignorant parents. I know that ignorance is the major downfall of the human race. Maya Angelou says, "When you know better, you do better." I know better, and I am doing better. It is through sharing our life experiences that we all begin to realize that we are not so different from each other. We all just want to be loved.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1170587 2011-12-28T12:32:00-05:00 2012-02-27T05:12:01-05:00

Pandora Boxx http://www.huffingtonpost.com/pandora-boxx/
I try to come up with things I know I can accomplish; that way, I don't wallow around in self-pity when I don't live up to them. For example, don't say, "I'm going to finally lose that extra weight." You'll inevitably fail. You'll fail not just because you are addicted to doughnuts but also because a resolution made on New Year's Eve is just an empty promise made under pressure. Save the life-changing things for when you are completely ready. Use New Year's Eve to make those important but not necessarily life-changing goals.

I've come up with my top list of new year's resolutions for 2012. If you like them feel, free to use them yourself (with royalty fees and full credit, of course).

I, Pandora Boxx, do hereby resolutionify (I just made that word up) the following:

• I will try to not be late anymore, but as Blanche Devereaux says, "Better late than pregnant."



• I will be more of a giver this year. I'm a receiver or giver, depending on the situation; I just do what I need to do. 2011 is the year of giving, or receiving... oh, hell, just get the job done.



• I will not drink as much Butterbeer before trying to cast a levitation spell. Wingardium leviosah! Oh, wait, it's "leviosa," not "leviosah"!



• I will stop yelling out "cock party!" in rooms of cute guys just to see who takes me up on the offer. OK, I'm lying. I'm totally not going to stop doing that.



• I will drink more alcohol and eat less healthy, nutritious food. Wait, that doesn't sound right. Oh, well, I'll just go with it.



• I will fuck my way to the D-list.



• I will stop telling people that Taylor Lautner is my super-secret boyfriend. Clearly, he's straight.



• I will not get mad at Rick Perry. Maybe like gay people, assholes are born that way, too.



• I will stop regifting things I borrow from other people's houses.



• I will stop singing "I Want to Know What Love Is" at the top of my lungs to people crossing the street while I'm waiting at red lights.



• I will spread the truth to all ladies that if a guy is wicked sparkly in the daylight and won't fuck you, he is a big 'mo, not a vampire.



• I promise to give any gay guy a dirty sanchez when he says he's "straight-acting" or is looking for someone "straight-acting." Straight guys don't suck dick, moron.



• I will try and be fancy like Ke$ha and be P&ora. Uh, never mind, cuz th@ sux.



• I will accept the fact that you can't please everyone, and trying to just ends up giving you sore knees.



• I will be as gay as I possibly can be. Yay, gay!

I've certainly got my work cut out for me for 2012! But I feel like with enough determination and homemade moonshine and the right pair of heels, anything is possible. Here's to all of you having a wonderful new year. Live long and prosper, as Spock says.

For more of my new year's resolutions, check out the video version, with all different resolutions, on my YouTube channel.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1150204 2011-12-16T01:59:00-05:00 2012-02-14T05:12:02-05:00

Pandora Boxx http://www.huffingtonpost.com/pandora-boxx/ fa, la, la, la, la, la, blah, blah, blah. Now don't misunderstand, I'm no Scrooge by any means. I like Christmas and all that jazz, but sometimes the holiday season gets to be a little much. It's like, take the holidays last year, rinse, and repeat. If one more drunk Santa grabs my butt, I swear I will... OK, I'll admit I kind of like the attention. So how do you deal with the cray-cray holiday? Well, I've come up with a list of the top three things to help you cope with the jingle balls' bells' season.

1. Alcohol

This is, of course, the number-one way to deal with any overwhelming holiday situation. Do you really want to be sober when you are forced listen to Aunt Bitty talking about her gout again? Now, I'm not promoting alcoholism or anything like that, but a shot of tequila has been known to ease the family pain.

Tricking people into buying you a drink can be productive and fun. Here are a few lines you can use: "I'm thirsty" (then stare until they buy you a drink), and, "Drinking makes me horny!" (but be careful with this one, as it could also prevent you from getting lit, ugly). You can also charge drinks to the tab of someone you don't like. Not that I've ever done that one.

If all else fails, you may resort to this: drink other people's drinks. Now, be careful whose drink you are drinking; we don't want a scorching case of mouth herpes for the holidays, do we? Families are forgiving, but family photos are not. It's best to avoid heavy-hitting sluts and those who look like they like to toss a good salad, if you know what I mean (I know you do). A simple distraction: "Oh my god, is that Cher?" or, "Look, something shiny!" Then grab that drink and chug it down faster than a hooker in winter. Blam! You got your liquor on!

2. Me Time

We often get all caught up in thinking about other people during this time of the year, but don't forget that the most important person is you! Don't neglect you, because in the end, you'll regret it. Take a minute and do something lovely for yourself. Go ahead, eat those cookies you've been drooling over! I mean not the whole cookie jar, girl. It's called moderation. Buy a little something for yourself, something that, even if you told everyone you wanted it, you know they still wouldn't get for you. Order up a ho. You heard me right. Look on that contact list and text that "special" person. You know what I mean. The one who is listed as "Some Hot Guy" in your phone because you don't remember his name. Tell him it's Christmas and you want your package.

3. An Escape Clause

This time of the year tends to bring about those chance meetings with people you thought were dead, or wished they were. The holidays always seem to summon forth that trash that just won't burn. A properly executed statement can free you from another tedious conversation with someone you really don't care about.

The Top 10 Things I Like to Say to Get Away from Ignunt-Ass People:

1. "I just gotta dance!" (Dance. It's better when there's no music.)



2. "Who wants to butter me?"



3. "It's funny: the more I drink, the uglier you get."



4. "My meds totally just wore off."



5. "I just shit myself."



6. "ZOMBIE!" (Run.)



7. "I can't wait for Lindsay Lohan's next movie."



8. "Teach me how to pee." (Wipe your wet hand on their hand.)



9. "I just had butt sex with a dog."



10. "I don't like you."

There's my list, and a list within a list. I guess I like lists. Anyways, the holidays aren't all bad. They certainly can be fun, too. Hopefully my little guide can make it an even more festive holiday for you. When you've got the holiday blues, always focus on something positive. Try thinking things like, "I'm thankful for my wonderful friends," or, "I make this ugly Christmas sweater look good," or, "Thank God I'm not Rick Perry." Happy holidays!]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1033913 2011-11-01T16:46:00-04:00 2012-01-01T05:12:01-05:00

Pandora Boxx http://www.huffingtonpost.com/pandora-boxx/
The trouble was, what do I write about? I've been really swamped with my "Cooter!" Not my actual cooter, since I don't have one, but my debut single. I've been out on my Cooter Tour. Yes, I did realize all the clever puns that go along with a song called "Cooter!" All this "Cooter!" promotion has had me on a lot of flights, sometimes flying across the country several times in one week. So I decided I should share some things I've learned that will take you from an annoying flyer whom everyone secretly wants to jettison, to a fabulous flyer and pal to flight attendants everywhere.

• Do not pack a carry-on bag that you cannot, in fact, carry on. No one wants to watch a 90-pound woman try and lift a 100-pound carry-on bag and topple into a row of people like dominos. Pay the $25 and check your damn bag.



• When the flight attendants are politely asking you to get out of the aisle once you find your row, do it! No one wants to be delayed by your slow ass trying to find things in your bag that you should have taken out before you got on the plane. Cop a squat, bitch.



• When exiting the plane, let the people in front of you get out of their seats and go before you. That's just common courtesy, you rude turd. If you have a really close connecting flight, then say, "Excuse me, I have a really close connection." Most likely people will let you go.



• Big ass men, please note where your seat is and where your elbows should go. They do not belong halfway across the seat next to you. As attractive as you may think you are, no one wants your hairy elbows in their ribcage through another showing of Jane Eyre. Also, close your damn legs. I don't care how big your balls are; you are taking up too much room.



• Parents, please drug your overactive, hyperactive, no-mannered children. I'm not talking about pharmaceutical grade here. Just a little Benadryl or something. No one wants to hear your unruly child scream and yell or kick the seat repeatedly and jump up and down for six god damn hours. (Yes, Flight 963, Seats 22A, B, and C, I am specifically talking to you and your horrid parenting skills.)



• The seatbelt sign is on. Come on, do I need to spell it out for you? Especially taxiing to the gate or trying to take off.



• Turn your phone off! You are not that important.



• There is almost always someone behind you. Watch that seat! Rattling around or throwing your seat back can knock someone's Bloody Mary in their lap. Just realize that there are other people who paid money to be on this flight, too.



• Listen to the god damn announcements. Everything you need to know was told to you while you were on the phone talking about your husband's gout.



• Flight attendants do not deserve your rudeness. They are there to provide safety for your ass and give you snacks as a side job. My wigs off to all the flight attendants who do a fabulous job!

Can you tell I have some pent-up frustrations about flying? I vented and now I feel better. Honestly, though, it's all about common sense. That goes with everything in life. Just realize that you are not the only person who matters in the world. If more people acted with a touch of common sense and humility, just think how much better the world would be to live in.

P.S. Make sure to watch my "Cooter!" music video on YouTube! (Yes, a little shameless self-promotion.)]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1003901 2011-10-11T10:53:00-04:00 2011-12-11T05:12:01-05:00

Pandora Boxx http://www.huffingtonpost.com/pandora-boxx/
If you were really paying attention to what you were reading, you'll have realized that I was making it up. Hopefully you realized that Mary Todd would have never worn yellow chiffon! Or maybe that Abraham Lincoln was president from 1861 to 1865, which is not 300 years ago. Or maybe that I'm not 300 years old. Or am I?

I guess I've had two coming-outs. I'm like a greedy debutante or something. I came out as a raging homosexual and then a fancy fake lady. They actually were about two months apart, so we'll just combined them into one. I remember my first time in drag so well. I was hideous! Let me explain. My friend and I got invited to a drag party where the fabulous queens of the city of Rochester, N.Y. were going to put a bunch of newbies in drag for the first time. I went, pretending like I didn't really want to, even though I had stolen my sister's tights and an ugly sundress (which I did not wear that time but mistakenly did another). So we get there, and everyone is having fun and getting in drag. Where did it all go wrong? Wannabe queens, let me give you some advice:

1. Never go to a queen's house for her drag party and bring her ex-boyfriend as your new boyfriend (mistake 1).



2. Never let said drag queen put you in drag, even if it seems she's being really nice (mistake 2).



3. Never trust a guy who says his ex is having trouble "letting go" (mistake 3).

Needless to say, when Heather Skye was finished, I looked like a refugee hooker who had been strung out on meth for two weeks and then repeatedly punched in both eyes with a prosthetic arm. Oh, the look of glory on her face (drag queens always mix up pronouns; "she" was in reality a "he," of course) when she was finished. I just thought she was proud of her work. Silly kid.

Darienne Lake (another fabulous Rochester drag queen) walked into the room and jumped back like she had just seen my head spin around à la Linda Blair in The Exorcist. Yes people, it was that bad. Darienne took me to the bathroom mirror, and I saw myself for the first time. I felt like I had played that Bloody Mary game, where you turn around in circles saying "Bloody Mary" three times and her spirit appears in the mirror to kill you. Darienne told me to squint my eyes and lean back, and that's how you are supposed to look at yourself when you are in drag. Yep. She was right. With my eyes practically closed, I did look almost pretty. She was at least trying to make me feel better.

I still went out with my horrid makeup and wearing one of Heather's wigs and a dress and heels that were too big for me. After a few sneaky drinks (I was underage; don't drink at bars if you are underage: it can close a bar down, which I now know), I clomped around almost thinking I was a diva. Despite it all, I still had an amazing time. A few times, from behind, I even got mistaken for Heather. I did say from behind. Heather was a stunningly gorgeous queen, and that night I was not. I did tell her that people kept thinking I was her. Good God, that must have made her furious!

For a while, we were bitter rivals, fueled by the guy who played us and by bored people stirring the pot. Years later, when Heather and I were actually friends, we would laugh about all of that. I told her that I thought that if it wasn't for him, we'd probably have been friends from the beginning.

Heather passed away this year. It surprised all of us. I actually look back at this story with very fond memories, and I know something now that I didn't know then: if I were in her place, I would have done the same damn thing. What that night did teach me is that true fabulousity comes from within. So thank you, Heather Skye! I take my wig off to you. I know your star is shining brightly high up in the sky.]]>