Pineapple Radio is a podcast dedicated to the tv series Psych.
"Don’t Dream It, Be It." This song, from the Rocky Horror Picture Show, is the perfect song for Regina Kane, one of Robert’s personalities in "Who Ya Gonna Call." Like Frank ‘n Furter, she wished for nothing more than to dress the dream, not caring that the body she inhabited belonged to a terrified artist suffering from Dissociative Identity Disorder. It is no coincidence that cult classic The Rocky Horror Picture Show emerged into iconic grandeur; with its ultimate acceptance of society’s outcasts and sweet whispers of love and freedom, it has influenced teenagers and young adults for decades. The community that really thrived on the exposure, however, has been the glamorous, feather-crazed, Judy Garland-adoring drag queens! Yes, you over there: A little more leg, please? Hoopla! There is nothing sexier than a confident man in drag! Royalty rarely travels alone; that’s such a drag. It is, after all, an exhausting life, waving at the commoners from a golden chariot all day, and a queen needs a king to keep her sane. Enter the drag kings! To these cross-dressing women I bow in jealous admiration. It is unfortunate (for this article) that my curved features are too female to convincingly pull off a day in the life of a drag king. Oh, how I would have enjoyed sharing my adventures, to have peeked into the other team’s kitchen to see if there’s a recipe I could use to marinate the fish I caught, while I tried my darnedest to be accepted as one of the boys without the horror of ending up like Hilary Swank’s character in Boys Don’t Cry. Now let’s pretend for a single moment that the writer of this article would have been able to pull this off: Luckily, the PEE-ZEE was delivered in time for "Expedition Johnson" to take place. With more confidence than I felt, I entered Testosterone Terrain, Pee-Pee Paradise, the Bog of Eternal Stench. Three men were already present, each in a different stage of their visit. I had the choice between a urinal in between two rather large, Harley Davidson-enthusiast types, or one at the far left; and, to my infinite shame, I couldn’t find the courage to position myself in between Easy Rider‘s Billy and Wyatt. Noticing that the men were looking straight ahead, a type of behaviour that seemed odd and unnatural to someone who enjoys to let her eyes wander around a room, I headed toward the urinal of my choice, took the PEE-ZEE out of my pocket, and unzipped. There was no way I was going to be unmasked as a girl by accidentally deviating male eyes, so I made sure to casually place my right hand on the ceramic support wall, making it harder for my silver-haired neighbour to peek. Did I mention that I have wandering eyes? When they met his not-so-euphoric ice-blue irises, I was unable to utter an apology and just stared back at him, my mouth opening and closing like a haddock on shore. But, alas, the above is merely a product of my crazed imagination, and this writer headed straight for the metaphorical wall. Suddenly, beautiful sparks of sunlight appear out of nowhere, that terrifying wall right in front of me crumbles into many pieces of delicious chocolate, and Celine Dion sings "I’m Your Lady" to me… Darn her for ruining an otherwise perfect moment! Well, I can always just cover my ears and remain one happy dudette. The vision behind the chocolate is clear: I’m going Back to the Future III! All right, not as far back as that. But hey, why don’t you hop in and take Doc’s DeLorean for a ride to my past: August 1997. The year in which Bill Clinton was inaugurated for his second term; the Irish were finally able to legally divorce; Dolly became the most popular name for clones; Che Guevara’s remains were returned to, and buried in, Cuba; and I won a lip syncing competition in my sister’s village. As a man. This as a fact isn’t all that special. Growing up I entered many lip syncing contests, and in nearly all of them I portrayed a singer from the opposite sex. As the DeLorean crashes into a windmill, I realise what pulled us here. On August 16th 1997, the girl who never bothered to look like a man, decided to transform herself from a busty nineteen year-old into a creature that could possibly, in a dark alley, if you were very, very drunk, be mistaken for a guy. With boobs. Standing topless in my sister’s bathroom, my two year-old nephew crying for attention on the floor, I tried, searing in nerves, to find the patience to explain to her exactly what I wanted her to do. In theory, and in the movies, it seems so easy to tightly roll a piece of cloth around someone’s upper body, but I can assure you that’s a lie. We must have tried to make a start for fifteen minutes, for every time the cloth just ran with the movement; it just didn’t want to stay put. Then, finally, we made the first half meter into a rope, wrapped that around me into a knot, and off we went. Bless her for not wanting to hurt me; I encouraged her to really make it tight. We were both surprised how much strength it took for her to take my breast away, and I wouldn’t be surprised if one day she’d blame arthritis on me. Unable to move like a normal person, let alone a smooth Latin-American man, I was led through the crowd by my dear sister, into the small, communal park where the event took place. Within moments of arriving, a tall Italian man, who quite possibly had drank too much beer, imposed himself on us. He huffed, and he puffed, and he crashed and burned as he hit on my blonde, innocent sister under my scrutinizing, protective, and overall pitying look. Each time he directed his attention on me, I raised an eyebrow and made a discouraging sound, unwilling to engage in a conversation with someone I had no interest in as a person, and who would only make me lose my focus so close before my performance. If you imagine Lassiter’s expression while, in his opinion, unworthy men hit on his sister Lauren, you’d have me pictured perfectly. Taking three breaths a minute, almost flat-breasted, with my George Michael-like, kohl-penciled stubble, and a brown fedora; I walked on stage to give the performance of my lifetime. (Which was, Antiono Banderas’s portrayal of Che Guevara, "And the Money Kept Rolling In (and Out)," from the musical Evita.) Afterward, the Italian found me relaxing underneath a Conker tree, and to my amusement he confessed that up until the point when he heard me speak to the host on stage after the act, he had assumed I was a man. I didn’t have to look down to my chest to know that I was bulging exceedingly in certain areas still. To this day I don’t know if this man, after getting nowhere with my sister, mistakenly thought that flattery was the way ‘in’ with me, or that he had truly consumed so much beer that I looked like a dude to him. Either way, I laughed, I smiled, I took a much needed breath, and ran. Back, to the future. Two years later, I’d discovered the moonlit shores of Transylvania, the home planet of the unforgettable characters from The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and entered that same stage as a cross-breed between a Wal-Mart version of Lady Gaga and Gary Glitter, lip syncing to "Sweet Transvestite." There are still group therapy sessions going on at the local church for those unfortunate enough to witness me that day. Does that bother me, though? Not at all. People should enjoy living to the fullest, and not care too much about others’ opinions. If they don’t like (it), they can pretend to be working it in the men’s room, and just look the other way. That is how it should be: be tolerant of each other, and accept those who are different for who they are. Realise that it’s our differences that make us work as a species. What sets us apart in animal kingdom is our creativity. Embrace that gift, explore it inch by inch, and make it your own. There’s no shame in being fabulous as long as you are who you are. Martin Brody or Regina Kane: You are your own special creation!
