That was the holiday season.

Gigi and Gibson arrived at 5am on Christmas Day with three powdered wigs and a dog in tow. Brittany had just arrived back herself from her cross-country road trip, and we had dressed the apartment in some particularly festive tinsel (deluxe of course) from Big D's discount store on 14th ST. We all ate a particularly odd combination of asparagus, mashed potato and salad then took in the '90s delights of Parker Posey in "The House of Yes". Madame Dax had missed his flight back to NYC after taking himself on a rather modest trip to Vegas but made up for his absence on Christmas Day by arriving back at 7.25 am on the 26th and throwing a fit over the state of affairs in the living room. The furniture was indeed in disarray, and yes there were several thousands unwashed plates, but really the mess did not even begin to compare to the scale of destruction wrought on the place by a House of Box extravaganza.

Boxing Day saw little action until it was remembered that Carmelita Tropicana was throwing a party at The Marquee on Bowery. Since it was a cocktail party we all wore cocktail dresses, but mistakenly sunk a bottle of red in the cab and arrived a little too raucous. The gathering comprised a significant slew of the most respected performance artists of the '70s through '90s; Peggy Shaw, Holly Hughes and Carmelita herself. We, in our sequined boob tubes, neon furs, wigs and heels totally destroyed the calm atmosphere of dialogue within thirty seconds. Wildly drunk, our group proceeded to smash the Christmas decorations, pass out on the bar, steal Holly Hughes' fries and alienate ourselves entirely. And that was only the beginning of an evening I can't remember terribly well. At Eastern Bloc, after embarrassing ourselves further on the pole, Gina set her sights on the goat's head hanging from the wall. Somehow she convinced me that we needed it and persuaded me to help her climb onto the ATM (whilst it was in use!) and take it down from the wall. We ate pizza after that then, realising we were all too drunk to stand we took a cab home, it was 11.36. Madame Dax never made it back to Williamsburg, he went to visit a new friend on 112th St, making his way back at 9am from Spanish Harlem in a black chiffon dress and pearls.

The following evening I finally got to perform at the Slipper Room, as part of the Cockabilly Records documentary premiere. The documentary itself wouldn't play, nor in fact would my CD, which skipped wildly. Needless to say I doubt that I'll be seeing much more of the Slipper Room stage anytime soon.

For the rest of the week Gigi and I set about pulling off our outrageously over the top NYE performance installation. What initially was to be a few kids in Grecian robes splashing about in the pool for New Year's Eve quickly turned into a mammoth production with a wig maker, a costumier, three make-up artists, four dancers and a choreographer. There were fittings and rehearsals and color consultations and endless back and forths with the hosting hotel regarding facilities. It turned out gorgeously though, after four hours of hair and make-up Gigi, Vanessa, Ryan and I looked like the cast of "Marie-Antoinette" after a run in with the Cockettes. The party was a wonderful selection of downtown misfits who had made it to Times Square, though scandalously many people were turned away and even insulted by the hotel staff who were horrified by the 'freakshow' they saw unfolding. I myself was unaware of this drama, contenting myself with breaking up a few fist fights and making sure that everyone who needed a drink got one. At some point I found myself on the floor of the shower in room 308, with Gigi, Sharyn, Kristahn, Geo, Spooky, the Madame and a few others, all snowed up and singing the Carpenters. This continued until well past dawn, quite sure how it ended I'm not sure, but I did have the good sense to remove the face that had been so painstakingly painted onto my head before I fell asleep.