11/15/04 – Portland, OR

This blog was originally posted to The Dresden Dolls Diary.


We had a rainy day off and I spent a majority of it losing myself in the best bookstore I’ve ever seen (www.powells.com ). I picked up what I am pretty sure is my new favorite book – “Girl Culture” by Lauren Greenfield – an unvelievably beautiful and terrifying photo collection. Nothing like the real thing, but I found some online images from the book at www.digitaljournalist.org/issue0301/lg_index.html . Girls at weight-loss camp. Prom queens. Anorexics. Three-year olds in lipstick. Amanda Heaven. Look closely at the captions.
Then I joined forces with some of the folks from Fran Sanchez (the name we’ve finally settled on for the tour bus) and headed to Mary’s Club, Portland’s first topless bar, which is now a full-on nekkid strip joint. Not that I’m a massive connoisseur, but I’ve been to my fair share of tit bars and strip joints and this one was a classic. No cover, very cheap drinks, and decor that resmebled a cross between a 50’s family Italian restaurant, a rec room and a FunWorld.
There were only three girls working there, rotating every three songs. There was no DJ, which was also a first for me…the girls just selected tunes from a jukebox that was nailed to the wall next to the stage. One girl was insanely thin, blond and boring. The second girl had complete control over the muscles in her tits (we spent all night trying to figure out whether they were faux or not) and did a wonderful trick of pretending to tug them into the air with invisible strings. But our favorite was girl number three, Carmen, who was tattooed from head to toe and looked like full-on suicide girl material, buddy holly glasses and all.

I’ve had two bizarre dreams lately.

In the first one, I was eight months pregnant. This was one of those intensely vivid dreams, in which I could feel every detail down to the scratchy pinch of my maternity-pants waistband being ever-so-slightly too tight. I refused to name a father. I’d say it was more of a nightmare, actually.

The next night made up for it. I dreamt that John Lennon wound up at my apartment and I tried to get him to cuddle. To my amazement, he was up for it. I was clumsily messing around with my cd player, putting on some mood music – specifically, I was checking to see which disc tray my Cathode “Sleeping and Breathing” cd was in, because I was sure he’d like it – but I wound up accidentally blasting the beginning of the White Album instead. John sort of tried to be nice about it, but his expression read: “Oh Please, Anything But This.” After apologizing and trying to laugh about it, I switched discs again and what should come on but….the fucking White Album again. God, how embarrissing. I suppose this has some sort of traceable interpretation having to do with typical musician anxiety. When you’re not the sort of girl who cares if the whole class sees a big bloody splotch on the back of your white skirt, you end up having fears like this instead.

I did wind up cuddling with John Lennon, and all was well.

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