SWITZERLAND - Hearty and Transsexual Switzerland.

Aaahhh yes... relaxing outside in the late morning, bathing in the warm sunshine as birds play and plump bumble bees float by, moving towards the towering sunflowers and raspberry bushes. Sweet music drifts in from the distant meadows made by the clanging bells hanging from the thick leather straps around the ever-grazing cows necks. The tall grass is glistening with fresh dew and I can hear Sandra's mother stirring in the kitchen, preparing the fantastic meal that I don't deserve. She strolls outside wearing her Swiss-patterned apron to the covered picnic table, squinting away the suns rays and places the wooden tray of today's lunch in front of us. Steam rises from the hearty soup that she ladles into my waiting bowl while I sit salivating and quivering with anticipation for the flavour explosion about to pleasure me. A wisp of steam is whisked away by a cool breeze and I plunge my spoon into the hot pool of paradise and up into my hungry mouth. 'Sweet Jesus, that's good shit', I'd like to scream, but I'm quite positive I'd get a few odd glances from Sandra's father and brother sitting next to me. 'I'd snort this shit, it's so bitchin' good', I would also like to cry. Sandra's mom swiftly collects the empty bowls, carries them into the kitchen and brings out the next course to be obliterated. Mammoth sausages drowning in gravy and whipped potato mash are placed under my nose along with overflowing bowl of salad picked fresh from their garden and caprese salad drenched in balsamic vinegar and olive oil. As I raise my teetering overburdened fork to my face, I can see my fresh laundry that Sandra's mom hung on the clothesline, dancing in the wind, and tractors in the distance, busy doing whatever tractors do. Should I still be wearing my pajamas, I ponder. I can hear sheep calling out to each other from across the road, running and playing on the nearby hills. We savour every meaty morsel of our wonderful meal until our forks scrape across the destitute surface of our plates, and again Sandra's mom scurries into the kitchen with the dirty dishes to bring out hot coffee and sugary treats for everyone. Day after day goes by, every meal a different culinary delight and made with love. I think I'm in heaven, and I think I should offer to do the dishes before I go straight to hell.

Aaahhh yes... The Rocky Horror Show, live on stage in Zurich, and Sandra and I warmed up two seats in the ninth row. I was surprised and excited to see posters about the last tour of the London Rocky Horror Show, glued to any flat surface in the city. I definitely needed to have this event included in my year long extravaganza. Ticket price was absolutely no concern, I just wanted to be close enough to be pelted with rice, toilet paper rolls, stale toast and soaked with fake rain water squirted from plastic water pistols. I've always been fascinated with this sex musical, ever since I would watch my older sisters and their hot girlfriends prepare themselves before going to the theatre for a night of transsexual mania. In the late seventies, I used to listen to the vinyl album over and over, looking at the strange sexual images on the worn sleeve, wondering what the hell it was all about. Singing along with all the odd lyrics and thinking to myself, what does 'heavy-petting' and 'seat-wetting' mean, and what the hell is a transvestite, and why can't I find Transylvania in my junior school atlas? Dressed up in garters and skimpy outfits, their faces white and black and red, my sisters and her friends ventured out into the night with their bag of props to throw back and forth at the rest of the cult theatre crowd.

I had my first Rocky Horror halloween party two years ago, and it was also my first experience wearing fish-net stockings, garters, PVC, and little leather underwear. Oooohh, I felt sexy. I attempted the high-heels, but opted for the contrast of ominous black motorcycle boots to help tip the scales back towards masculinity. I think it worked. I felt so sexy, dainty, and experienced an aura of beautifully feminine softness while still able to crush skulls under my dirty black knee-high death boots. My hair was dyed black, thick makeup was caked on my face and a full martini glass placed gently into my moisturized and manicured satin-gloved hands. I was ready to be it, not dream it. I wrapped my eight foot long feather boa around my bare shoulders and I practiced my bored lipstick sneer in front of the mirror for when my guests would arrive. Of course I was Franknfurter - I was the party host, I had to be him.

At the end of the night my castle from Transsexual was trashed, there was broken glass everywhere, cigarette burns deep in the hardwood flooring, candle wax coating the walls, and my friend Lori crumpled up at the bottom of the stairs with a broken wrist and bloodied knees. She had tripped on her four inch heels and noisily bounced down a flight of stairs behind me as I was kicking everyone out at four in the morning. I had holes in my stockings, abrasions on my hips from the tight leather underwear, and had eaten at least a pound of red lipstick that was constantly needing re-application. I'm sure some of my family members and friends will never look at me the same way again. It was a good time and can't wait for the next time.

At the Zurich theatre, Sandra and I found our seats and I began to explain the twisted plot of the play to her. I thought again, about how she takes me to the beautiful things in Switzerland, like the amazing Cirque Du Soleil a few nights before, and I subject her to the weird, depraved and demented shit that my warped mind thrives on. The lights dimmed and the story narrator was suddenly visible, suffused by a spotlight. He introduced the story speaking german and the musical brouhaha began. During the wedding scene we were showered upon by handfuls of rice for about three minutes. I had forgot to mention to Sandra about the use of projectiles in the show, so it came to quite a shock when the first fistful of hard rice was flung into our faces from the rows in front of us. Then the rain came. Water pistols and cannons sprayed water from every direction, soaking us while they sang "Over at the Frankenstein Place" up on the stage. That was all fine with Sandra, even getting wet was OK, but she wasn't too happy with the toilet paper rolls bouncing off the side of her head during the unravelling of Rocky. I started throwing the rolls around myself, grabbing them up from the floor beneath me and releasing them with all my might. Toilet paper was crisscrossing all the theatre seats, we were all weaved into a messy web of lavatory absorbency. For the rest of the performance, we swam the warm waters of sins of the flesh and then took the bus home in the cold rain of reality.





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