Tanya O'Debra

...a haven for tender artistic feelings... ...a refuge for tears to be shead... ...poetry... ...suicide...

Tuesday, January 31, 2006

...crystal butthole...

Teenage Witchcraft

I guess I could blame my whole witchcraft phase on my unnatural love of the movie The Craft. Let’s face it. I’m sure that’s what started the whole thing. I’d seen that movie more times than any teenager ought to. And so had all my friends, which was how I got to form a coven so easily. Okay, who doesn’t want magic powers? Yeah, that’s what I thought. I have always wanted magic powers and I still do. As a little girl, I dreamed that I would discover that I was a white witch whose powers would arrive on one birthday or another. As I grew older, that fantasy faded. Until The Craft came into my life.

The Craft made everything seem so full of possibilities. There was Robin Tunney, fresh from Empire Records, a movie my sister Jillian took a little too seriously. You could tell by her newly shaven head. I’m glad I waited to emulate The Craft Robin Tunney, because at least she had a thick head of long hair, even if it was extensions. The Craft told the story of four beautiful high school students who took their lives into their own hands using witchcraft. This sounded like a fine plan to me.

As soon as the idea of having magic powers came back into my head, I did everything in my capabilities to make these powers a reality. I bought every book on witchcraft I could get my hands on and then I began worshipping the goddess like a filthy dirt-loving hippie. I wore pentacles around my neck, burned incense and read tarot cards. I carried bags of rocks everywhere I went, worshipped full moons and meditated. I did everything I possibly could to attain the magical powers that were my birthright. Okay, I still do some of these things. Fuck you. Just because I can’t move things with my mind does not mean that I’m not a little psychic. A little. At least give me that.

My first coven consisted of myself and three other desperate teens in search of one shred of purity in this world. We would drive to Lincoln Hancock Elementary School very late at night to conduct outdoor ceremonies. I liked the trees that surrounded the playground in the back, and I was pretty sure no one would bother us there. We would “call the corners” and “invoke the spirit”, which basically meant that we acknowledged the existence of nature. Watch The Craft and you’ll see exactly what we did. Then we would meditate and basically pray for things. We were white witches, so we cast only good spells. Spells were cast by lighting various candles and meditating, much like church. We once cast a spell for my best friend’s mom to survive cancer. She was supposed to die in a few weeks. After our spell, she lived another year. Maybe there is something to prayer after all.

After I graduated from high school, my coven sort of broke up. I became a solitary witch for a while, which meant that I would practice witchcraft in my bedroom and hope that my mom wouldn’t catch me. Then I discovered witches amongst the Rocky Horror Picture Show cast, with whom I was now consorting. They invited me to a few pagan feasts and I gladly attended. It was then that I began to feel the creepy undertones of the pagan life.

There are a few holidays, or Sabbats as the witches like to call them, that involve sex. I thought that I would someday participate in these ceremonies, but only with someone I loved. Apparently many pagans don’t feel obligated to uphold the spirit of these Sabbats, but rather exploit them for sexual reasons. I sadly disengaged from the new group of pagans and returned to the life of a solitary witch.

In college I gathered a few girls together and we had some very informal ceremonies. I blessed every new dorm we inhabited and I celebrated the moon. We were college women and we were goddesses. It seemed cool at the time.

And then, totally out of nowhere, I just started thinking that it was dumb. Maybe that’s when I officially became a grown-up. I still really want magic powers, though.

Sunday, January 29, 2006

..weirdo...

Tommy Nutsack

You meet some interesting people at open mics. I met drunks, dope addicts, gamblers and crooks. I met a guy who drank a martini made of piss. I met a lady who ate bleach, tampons and kitty litter. I met a sex therapist, a handful of dominatrixes, a couple of half assed trannies, and a stripper with a 12 inch cock. I met an elf, a black albino and a midget. I thought I’d met just about every crazy person in New York until Tommy Nutsack came into my life. Tommy Nutsack is a large middle-aged nudist, which in itself is not that crazy. Until you get a look at his nutsack.

I went to Faceboy’s open mic on a regular Sunday night at Collective Unconscious back when it was on Ludlow St. As I began the walk across the room to the sign up can, something stopped me dead in my tracks. I immediately turned away.

“Oh my God.”
“I know. I’m doing everything in my power not to look”, said Jeff Mac.

Jeff Mac is someone to whom I can turn during particularly painful open mic moments. He understands.

“Is there something very, very wrong happening?”
“Yes. Yes, there is”, Jeff Mac confirmed.

When I finally mustered up the courage, I peered over at a man who I would soon come to know as Tommy Nutsack. He loomed in the corner near the sign up can. And so did his giant balls.

“Okay, so I see the balls. Obviously. But I don’t see a penis”, I whispered to Jeff Mac.
“I don’t know. I’m very, very afraid”, he confided.

With eyes to the ground I hustled over to the sign up can, put my name in and hurried back to Jeff Mac. He promptly put a note into my hand. It read:

Dear Tanya,
How are you? I am fine. That man is scaring the holy hell out of me.
Sincerely,
Jeff Mac

We continued to pass notes back and forth until Tommy Nutsack finally had his turn on stage. Everyone in the room sat at attention as if we were all in the military. This was the moment we had all been waiting for. With Tommy Nutsack under a spotlight, we all felt free to examine what had been the proverbial elephant in the room. Fuck that. It was the physical elephant in the room. That nutsack was the biggest nutsack that any of us had ever seen, and we’ve seen a lot of nutsacks. It roughly the size of a small planet. The sheer girth of those monstrously oversized balls was not the only problem, because it didn’t look like balls, per se. It looked his testicles had congealed into one single mutant testicle instead of two, and the tender ball-skin was stretched tighter than Joan Crawford’s face. This one terrifying ball was big enough to feed a large impoverished cannibal nation, but I don’t think you get even the bravest of cannibals near that unseemly hump. And the worst part about his already horrifying genitalia was the apparent lack of a penis. How could a man be in the possession of such a giant ball sack and not have a penis?

Just then, with his fingers, Tommy Nutsack pressed the sides of his ball sack, and sure enough a tiny penis emerged from its testicular nest like a dumpster rat in search of food. He thrust his hips forward and gently tapped his little penis on the mic stand that perched in front of him. The audience gasped and recoiled in horror. Tommy Nutsack released the pressure from his testes and his tiny penis slunk back into its cocoon.

Tommy stood in silence for a moment. As he stood sweating and breathing heavily, I noticed that he was covered in painted peace symbols that had mostly warn off. When he finally spoke, it was to tell the brief and uncomfortable tale of his nude day. Apparently, Tommy Nutsack tried to appear in as many places as would allow him to be naked, and I believe that he though the crude paintings all over his body would make it look less creepy and more artistic. But none of us had any interest in this. We all wanted to know one thing and one thing only. How did his nutsack get so big?

Finally, Tommy Nutsack ran out of things to say and decided to take questions from the audience. Dozens of hands shot up, but it was Master Lee who got the first words. Master Lee is a Buddhist poker player who wears a Chinese robe and two huge plastic diamond pinky rings.

“Dude, what’s up with your balls?”

The rest of us held our breath, all silently thanking Master Lee through telepathy for asking the question we’ve all been dying to have answered. We had a right to know.

And Tommy Nutsack just stood there like a big naked mute. He refused tell us what’s wrong with his balls. We were left to our guesses. Elephantitis of the balls was suggested. Big Mike, a horny nurse with a penchant for Polaroids, guessed a heart problem had caused the swelling. But no one knew for sure. And to this day, we still don’t know.

Tommy Nutsack came around for a while and terrorized various girls until Faceboy made him keep his clothes on while he was in the audience. He did his nude eight minutes at Faceboy’s and his nude six minutes at the Antislam. Reverend Jen honored him with the “Best Nutsack” award at the Mr. Lower East Side Pageant. And then he stopped coming around all together. None of us have seen him in months. Rumor has it that he’s getting an operation on that huge and mystifying nutsack. I wonder what his nickname will become if that’s true.

Thursday, January 26, 2006

...piss sisters...

Piss Sisters

The summer after I broke up with Adam was really wild. After two and a half years of being in such an oppressive relationship, I was ready to party. That’s when I discovered Wild Turkey.

I remember my first shot of Wild Turkey. Jodie and I were at Ann’s show at Don’t Tell Mama’s. We couldn’t even feign an interest in the other performers, so we spent a good amount of time at the bar. The turkey caught our eye. It looked so sexy in the glass, brown, thick and hypnotic as it swayed and swirled. I was in love. Wild Turkey isn’t like a cosmopolitan or whatever martini is in fashion. They are the sluts of drinking. They’re sweet and easy and cold. Wild Turkey plays hard to get. It’s rough and it’s warm and it makes you think twice before you bring it to your lips.

The summer of Wild Turkey was a hot one. It was a summer of sex on rooftops in the pouring rain. It was a summer of music and paint and theatre. It was a summer of peeing my pants in public.

One night after the Freestyle Family’s Open Mic Night, Jodie, Ann, Travis and I all took our familiar drunken journey from the Underground Lounge to Jodie’s apartment where we all frequently spent the night. Taking the caps off fire hydrants is a very popular thing to do in Harlem during the summer, because most people do not have air conditioning. We were pleased to see that one of the neighbors had done this to the hydrant across the street from Jodie’s, because it was hot as shit that night. Since we were all drunk and feeling spontaneous, we decided to play in the water that sprayed all over the street. There was dancing and leaping and laughing. Nobody suspected that there would also be peeing.

We played for a long time in that hydrant and we were drunk, so naturally our bladders began to pressure us to end our fun. We were not ready to do that. Jodie lived on the fifth floor and both of us had to go really bad. A cartoon light bulb flashed over our heads. We could just pee right here.

“Do you want to?”, Jodie asked with an impish grin.
“We could just make sure that we rinse off really good”
“Let’s hold hands.”

We clasped hands and looked around. We were the only two in the water. Everyone else was sitting on the stoop. We roared with laughter.

“Let’s do it!”, I cried.

I took a deep breath and relaxed as the warm fluid ran down my legs.

“I’m peeing right now”, Jodie quietly announced.
“Me, too!”

We laughed and we peed.

“We can never tell a soul that we did this”, Jodie said.

I solemnly agreed. We swore to take this to the grave. Jodie's boyfriend, Greg, heard all the laughter and wanted to join in on the fun. Little did he know that while he was innocently jumping and splashing, we were rinsing the pee off our clothes. After “playing” in the water for a really long time, we finally went up to the apartment. Before going to sleep we renewed our vows of silence. Our secret pee pact brought us even closer together than blood sisters. We were piss sisters.

Then we told John Bowman what we had done the very next day. Soon after that we told anyone who would listen. It was too juicy not to spill.

When I think about that summer, I remember how hard it was to adjust to my break up with Adam. All of my plans for my life were totally out the window. And when things like that happen, I guess it’s good to just let go of everything for a little while. Even bladder control.

Saturday, January 21, 2006

...butthole...

My best friend, Diane O'Debra, has an amazing effect on me. Every Sunday for the past couple of years, she and I meet to rehearse, and every single Sunday, both of us have to take a shit at about 2:30. We now call it poo:30. Lately the two of us have gotten so close to each other that it doesn't have to be a Sunday for our special time to happen. It basically happens every time she comes over my house. I guess we just feel exceptionally comfortable around one another.

Our reciprocal bowel stimulation really makes our relationship unique and tender. I won't shit at just anyone's house, and I certainly won't shit if you are at my house unless your name is Diane or Noel. Diane is the exact same way, though I once witnessed her during an emergency poo:30 at someone else's house. She nearly died of embarrassment. It was probably my fault. She never would have shit at that guy's house if I didn't make her feel so relaxed.

I'm very grateful for Diane, because I am usually very constipated. She's like a human laxative. I wish we could spent more time together.

Diane will arrive at my house in about fifteen minutes and my bowels must have sensed her, because I just made a brown slam dunk. I guess we're at the point that just the thought of Diane will loosen up my anus completely. Now that's friendship.