with a waning sickle moon in a predawn grey sky, and leo crying behind the closed front door, i drowsily placed my suitcase and grocery bags filled with snacks and multiple choices of shoes into the back of bliss's hybrid. heading east toward the rising sun and the mojave desert we passed windmills and baby sheep, creepy industrial centers and hispanic farming towns. the landscape changed from typical rolling golden hills to rougher terrain dotted with chapparell. as morning matured and we felt less like freakish zombies, we made a pitstop to get gas and hot tea. dilapidated mainstreets hung their heads in shame next to the shiny homogeneity of corporate chain stores. sagging souls in doorways and at picnic tables outside faded drive thrus. we wondered about these dry little desert towns and their inhabitants, and whether it was by choice or default or some other lurking decision that made them call this place home.
an hour outside our destination of barstow, we kept our eyes peeled for vintage treasures at antique stores. an old wooden sign with flaking yellow and purple paint lured us into it's dusty driveway with curley Q letters enticing. situated next to a house, it's dirty windows promised us finds beyond our dreams, rows of colored glass bottles shaped like fiddles, embroidered chairs, old dolls. but the locked door had a thick layer of grime, with only one peephole where an earlier fist had rubbed a spot visible. tantalized and dissapointed, we hit the road.
after a lunch of goat gouda, tomato and walnut bread sandwiches, we freshned up at our hotel, slinking into cool and casual but OhSoFabulous outfits. directions in one hand and grabbing our pink fans, parasols and sunscreen with the other, we braved the road once more for our ultimate destination... THE MISS EXOTIC WORLD PAGEANT AND BURLESQUE MUSEUM!
wooden signs mostly showed us the way, especially the one stuck in the middle of a muddy river bed, and eventually our tires hit the long driveway of the exotic world burlesque museum. with a half giddy/ half hysterical smirk, bliss glanced over at me and said, "where are we?" giggling too, i wondered what had possesed Dixie Evans to choose helendale (a.k.a. middle of buttfucking nowhere) as the location for her tribute to T and A glamour?
1/2 trailer park, 1/2 homestead, with dashes of glitz here and there, the place was a sight to behold. a whole gang of motorcyles conglomerated by the side of a large, fabulous stage. a pool with stars at the bottom and chaise lounges sat next to the house, and next to the pool was an audience of desert rats, rednecks, rockabilly chicks and knockout scantilly clad lovers of burlesque. photographers and film makers roamed around, and within our first few minutes, while we were just trying to get our bearings, we already had gotten our pictures taken and our names jotted down. inside the house we found 8 rooms filled with framed photographs of every burlesque performer, from the early 1900s to the 70s. a cloak worn by mae west hung over the shoulders of a tattered dress form, and a whole wall was dedicated to lily st. cyr. meandering back outside and just in time for the show, we found perfect seats in the back under the shade.
what followed was 10 hours of striptease, from newbies, to aspiring legends, from local friends to authentic ladies from the good old days. i saw the bright perky titties of 25 year olds and the wrinkly saggy asses of 80 year olds. all against the backdrop of the mojave sky. this requires a seperate story in and of itself.
during the dog day part of the afternoon, i took some quiet time away from the fray to walk out into the desert nestled against steeply rising hills. i wanted to get a feel for this land, this dry, dry dry intense land, with it's sage green tumbleweeds and prickly yucca trees. i stooped down, covered myself with my parasol and put my hand on the earth. hello. there was an unmistakable greeting back. something had been bothering the back of my mind all day, and in the penetrating sunshine, i let it sink out. what i felt in return was a throbbing acceptance. aaaahhhh...that's right...this is what desert is. spaciousness and the room to hold it all...to hold anything....that feeling of roominess pushing aside my internal organs and stretching me out. the land holds no judgement. anything goes.
Dixie Evans knew what she was doing. she picked the perfect spot.
an hour outside our destination of barstow, we kept our eyes peeled for vintage treasures at antique stores. an old wooden sign with flaking yellow and purple paint lured us into it's dusty driveway with curley Q letters enticing. situated next to a house, it's dirty windows promised us finds beyond our dreams, rows of colored glass bottles shaped like fiddles, embroidered chairs, old dolls. but the locked door had a thick layer of grime, with only one peephole where an earlier fist had rubbed a spot visible. tantalized and dissapointed, we hit the road.
after a lunch of goat gouda, tomato and walnut bread sandwiches, we freshned up at our hotel, slinking into cool and casual but OhSoFabulous outfits. directions in one hand and grabbing our pink fans, parasols and sunscreen with the other, we braved the road once more for our ultimate destination... THE MISS EXOTIC WORLD PAGEANT AND BURLESQUE MUSEUM!
wooden signs mostly showed us the way, especially the one stuck in the middle of a muddy river bed, and eventually our tires hit the long driveway of the exotic world burlesque museum. with a half giddy/ half hysterical smirk, bliss glanced over at me and said, "where are we?" giggling too, i wondered what had possesed Dixie Evans to choose helendale (a.k.a. middle of buttfucking nowhere) as the location for her tribute to T and A glamour?
1/2 trailer park, 1/2 homestead, with dashes of glitz here and there, the place was a sight to behold. a whole gang of motorcyles conglomerated by the side of a large, fabulous stage. a pool with stars at the bottom and chaise lounges sat next to the house, and next to the pool was an audience of desert rats, rednecks, rockabilly chicks and knockout scantilly clad lovers of burlesque. photographers and film makers roamed around, and within our first few minutes, while we were just trying to get our bearings, we already had gotten our pictures taken and our names jotted down. inside the house we found 8 rooms filled with framed photographs of every burlesque performer, from the early 1900s to the 70s. a cloak worn by mae west hung over the shoulders of a tattered dress form, and a whole wall was dedicated to lily st. cyr. meandering back outside and just in time for the show, we found perfect seats in the back under the shade.
what followed was 10 hours of striptease, from newbies, to aspiring legends, from local friends to authentic ladies from the good old days. i saw the bright perky titties of 25 year olds and the wrinkly saggy asses of 80 year olds. all against the backdrop of the mojave sky. this requires a seperate story in and of itself.
during the dog day part of the afternoon, i took some quiet time away from the fray to walk out into the desert nestled against steeply rising hills. i wanted to get a feel for this land, this dry, dry dry intense land, with it's sage green tumbleweeds and prickly yucca trees. i stooped down, covered myself with my parasol and put my hand on the earth. hello. there was an unmistakable greeting back. something had been bothering the back of my mind all day, and in the penetrating sunshine, i let it sink out. what i felt in return was a throbbing acceptance. aaaahhhh...that's right...this is what desert is. spaciousness and the room to hold it all...to hold anything....that feeling of roominess pushing aside my internal organs and stretching me out. the land holds no judgement. anything goes.
Dixie Evans knew what she was doing. she picked the perfect spot.
VIEW 17 of 17 COMMENTS
funktion:
thats wonderful!! 
alabama:
i charge 55 a cut, but for a fellow sg.... we can talk! let me know when you might want to come in!