Played Tangier in Los Angeles. A demure club. Dhuri’s on the walls. Almost too nice. Now heading to Longbeach.

The last light of day laps at the horizon line. Dark grays are taking over. The road lists and lunges the van into the setting yellows. A massive plunge. There is suspension. There is Curtis Mayfield.

Photo: Marlon Schaeffer

It has happened. The mental numbing. The testosteronic dumbing down. The hours in the van, they change a person. Every time. It’s a devolution. Through the course of a tour, topics of conversation go wrong, grow, and take hold. It shouldn’t be this way. We could be talking about astronomy and myths, or the integration of the mathematical world of physics into mystical visions.

But no, we’ve talked ourselves into marketing voice activated dick pumps instead. For those that feel aroused and need help, they can say, “Anaconda.”� And when finished or feeling un-aroused, “Frightened turtle.”� The voice activated voice has that clearly enunciated, demonstrative, and emotionless tone. You’re in the heat of the moment, and need a boost. You lean slightly away and say sternly to your loins, “Python.”�

I’m sorry. I mean no harm. 3 guys in a van for too long. You can actually put the words “˜Voice activated’ in front of anything and it takes on new dimension. Like voice activated Crunchberries. Or voice activated disco. Or voice activated Senator.

Photo: Dan Tyler

In the back seat I drift into a half sleep and have what I think is a dream. I am in an episode of Fantasy Island. My fantasy is to become a female walrus. I have been a female walrus trapped inside a man’s body. I went to the Walrus exhibit at the zoo and knew that’s where I belonged. Enter Ricardo Montalban. “I am your host, Mr. Roarke, welcome to Fantasy Island.”� Transformationist plastic surgeon, Steve Haworth is there, and becomes the Oprah of all my desires. My arms and legs are gone. 800 lbs of lard are injected into my body.

Photo: Marlon Schaeffer

I have whiskers and flippers. My walrus name is Bessie. I roll listlessly through the waters off the Alaskan coast letting minnows feed me through my open mouth. Ricardo Montalban swims up to me within my fantasy to tell me my time is up. I have become pregnant, and at that moment, I give birth to Tattoo. He is my baby walrus pup. Montalban is dressed as a Roman soldier because he came from someone else’s fantasy. He is talking to me underwater, and I don’t understand a word. I know he wants me to leave, I know my time is up, but forget him. This is home now and the fantasy will never end. Someday I am going to end up in my own exhibit and maybe even have my own handler.

Trent - out.

Head Like a Kite