Please read the stories first, before the notes, otherwise you might get spoiled…
This was the first fanfiction story I wrote. I rewrote it recently because I thought it sucked. I still think it kind of sucks, but it sucks less now. Of course, since the rewrite I’ve been getting emails from people saying they like the first version better, so what the hell do I know? (The first version of the story is still online, over in the fanfic archive at Tom’s Xena Page .)
The title was inspired by a Sam Phillips song, "Where the Colors Don’t Go." Sam Phillips is God!
The "Hail to the Queen, Baby" was inspired by a line in that Sam Raimi classic, Army of Darkness.
By accident I put Mel in North Carolina instead of South. I decided to leave her there, because she didn’t seem to mind.
This is the sequel to "All the Colors of the World." I didn’t think I would write a sequel, but the Fedora’ed One wasn’t through with me yet, and I felt I hadn’t done justice to the characters yet. Perhaps I still haven’t.
Title: Well, when I first came up with it, I was terribly smug and proud of myself, thinking, "Gee, what a cool title! I didn’t steal it from a song or anything!" Then after part 1 was posted, I dimly remembered reading a book called The Secret History by Donna Tartt several years ago. So I am not as original as I think I am.
About the Ahnenerbe: A chapter in Simon Schama's Landscape and Memory was helpful, and Ann Nichols' The Rape of Europa is an excellent source for information about the tangled web of the Nazis and the art world before, during, and after the war.
Mel’s favorite opera is also one of my favorites.
Once again, Janice is used as target practice for a trigger-happy Nazi. Poor baby!
For the longest time, I professed having no favorites among the stories I’ve written. But now, I must admit that this one is my favorite. I think one of the reasons is that, for some strange reason, it was surprisingly easy to write.
Venice has always occupied my mind as a place of obsession, ever since I saw that movie Don’t Look Now when I was an angsty little darkbloom. (The movie is based on a story by Daphne du Maurier. It stars Julie Christie and Donald Sutherland. Very cool film, if you ever get a chance to see it.)
This monster is currently unfinished. There is lots to say about it and maybe one day when I am not sitting around listening to techno and waiting to go home from work, I will write it all down. Suffice it to say that I hope this story will be the culmination of the various themes I've been "investigating" with these stories. And if right now you're thinking "viv is a pretentious wanker" well, maybe you're onto something.
LOVE AND DEATH IN THE TRAILER PARK
The very first White Trash story, in all its pristine glory.
It took only a couple hours to bang this out. I didn’t think much of the writing (still don’t, actually), but thought, "what the hell" and posted it. I had imagined getting perhaps half a dozen emails from people asking me what kind of drugs I was on when I wrote this, and while I did get those half dozen emails, I also got a whole lot more! It was mind-boggling.
When I wrote this, I was reading a lot of ubers where the characters all had these fabulously glam occupations: cops, druglords, lawyers, photojournalists, secret agents, detectives, archaeologists, doctors, and so on; they all seemed to be comfortably bourgeois, and in some cases very wealthy. So I wanted to do something that was the antithesis of that, where the life and death decision of the day was whether or not to order a pizza or go to Taco Bell.
So I thought, "Okay, I’ll just knock out a sequel to ‘Love and Death in the Trailer Park,’ then be done with it."
Oh, what a naïve fool!
This is number 2 in the series. I nicked the title from an old Lone Justice song. If you don’t remember Lone Justice—they were one of those "cowpunk" bands in the 80s; Maria McKee was their singer. I think she did a solo album after the band broke up.
About "Smoke on the Water," the song that wakes up Zina: When I was in high school I knew this kid who could play the opening chords of this song on his guitar. It was the only thing he could play. He wanted to buy a banjo so that he could play the opening chords of "Smoke on the Water" on it as well. I tried to dissuade him from this. But then I went away to college and he was left to his own devices. I fear he is still back in my hometown, locked away in a dim room, still trying to master the entire song on the banjo.
MAYONNAISSE AND ITS DISCONTENTS
Number 3 in the you-know-what series.
Somehow, I knew reading Foucault (or was it Freud? I always get the "F" guys mixed up...) would come back to haunt me. Like eating too many Doritos. So this psychic burp of French philosophy (or Kraut psychology) is responsible for the title before you. (Have you ever noticed how all flavors of Doritos taste alike? Nacho Cheese, Cooler Ranch, Sonic Sour Cream, Baja Picante…does it really matter?)
Actually, the original title of this was "Mayonnaise Wishes, Impala Dreams." As with the "All the Colors of the World" revision, everyone liked the original better. Which shows that I really don’t know what I’m doing.
The exchange between Zina and Cyrene, while the latter is lounging on the hood of the Impala, is a takeoff (or ripoff, if you prefer) of a scene between Bubble and Eddy from an episode ("Morocco," I think) of Absolutely Fabulous
I’VE BEEN TO POCATELLO, BUT I’VE NEVER BEEN TO ME
Number 4!
The title, of course, is from that delightfully cheesy song, you know, the one they sing at the beginning of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. If you aren’t familiar with it, consider yourself most fortunate.
Lela the Beta really kicked my ass on this story. It is due to her perseverance and skill that you have a readable story. Plus she threatened to shoot out my teeth if I didn’t rewrite the latter half of it. And I hear she is a much better shot than Dr. "Look at Me with My Gatling Gun!" Covington.
Number 5. I like to think Hope is in that institution from Girl, Interrupted and that she is fighting with Angelina Jolie over Winona Ryder and that later they will all run around in their underwear singing "Downtown." Obviously this is pure pop psychosis on my part.
Paolo of "From Hair to Eternity" makes a special guest appearance! He insisted on styling his own hair and writing his own dialogue. He also gave Mrs. Hockenberry a lovely perm.
THE HIGH ROAD TO LOW EXPECTATIONS
All good things must come to an end, as do all bad things, and the latter reason is why this will probably be the last White Trash story. Six seasons=six stories. Part of my personal philosophy is "never say never," though (and that's why you poor bastards got stuck with six of them anyway), so if 20 years from now Lucy Lawless, after five husbands, four children, six rehab stints, and two facelifts, squeezes her butt into a leather costume again, I may write another one.
And I came up with the title all by my own self!
When you visualize Macarena, think Rosario from "Will & Grace."
A glimpse into the soul of vivian: If you actually say "Machu Picchu" to me, I will giggle, even if I'm not high.
A small bit of fluff. Mel and Janice make a guest appearance, but the story is actually about Xena and Gabrielle, and the perils of booze, hecklers, and being friends with Autolycus.
Let me tell you a story.
A foundling, I was discovered by my adoptive parents, the Duke and Duchess of Darkbloom, during their honeymoon hunting trip to Lapland. The Duke, mistaking me for a hairless albino otter, shot off several of my teeny-tiny toes. However, upon discovering that I was a human-type baby, the Duke felt simply dreadful about it and the Duchess guilt-tripped him into adopting me. (Well, actually, she threatened to withhold her favors from him, and I mean really, what kind of honeymoon would that be?)
I grew up in opulence, loved by my parents. My mother taught me the finer things in life: the arts, literature, history, and badminton. My father cultivated in me a talent for making martinis and an appreciation of leggy brunettes. I was quite happy at the ancestral home, when disaster struck. The Duke, who could shoot an olive into a glass at 20 paces, nonetheless possessed no financial sense whatsoever and had tragically mismanaged the family fortune: He had invested everything in New Coke.
Does anyone remember New Coke?
We were destitute. My mother, ever resourceful, sold her minks and sent me to the docks. After I was arrested in a compromising position with a French sailor ("I sent you to the docks to work, not to solicit!" mummy had cried after bailing me out), I was sent to New York. There I found work as a shoeshine girl in Grand Central Station, and there I was to stay for many a dreary year.
One day, while front of my stand, I observed a screaming crowd of girls chasing a beautiful woman across the grand concourse. Soon the police were called and had contained the melee. The woman, cackling triumphantly, headed my way, where she sat down in front of me and, wiggling the toes that stuck out from her sandals, said, "Hey kid, polish my Birkenstocks, will ya?"
It was LN James!
"Oh my God!" I squealed like the big girl I am. "You’re LN James!"
The famous bard glared at me from behind her copy of Martha Stewart Living. "No shit, Sherlock. Just polish the Birks. And buff my toenails while you’re at it too."
"Yes, Miss James!" I burbled, and set to work. Now, it is my habit, while I work, to also play the kazoo. I was blowing along merrily (with a technique similar to that used on the French sailor) when suddenly LN James roared, "Good God!"
"What is it?" I cried, for LN James’ distress is my distress.
"That—that music you’re playing," she stammered. "It’s so haunting, so beautiful. It’s just like—Moby."
I blushed deeply and stared down at my feet. Well, her feet, actually, since they were right in my face. "Why, thank you, Miss James."
Suddenly, LN James sat straight up in her seat. "Kid, with talent like that, you’d make a great bard!"
I could not stop the words from coming out of my mouth. "Are you on crack or something?"
At this moment, a young woman, whom I could only guess was Miss James’ ladyfriend, sauntered over. "LN, honey, the limo’s waiting outside. We’ve got to leave now, we’re having cocktails with Melissa and Julie at the Plaza, and you know how Melissa gets when we’re late. She’ll get depressed and a write a song and she’ll make us listen to it!" The woman paused, and looked at LN’s toes. "Oh sweetheart, your cuticles have never looked better!"
"Just a minute, baby," LN replied smoothly, then turned her attention back to me. "Look, kid," she said, thrusting a finger in my face, "I’m gonna make you a bard, see? You’ve got what it takes, and any idiot who would embarrass themselves in public by playing a kazoo can stand up to the humiliation of writing fan fiction." She paused thoughtfully. "So let’s say you write me an uber, how about it?"
"An uber?" I wailed with fear.
"Yeah, here, I’ll give you the idea: An uber based on Mr. Majestyk, the Charles Bronson movie. Uber Xena is a melon farmer with a past! Uber Gabrielle is a chick with…uh, melons to sell!" At this moment, LN James’ companion, aided by the chauffeur and the bodyguards, started dragging away the brilliant bard as she continued to scream her instructions to me. "Make sure Uber Gab has huge melons! Huge fucking melons! And there has to be a sex scene in the barn! THE DIALOGUE MUST BE BOTH WITTY AND BELIEVABLE! DON’T USE THE PHRASE ‘RAVEN-HAIRED’!" The poor dear, she was still shouting as she was thrown into the limo.
And so that is how I came to know the great bard, and how we eventually collaborated on "From Hair to Eternity." (Actually, we wrote it when we were roommates at Betty Ford, but that’s another story.)
A NARCOLEPTIC'S GUIDE TO ROMANCE
So I thought, "Wouldn't it be funny to have an uber-Xena who was a narcoleptic? The ultimate control freak, waylaid by this unpredictable condition that makes her totally vulnerable?" HA HA HA HA HA! Then I kept listening to the song "Narcolepsy" by Ben Folds Five which subliminally encouraged me. And thus, here we are. And I'm not laughing now. And you probably aren't either, especially if you've read the damn thing.
I once had a cab driver named Ulysses Flaubert. No lie.
HER MAJESTY'S A PRETTY NICE GIRL
So the people at the Royal Academy of Bards were like, "Hey bitch, write us a funny April Fool's story or we'll announce on our page that you are really a housewife in Hoboken, New Jersey and not the penniless but charming urban cad that you say you are!" So what could I do?
I actually began a draft of this story before the series' finale. The actual fuel for the fire in this case was listening to U2's "Salome" in addition to reading Oscar Wilde's play. Did You Know: Wilde once dressed up and performed as Salome in a production of his play? And LN James takes on the same role at the famed Doug Henning Memorial Theater in Pocatello every summer. Make sure you catch her on a night when she's really toasted, because that's when the dance of the seven veils really pays off.