It wasn’t until I saw the gang of us naked ladies that I knew why this film would fit into the horror genre. Rob Zombie is an equal opportunity employer and I was not the only overweight actress past her prime on the set. We were of every age, size and color. There were tall ones, short ones, fat ones, skinny ones, old ones, young ones, brown ones, black ones, yellow ones, and multi-colored tattooed ones. In the scenes to follow, when we were completely stripped down to our birthday suits, I noticed that the rude bitch I had had words with earlier had more tattoos on her scrawny ass than a drunken sailor.
So the night passed with us disrobing and then going back to one. That means getting dressed again and starting the scene over from the top again and again for all the many different camera angles. This went on until four a.m., but I didn’t care because all I was listening to was the sound of a cash register ringing in my ears, cha ching, until we were wrapped after a twelve-hour day. They told us we would all return the next day for the final scene. Could I endure being a cold nude zombie for one more day for hefty earnings? Yes, cha ching, cha ching.
Day two I checked in and went straight to holding. Wardrobe came down and told us to get naked and put on our robes since we would be doing the final scene soon. Then we sat around for at least another two hours in our bathrobes, waiting. Finally we were herded into the theatre and sat there for another hour until the lighting and logistics were ready. I watched as the crew built a pyramid of boxes on the stage leading up to a platform where a stand-in extra, stood for camera and lighting to make all their adjustments. Rob Zombie’s wife was playing the head witch, who would be the top of the naked pyramid cake once we stared to roll.
After all the elements were in place, it was time to position the human props in place on the pyramid chain. They asked for volunteers to drape their bodies over the boxes. These actresses required flexibility. Not having taken yoga since the 70s, when “I used to be” limber, and after many more years ago when “I used to be” an artist’s model, I knew how difficult it was to hold a pose, especially an awkward one, so I opted out of the prime positions. Not needing to be discovered, I held back and waited to fill in the last places on the stage floor. This arrangement of bodies went on for some time, while we still had our robes on. Once the final adjustments and touches were added they brought the star in for her position on top to the human heap, cleared the room of unnecessary crew members, and had us discard our covers ups. The stage floor was cold beneath me but at least I could lay out flat. The only problem was that to my left the skinny tattooed bitch had her scrawny ass and back to me.
After the first take, the director decided he didn’t want her in that position because her tattoos were distracting in his shot so they plucked her out and hid her in the back of the pile. That made me happy. While the director was moving bodies about like checkers on a board game, I was busy making friends with my neighbor to my right, whose face was almost under my right tit. As we were chatting, I didn’t notice who was replacing the tattooed bitch, and when I turned to my left I saw the biggest, fattest white ass, like the moon over Miami, staring me in the face. I was so surprised by this full moon in my face that I blurted out without censor, “Oh my God, there’s a big fat ass in my face.” I couldn’t believe I had said that out loud, and felt immediately embarrassed for the poor woman whose ass I had judged, but I didn’t mean to be cruel; it just slipped out. She pretended not to hear me, but my neighbor to my right had to struggle to keep from laughing.
Just before cameras were ready to roll again, Rob Zombie was making last adjustments like a designer on crack. He decided to tighten up the space between my face and the big fat white ass with a little wrinkled up old lady who had breasts hanging down to her knees. Her crinkly buttocks were now even closer to my face than the moon over Miami’s had been. I don’t know which ass was worse. After several more takes and calls to action, all of us holding our breath like you do for your mammogram, we were getting close to the final take. With one more roll of the camera and all of us extras holding our breath, the director called “cut” for the last time.
At that very moment, the little old lady to my left with the crinkly, shriveled-up ass farted in my face. It was almost inaudible, but just loud enough for me and my neighbor below my right tit to hear. We both burst into laughter. Then, while I was shaking and jiggling all over from trying to suppress my loud laughter, I too farted just loud enough for my bosom buddy to hear, and then we both lost all control. The heaping body of females above us was wondering what had happened that was so funny and a few called out, “What are you laughing about?” But we didn’t answer and just kept laughing. It’s a good thing that last take had been the martini shot, as they call it in the biz, the final shot of the night, because if I had to hold my laughter or my gas back any longer, I may have shit myself.
When I shared this saga with my daughter Viva, she said, “Oh Mother, will you ever retire?”
I said, “Honey, just remember, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
To which Viva replied, “Gee, Mom, I’m so glad you’re old now. You’re just full of wisdom.”
As I sign off, I’m still waiting for the check.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Name droppery is always the final desperate attempt to get ahead in show business. I’m sure you’ve heard the old adage, “It’s not what you know. It’s who you know.” I have worked for, sold to, waited on, been tipped by, catered for, slept with, swam in the same pool with, acted with, studied acting with, played a part or extra in their films, brushed up against, or locked eyes from across a crowded room with so many of the big fish in Hollywood.
Alex Cox
Alexander Skarsgard
Alicia Silverstone
Amy Pietz
Andrea Martin
Andy Garcia
Angeline
Arnold Schwarzenegger
Barbra Streisand
Barry Gordy
Billy Crystal
Bo Bridges
Brandon Fraser
Brandy
Catherine Hicks
Charlie Sheen
Chris Meloni
Chris Mulkey
Christopher Isherwood
Chuck Barris
Clint Eastwood
David Arquette
David Bowie
Dean Martin
Diana Ross
Diane Ladd
Divine
Don Bacardi
Dorothy Lamour
Dustin Hoffman
Dustin Lance Black
Ethan Hawke
Edward Albee
Eileen Brennan
Elizabeth Taylor
Elaine Stritch
Ellen Burstyn
Emilio Estevez
Fran Drescher
Garrett Morris
Gary Busey
Gary Marshall
Gary Shandling
Gary Sinise
George Wendt
Gregory Hines
Gus Van Sant
Harry Dean Stanton
Hugh Hefner
Jack Nicholson
James Franco
James LeGros
Jane Fonda
Jason Alexander
Jeff Bridges
Jenna Elfman
Jennifer Tillie
Jerry Zaks
Joan Rivers
Joe Bologna
Joe Pantoliano
John Cusack
John Travolta
John Waters
Josh Brolin
Jaye P. Morgan
Julia Roberts
Kevin Costner
Kid Rock
Laraine Newman
Laura Branigan
Leah Thompson
Lily Tomlin
Linda Hamilton
Lloyd Bridges
Madonna
Marge Champion
Marilyn McCoo
Martin Sheen
Mathew Modine
Mel Gibson
>
Megan Mullally
Melina Kanakaredes
Michael Jackson
Oliver Stone
Pamela Anderson
Pamela Sue Martin
Peter Lawford
Patty Duke Astin
Pia Zadora
Renee Taylor
Rip Taylor
Robert Downey Jr.
Roseanne Barr
Robert DeNiro
Robert Duvall
Robin Wright
Rod Stewart
Ron Howard
RuPaul
Russ Meyers
The Ramones
Sammy Davis Jr.
Sean Penn
Smokey Robinson
Stevie Wonder
Suicidal Tendencies
Tina Turner
Tom Hanks
Tori Spelling
Wayans Brothers
Wayne Knight
Whoopi Goldberg
Wilt Chamberlain
SPECIAL THANKS TO
The not yet famous who helped make this book possible:
I owe much gratitude to my daughter Viva for enduring my reckless mothering and tolerating my use of her voice throughout these stories and for not suing me.
I’m so grateful for my trusted editors, Winslow Eliot and Samantha Stier, a dynamic mother and daughter duo who are wonderful writers and were the perfect editors for me. I felt their support and encouragement throughout the shaping of this book.
I thank Bader Howard for her photos and Sam Tabreizi our retoucher that made me look bubbilicious on the book cover. And what would I do without my in-house one-woman art department, Jennifer Lim for delivering another spectacular book cover. And I must thank Antonio Dias who indulged me and my bubble visions by spending hours in photo shop blowing bubbles.
I thank my friend David Greene for giving great notes after reading several drafts and Mark Thompson for cheering me on when I first came up with the idea and title for this book. I must also thank my sister, Ginny Grosso and friend Robert Croonquist, for their well honed English teacher proofing skills.
I’m so thankful for my good friend Dale Nieli’s enthusiasm and Carol Schlanger who stopped working on her own memoir, Far Out, to read my chapters and give notes whenever she could. I give thanks to Larry Litzky for the nourishment and free dinners and for the constant love and encouragement I get from Danny Nicoletta, Michael Kearns, Lee Mently, Diana Davidow, and all my wildly creative friends who always offer good cheer.
Shout Out to cheap tricks, peeping toms, sugar daddies and mamas who put their money where their mouth is and gave more than lose change.
Bill Schlimme
Brian Frank
Cathy Brown
Daniel Canier
Daniel Nicoletta
David Zimelis
Diana Davidow
Donna McNeely
Drew Eshelman
Elaine Partnow
Francesca Rosa
James Campbell
Jeffrey Schwarz
Jon Canier
Lothar Delgado
Lotti Pharriss Knowles
Randall Caporale
Mario Di Donato
Michelle Cameron
Steve DiVerde
Viva Vinson
Winslow Eliot
About the author:
Dolores De Luce began her performance life after becoming a single mom to her baby girl, Viva in 1970. Dolores was mentored by the legendary Divine and the infamous gender-bending Cockettes in San Francisco. She was nominated for ‘Best Performer’ by Bay Area Credits Association for Broken Dishes, a musical she co-wrote with Amber Waves in the mid-seventies. By the end of that decade she moved back to Los Angeles to continue her stage and writing work and added film and television credits to her resume.
Dolores’ autobiographical screenplay, Grace Happens, based on her first memoir; My Life a Four Letter Word: Confessions of a Counter Culture Diva was semi finalist at the Austin Screenwriting Competition. The Shirt, from Gay Widows, a collection of AIDS survivor stories, was published in Witness, an A.P.L.A. magazine.
Currently Dolores lives in Venice Beach and continues to write and act while promoting her adult daughter Viva's International singing career. She can be seen about town reading her stories with QueerWise, an LGBTI senior writer’s collective, and story-telling at The Moth, Tasty Words, Everybody Loves a Good Story, and other spoken word venues around Los Angeles.
Contact www.counterculturediva.com
Cover Design:
Jennifer Lim currently resides, works, surfs and plays in Venice Beach, California. Contact jenniferjadelim.com
Cover Photos by:
Bader Howard www.baderphoto.com
Additional graphics:
Antonio Dias and Sam Tabreizi
Table of Contents
Also By Dolores DeLuce
Chapter 1 Bargain Basement Beauty Queen
Chapter 2 Bad Mommy
Chapter 3 Knitter to the Stars
Chapter 4 Maid For This
Chapter 5 High Times in the Low Life
Chapter 6 Food For the Gods
Chapter 7 Tell Mama
Chapter 8 I Love Lucy, Who Doesn’t?
Chapter 9 I was a Bimbo’s Slave and More Jobs that Suck
Chapter 10 I Get By With a Lot of Help from My Friends
Chapter 11 Extra, Extra, Read All About It!
Chapter 12 Witches, Bitches, and Naked Zombies
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
SPECIAL THANKS TO
About the author:
Blow Jobs: A Guide to Making it in Show Business, or Not!: A 'How Not To' by The Counter Culture Diva Page 10
