Reflections from our intrepid heroine, Teresa, on her
trip to the "Big Bad Apple" for a Deborah Harry book party, where she ended
up getting more than she had bargained for. Reprinted from New York
Waste, Summer 2000 issue.--Ed.
Source: Deborah
Harry Index of Galleries
So here I sit, nearly naked, trying to write about how I became proud owner of panties once worn by punk's original femme fatale. One sentence and I avert my eyes from the computer screen to gaze blankly out the window at cornfields ad infinitum. Then heavily, like the supporting tendon at the base of my neck has been severed, my head falls toward my lap and the bikini briefs imprinted with “Do Not Deprave Yourself” that cling to my hips. Maybe there is a story in this.
Flashback to May 31, morning. I’m jet-bound from Chicago
to NYC, beside a big guy with body odor who stares longingly at the pack
of peanuts on my tray table. I push the headphones from my ears to the
bridge of my nose, so the foam discs stifle the sweat stench. I reach into
my duffel for a Baggie filled with safety pins and a slip adorned with
a collage of ironed-on concert photos I recently shot of Debbie. Time to
complete an original design that will grab the attention of Blondie’s Golden
Goddess....