Dear Shaded Viewers,
My friend Sameer invited my friend Isabel and I to his most recent art exhibit, TRUE EAST, which took place last Saturday. Awhile ago, he had asked me and a bunch of his friends to each donate an old piece of clothing that had "emotional value" so he could create what he called a "wearable sculpture." I dove into the back of my closet and excavated an old bra that was worn a few times by Glennda Orgasm (my drag performance persona from back in the '90s) that had never been washed. Pefect!
So, on Saturday Isabel and I found ourselves in a far-flung corner of Brooklyn–a remote, residential street that was tucked away a few blocks from that toxic, swampy, urban morass known as the Gowanus Canal. No-man's land, basically. Isabel kept trying to get me to turn back so we could flee to Manhattan, especially when it seemed like there was nothing even remotely resembling an art gallery on this forlorn, forgotten street.
Suddenly, I spotted a white door ajar and I could hear the faint vibrations of something that was either a Tibetan prayer hymn or a Peter Gabriel-composed film soundtrack. "I think this is it!" I cried as I tugged at Isabel's caftan sleeve. I cautiously pushed the door open wider and peered inside.
What I saw sent a shiver down my spine.
Someone spun around and she or he was wearing a ghoulishly grinning mask. Then I heard the sinister rustle of lam
