Rodney King: Victim, catalyst, icon, hunk. Yes, hunk. Oh, I had quite a thing for the big lug, you know. Crushed on him FOR YEARS. It was those sad cow eyes that reeled me in. That, and I get off on tortured souls, it’s one of my least attractive qualities. I remember in the aftermath of the riots in ’92, I came out to LA with the express purpose of tracking him down and making him my LOVER. It didn’t happen, unfortunately. Not for lack of trying though. You don’t KNOW the days and nights I spent trolling up and down Crenshaw Boulevard in my bedraggled Ringling drag looking for him. Not the wisest thing to do in those still-smoldering, racially divided times, but I was a woman OBSESSED. Even as late as last year, when talking to my Daily Freak Show collaborator Michael Lucid, about potential interviews, I suggested taking Rodney to Mr Blacks for a night on the town. I thought the queens would just go bananas over him (as they do), and that might make him feel gratified, or less tortured, or possibly even turned on, I don’t know. I still had it tucked away in the back of my head that we were meant to be together. That I would love him and heal him and make up for all the sadness in his life. And now that chance is gone. It was a very sad day for me yesterday. Letting go of a dream. Poor little guy. YOU WERE LOVED, RODNEY!