wonderhussy

It’s springtime in the desert…as oft mentioned, my favorite time ever! The sun’s rays have just begun to gently seduce bottle-blonde party whores all over Vegas into shedding clothing like cherry blossom petals, and foot pervs everywhere are sporting wood over all the newly-pedicured toes going around in flip-flops. Well, with all that going on, never in my wildest dreams did I expect to be balls-deep in snow this time of year — but it happened to me TWICE in the past couple of weeks!

The first brush occurred a couple weeks back, when my friend Alex invited me to go camping “in the desert” off U.S. 395. For those not in the know, the 395 runs north-south along the eastern side of the Sierra Mountains, through some of the most beautiful country in the world. I haven’t explored it much, but have heard many tales of the amazing hotsprings along its hallowed length…so I was super stoked to check it out.

In addition, every time I drive up to the Bay Area, I take CA-58…and just outside Barstow, I always pass the 395 turnoff, at a place called Kramer Junction. The 395 trails tantalizingly off to the north, and every single time I’ve passed it, I have solemnly vowed to one day take that road and see where it goes. Well, that day was finally here!

Alex sent me a link to this fabulous-looking place called the Alabama Hills, which due to their relative proximity to Hollywood have been used as the backdrop for countless Westerns, and suggested we camp there. It looked awesome and fairly temperate, so I packed up my tent and some weed, wine and warm-ish clothes, and headed out with him on the open road.

 

Now, Alex is the guy I almost went to that off-road race in Baja with — he’s a loose cannon, to put it mildly. I originally thought he was like the male version of me, but I’ve since come to learn that he’s more like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Either way, he’s an interesting person if you like exploring the desert…and are not easily offended. You just have to stay on your toes.

Anyhoo, we left Vegas on a Friday afternoon, and moseyed down I-15 to Kramer Junction, then hung a thrilling right — at long last!! There is nothing in this world I enjoy more than heading down a road I’ve never been down before — NOTHING. It was fabulous!

 

After stopping to check out a few local attractions, including a creepy old abandoned military base/prison camp/???, we continued cruising north to the scenic little town of Lone Pine, where we turned off and headed west into the Alabama Hills, right at the base of snow-capped Mt. Whitney — the tallest peak in the continental U.S. The snowcapped mountains made a super-gorgeous, ultra-dramatic background to our campsite, nestled among the gently rounded boulders and desert scrub of the Alabama Hills — absolutely breathtaking!

After unpacking our gear, Alex rode his dirt bike off to town while I stayed behind and set up my tent and built a fire, like a good squaw. When he got back, I ate a pot cookie and got baked by the fire, and had a pretty good time. There’s little in this world I enjoy more than a campfire in the desert…ya know? The night was fairly warm, even with the snow-capped mountains in the background, and everything was completely amazing.

The next morning, I cranked up some Dark Side of the Moon and drove Alex’s truck while he rode his dirt bike through the hills and down the road to Manzanar. Manzanar was this internment camp where the U.S. Gov’ment forced U.S. citizens of  Japanese descent to live during WWII, after the attack on Pearl Harbor. It was basically a couple steps above a concentration camp — there were no ovens or forced labor, but they still had to give up all their possessions (other than what they could carry with them), abandon their homes and businesses, and leave their entire lives behind to go live in these drafty barracks in the desert until the war was over. Shameful!!!

Manzanar is now a museum and memorial site, so we checked that out and then headed back up the 395 to the slightly larger town of Bishop, where we stopped at Erik Schat’s Bakkerÿ (?!) for some delicious shepherd’s bread (for reals, you gotta try this shit. It’s amazing!!). The plan now was to keep heading north to Mammoth Lakes, where there are a bunch of super cool hot springs that I’ve been dying to check out for years. Alex knew all about them, since a few winters ago he and his ex-girlfriend lived out there in his truck, while working as ski lift operators at the resort on Mammoth Mountain.

However, the skies looked pretty ominous, and I kept getting these “Winter Storm Warning” alerts on my phone: “Are you sure we should camp there??” A storm was moving in over the mountains, and heavy-to-moderate snowfall was expected that night — and I hadn’t prepared for snow camping. All I had was my shitty little $20 WalMart kids’ tent, and a super thin sleeping bag. I was even kinda chilly the previous night, in the Alabama Hills! But Alex just scoffed at me, calling me a pussy: “I lived there all winter…you’ll be fine. You can sleep in the back of my truck [he has a camper shell] and I promise I won’t manhandle you.”

Hmmmm. If there’s one thing I hate more than being freezing fucking cold, it’s being called a pussy! But, man…I reeeeally hate being cold. Almost as much as being manhandled.

So we drove up to the ski resort area and checked it out, and it was pretty cool, if you’re into that scene. I personally am a lizard — I like the sun, and I like it HOT. Snow ain’t my bag, nor is snow culture in general — all those snowboarding bros and bro-ettes, bourgey skiiers, and boisterous blond kids in funky knit caps boozing in the chalet, which I observed in one of the bars up there over a round of drinks (I had one of those delicious hot toddies with coffee and Baileys and shit, trying to fortify myself for the freezing night to come…drinking hot toddies is the only part of ski culture I can get down with).

Anyway, despite my misgivings, we headed back down the mountain to the hot springs around sunset, and it was only getting colder and colder. There are several springs in the area around Mammoth, all sort of scattered around in this meadowy area on the east side of the highway. There’s even a hot creek that runs through the meadow, although they don’t recommend soaking in it as the temperature is known to fluctuate wildly from one minute to the next, and people die up there all the time from being scalded by boiling water being belched from the Earth! Yikes!!!

Anyway, skipping the creek, the first couple pools we stopped at were crowded with drunken revelers — and since Alex doesn’t like to soak around other people, those were no-gos. But when we did finally find a deserted pool, the water in it was only lukewarm :/ I insisted that if I had to spend the night freezing my ass off, I at least wanted some seriously HOT water to warm up in…so we kept going.

Meanwhile, along the way we stopped to check out this little hunting cabin Alex knew of, that’s easy to break into in case of an emergency — it has a wood stove and cozy beds and a cooler full of beer, and I guess is mainly used by cowboys during cattle grazing season, although Alex and his ex-girlfriend used to bunk there on exceptionally cold nights, when the temps were too low for even badasses like them to sleep in the back of his truck. As long as you leave it as you found it, it’s apparently OK to crash in…I mean, in an emergency, ya know?

Well, any snow at all is an emergency situation in my book, and that cabin looked pretty good to me!!! But Alex just called me a pussy and insisted we push on.  So we cruised back over to the hot pool with the least amount of people near it, and set up camp up the hill a bit, as close as possible to the springs…so that when we eventually had to get out, at least we didn’t have far to go in the freezing night air.

By “set up camp,” I mean all we really did was unload the firewood, build up a fire ring, and take out my camp chair. It was too dark and too cold to bother with anything more — so instead, I ate some mushrooms and drank some wine, and we headed down to the springs for a nice hot soak. Yay!!!!!

Now, all this time Alex was still chewing me out for being a pussy, since I was pretty much non-stop grousing about how cold it was. But I couldn’t help it — I was fucking cold, and not prepared to camp in the snow!! I’m a fairly hardy outdoorswoman, but only if I’m prepared for conditions. If I’d expected to camp in the snow, I’d have brought warmer clothes and blankets and stuff — but as it was, I’d packed for the climate in the Alabama Hills, which are at a much lower altitude. Either way, all we did was bicker and bitch and bitch and bicker at each other — until, thank Christ, my shrooms kicked in

By then, we were soaking blissfully in the pool of steaming hot spring water under an inky-black sky, and it was pretty fucking fabulous. We had the place all to ourselves (the other soakers probably took off when they heard us come bitching and bickering down the path), and the night was utterly still. This particular pool is fairly rustic and natural, but the bottom is cemented over, so it isn’t mucky and gross and full of pubes, like other natural springs I’ve been to. There are even little benches built in, so you can sit and soak in the utter peace and solitude with your head above water. It really is a truly exceptional hot springs!

As the night wore on and my buzz intensified, I turned on my headlamp to look for my lighter, and noticed that snow had begun to fall! The storm my phone was warning me about had rolled in, and big, fat fluffy flakes were falling all around us. In my shroomy state it was the most magical thing ever – to be sitting in a natural hot spring, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night, in the middle of a snow flurry!

Alas, my shroomy brain failed to anticipate the fact that snow melts when it touches warm shit — so all that magical snow piled up on my head soon melted into ice water, soaking my hair. Snow also covered my down jacket and furry boots, at the water’s edge — and so when my buzz finally wore off, there I was, sober and miserable with all my warm clothes cold and wet, and my head cold and wet as well…facing a bone-shatteringly cold night in a tin coffin i.e. camper-shell-covered-truckbed. Quel horreur!!

Well, there was noting to do but sack up, get dressed and tromp back through the snow to our “campsite,” where it was too late and too cold and too wet to even bother with a fire. To his credit, Alex made a pretty cozy bed in the back of his truck, and I snuggled down into my shitty WalMart sleeping bag and tried to get some sleep. But two things were bedeviling me.

One, my hair was wet and freezing fucking cold. Even in the best of times, I am afflicted with cold hands and feet (like many women)…so this night, I was really cold!! My feet were like two ice blocks all night long — despite the mountains of blankets Alex had prepared, my feet were by the drafty tailgate, and they actually ached from the cold, all through that miserable night.

Second (and even worse), I had somehow lost my lighter down by the hot spring, and the only one Alex had was buried in his gear outside the truck, in the freezing cold. I didn’t feel like getting dressed to go look for it in the snow…so I couldn’t even hit my pipe and get baked to forget my misery!! Instead, I had to break off a piece of a bud and chew it in my mouth, like chawing tobaccy — which, needless to say, didn’t really work well

So I spent a long, freezing, miserably sleepless night huddled up trying to warm my aching feet…and when the sun finally came up, it was a blessed relief. Even though I hadn’t really slept, I couldn’t wait to get up and put my feet back in the hot water of the springs. It was the only way to stop the aching!! So I rolled out of bed like a grumpy, puffy-eyed icicle, and got out of the truck to survey the landscape.

It really did look magical: a clear blue sky, with sunshine sparkling off the crust of pristine white snow covering everything — including this poor mango I’d brought along that had accidentally rolled out of my food bag, and was laying there in the road covered in frost, like a metaphor for my sad frostbitten ass.

 

Once I’d brushed my teeth and had some coffee, I felt better about things, so Alex and I headed back down to the springs for a morning soak before heading on our way. This morning we had company — an über-cool bearded road-warrior type named Kevin, who lived in a van with his two dogs, one of which was soaking in the pool with us. He was a super cool dude, and very interesting to talk to — he’d been on the road for over ten years, and had been camping out by these springs for a few weeks. His supplies were running low, though, so in a few days he was headed back to town — but in the meanwhile, I spotted him some smoke, and gave him the rest of our shepherd’s bread (which Alex relentlessly bawled me out for, despite the fact that it was my fuckin’ bread that I paid for…in fact, I paid for all our meals and drinks on the trip).

Anyway, after an hour or two we got out, dried off, packed up and headed out, stopping for lunch back up on Mammoth Mountain before cruising eastward, back into the desert at long fucking last!!! The happiest sight I ever saw in my entire life was the sight of those fucking snow-covered mountains in the rear-view mirror, let me tell you.

A friend had told me about these other springs in a place called Fish Lake Valley, right on the Nevada/California border north of Death Valley, so we headed there next, stopping in the town of Fish Lake Valley proper for a sody pop and some gas (Alex has the supremely annoying habit of only gassing up $5 at a time — his justification being that if his car conks out, he doesn’t want to leave a full tank of gas just sitting there).

Fish Lake Valley is little more than a blip in the road — a few alfalfa farms, a general store/gas station, and a wonderful-looking and very aptly-named little bar called The Boonies. But no one was in the bar — the real action was on the patio out front of the general store, where a bunch of Mexican farmworkers were chilling out drinking Coronas in the sun. Alex wasted no time in befriending them, and they shared their beer and told their stories: the various ways they had sneaked over the border into the U.S., their decent-paying gig as alfalfa harvesters, and their sympathetic bossman, who gives them plenty of warning on the rare occasions that Immigration comes sniffing around so they can hide out in the woods or wherever. Fantastic!!! It was really cool talking to those guys, and I have to give Alex credit for being really good at getting strangers to open up.

After an hour or so, we headed back down the road to the Fish Lake Hot Spring, which turned out to be a pretty cool little spot, if you’re into off-road dirtbiking/four-wheeling. The spring itself is a concrete rectangle at the edge of a marshy lake, in the middle of a vast, desolate windswept valley — I’d only recommend camping there if you can sleep in your car or in a hard-shell trailer; tents or tent-trailers would probably blow right the fuck over out there.

That being said, it was a pretty cool spot — there’s a vault toilet, and barbecue grills and fire rings, and if you’re into dirtbiking there are tons of trails criss-crossing the area. As we soaked, Alex talked to a few guys who came riding in from just such adventures, and he started developing an idea for an offroad motorcycle tour company, where he plans to take groups of wealthy Europeans on off-road adventures all around the desert surrounding Vegas.

Meanwhile, I chatted with this awesome dreadlocked Viking hippie who was soaking in the pool smoking a joint and reading Harper’s Magazine — he’d driven out from South Dakota with his dog, and was cruising around camping at various hot springs to escape the freezing South Dakota spring. He informed me that the Rainbow Gathering is supposedly going to take place in northern Nevada this year, so now I have no excuse not to go — it’s been on my bucketlist forever, although I’ve heard from some that it’s really kind of gross, and full of the nasty, lazy, society-leech-type hippies I despise. (I’m a hard-working hippie myself, ya heard?)

Anyway, I had to be back by in Vegas by 11pm for this dumbass conference call in the morning, so we left Fish Lake and cruised back into Nevada by way of my all-time favorite ghost town, Gold Point! You may remember Gold Point as the ghost town where me and my Goddess Collective nude model friends all met at a two-day photo shoot back in 2012 — these two photographers had hired the four of us to go out there and goof around in the sagebrush, and we all had a wonderful time.

Well, I can never pass by Gold Point without stopping in to say Hi, and besides….Alex needed another $5 worth of gas, which they don’t normally sell to people out there, but it was an emergency, so Walt the bartender let us buy a couple gallons. After gassing up, Walt let us into the saloon and we sat around bullshitting over a drink — and I couldn’t believe what he told me next.

Come to find out, those same two photographers have already booked a return trip later this year! This is shocking, because they didn’t hire me again — I checked with the other Goddess Collective members, and apparently they did hire at least one of the other girls again…but I never heard a word from them Oh, well….I guess they didn’t care much for my look! They seemed happy with me last time, but with modeling you have to have a thick skin and not take this shit personally. D’oh!!

Anyhoo, after that the sun was going down, so we said good bye to Walt and headed back to Vegas. And before you know it, I was home again, feeding my dog and watering my plants and up at 7am for this dumbass conference call and a Japanese TV documentary I played a small role in and had to be onset for all day. But shockingly, it wasn’t long before I found myself balls-deep in motherfucking freezing cold snow — again!!!

The very next day — April Fools’ Day, no less — I had made plans to go hiking. My girlfriend from Arkansas was in town, and she wanted a bad-ass workout before starting her miserable week of working a tradeshow, so I decided we’d go up northwest of town and hike through the ancient bristlecone pine forest to the Raintree — this awesomely ginormous, knotty, warped giant bristlecone pinetree, said to be the oldest living thing in Nevada.  I’ve hiked to it many times, and while it’s only 6 miles roundtrip, it’s a pretty decent elevation gain, so it’s a pretty good workout.

I also invited my friend “Ken,” a commercial airline pilot I met back in January when I was hiking the Goldstrike hot springs trail, and he was repairing the rope ladders on the bouldering portions of that trail, using rope he’d bought out of the goodness of his heart. A really cool guy, and a pretty badass outdoorsman — when not flying for one of the major-ish airlines, Ken is a veteran backpacker who is also building his own log cabin on some property he owns way the fuck up in Northern California. Oh, and he’s super easy on the eyes, too!

Anyway, the three of us met at the Tropicana Hotel, drove up north 30 minutes to the trailhead in Lee Canyon, and set out for what we assumed would be a fabulous, moderately-strenuous day hike. But what none of us realized was that a storm had blown in, and the top of the mountain was completely blanketed in fresh snow! Down in Vegas the weather was sunny and warm…but here on the trail, at around 8,000 feet, it was pretty chilly.  I mean, who the fuck expects to get caught in a blizzard in Vegas, in April?!?! Not me!

Thank dog I actually brought along my tennies — I normally hike this (and all) trails in flip-flops, but for once I had brought along real shoes, a hoodie and even gloves. And BOY, WAS I GLAD I DID! The farther up the trail we went, the snowier and icier it got — the trail was downright treacherous in places, due to the ice, so after awhile we gave up hiking on the trail and tromped along in the snow, instead.

Ken led the way, what with all his rugged outdoors experience, and soon we were near the top of the mountain, somewhere near the Raintree — but the problem was, up there at the top (9,400 feet) it began to snow so heavily, and visibility grew so bad, that we couldn’t even see the damn Raintree through the foggy mist! And that’s a huge fuckin’ tree!!

Worse, we couldn’t see the trail anymore, either…so after stumbling around awhile, and taking a bunch of “Look at me! In the snow, in Vegas! In April!!” photos, Ken suggested we should give up on finding the tree, and just head back down before we got caught in a bonafide blizzard. My girlfriend and I concurred, although privately we agreed there were worse things that could happen to us than spend the night in an igloo with handsome Ken, haha.

But even finding our way back down to the bottom of the mountain proved insanely difficult in that fucking snow! We hiked in a downhill direction, but by now we’d completely lost sight of the trail, and ended up scrambling through brush, off trail, for four long hours of uncertainty. Let me tell you, those mountains are surprisingly rugged, for being only 30 minutes outside Vegas. It ain’t like that fake-ass jungle in the Mirage, let me tell you! Even Ken, who has backpacked the Pacific Crest Trail in the High Sierra, was taken aback by the harshness of the terrain.

Anyway, neither Ken nor my girlfriend had ever hiked that area before, so they didn’t have a good grasp of the direction we were headed. I’d done it a few times, but I wasn’t much help either, since we had somehow ended up waaaaay off course after getting lost at the top of the mountain. We meandered up and down through avalanche chutes and steep ravines, coming to dead ends at sheer cliff faces and having to turn around and backtrack several times. It was actually pretty scary there for a minute! We were cold and wet and exhausted, tromping through snow and ice and sharp brambles — meanwhile, back in Vegas, jackasses were laying by the pool sipping piña coladas!! Surreal!!!

Finally, after five long hours of painful scrambling, we found the trail and made it back down to Ken’s truck — which also has a camper shell on the back, incidentally. But instead of having to spend a freezing night sleeping in the back, we simply sat on the tailgate in the sunshine (it was totally sunny and beautiful at the base of the mountain, bizarrely), shared some beer and sangria, and then headed back down to Vegas and beat the fuck out of some Thai food. Boo-ya!! It was one of those crazy adventures that are slightly terrifying at the time, but are so much fun in retrospect — in my experience, all the best adventures are the ones with a slight element of danger, ya know?

Anyway, after all that I was DONE with fucking snow! Done, I tells ya –fuck snow!!! I grew up in Germany as a little kid — I saw enough of that fuckin’ shit back then to last me a lifetime; I don’t need it cramping my style now. Thankfully, my next adventure was down by sunny Hoover Dam, where it never snows.

A really cool friend of mine from the local hippie/Burning Man community has a bunch of kayaks, so he invited me on an overnight kayak trip down the Colorado River, with a campout at the Arizona Hot Springs beach, midway down the river. I camped at that beach around this time last year, and it was amazing – my friends and I drank shroom tea and soaked in the springs til all hours of the night, and had a generally fabulous time. Well guess what?!?!?!? We did it again!!!

Originally, a bunch of people were supposed to go…but most of them bailed out at the last minute, for one reason or another, and it was gonna be just me and two guys, unless I could round up more people on my own. I tried messaging a few girlfriends, and invited Ken and Alex as well, but none of them were interested or available…so I finally resorted to the nuclear option: posting a call on Facebook. I don’t really like doing that, because you never know who is gonna show up…but at this point, I was desperate. I mean, the other two guys I was going with were cool, but the more the merrier…ya know???

Well, imagine my astonishment when the one person to answer my post was the last person I ever expected in a million years!!!

I met this chick we’ll call The Baroness back when I was working at that nutty nightclub last year. I’m calling her that because she’s kinda like The Baroness from The Sound of Music — blonde, beautiful and ultra-glamorous. You never see her out and about without her being dressed to the motherfucking nines: evening gown, fur stole, trademark long cigarette holder and perfectly coiffed platinum blonde hair. All this fabulous bitch does is party all night, every night, and then retire to her glass castle in one of the luxury high-rise towers facing the Vegas Strip, where she sleeps all day in her fabulous, ultra-feminine, super-luxe princess bed. She’s straight out of a movie, and I totally dig her style — we’ve hung out a few times, and she’s one of the nicest people I know.

She’s also the last person I expected to be into kayaking and camping — but she was down to come along!! After taking her limo to WalMart for supplies (she travels everywhere by limousine, of course), she was packed up and ready to go — sleeping bag, tent and a jumbo-sized bottle of Bombay Sapphire. Have booze, will travel! I picked her up at 7am (!!! that’s how hardcore this bitch is; she was up and looking fabulous by 7am) and we cruised out to the Hoover Dam to meet my two guy friends at the launching area.

I can’t imagine what my two dusty hippie friends thought when I rolled up with the Baroness in tow, dressed as she was in a fabulous full-length flowing yellow chiffon skirt, with a matching bikini top barely restraining her massive breasts. Fringed leather sandals and matching hobo bag completed her look, along with a chic straw cowboy hat with turquoise accents, and oversized stunner shades. Meanwhile, I just had on an AC/DC ball cap and my usual shorts and flip flops — we must have looked like a lesbian couple, lol!

But despite her glamourpuss looks, let me tell you something — the Baroness doesn’t fuck around!! That bitch is hard core. The first thing she did upon arriving at our meeting spot at the Hacienda Hotel was to go in and buy cigarettes and bottled Kahlua drinks, which we chugged in the parking lot at 8am while the adventure outfitter loaded our gear onto his truck. When kayaking or canoeing the Colorado River, that’s how it works — even if you have your own vessel, a special tour outfitter has to tote your gear down to the launching spot, since it’s on restricted Federal Government land directly below the Hoover Dam. You pay a $27 launch fee, but once you put in, you’re on your own the rest of the way. Pretty cool deal!

Once our gear was loaded, we climbed aboard the outfitter’s van and he drove us down to the launch site. Meanwhile, my good old buddy Alex had roared up on his dirtbike out of nowhere to bring me my tent, which I had accidentally left in his truck after our Mammoth Mountain mishap, and while he wasn’t allowed to follow us down to the launch site, he got some cool overhead photos of us launching from the bridge overhead. He also let me borrow his cold-weather sleeping bag, since I was afraid of freezing my ass off again.

Anyway, once they drop you off at the river’s edge you have fifteen minutes to get your gear in your boats and take off — and they are very strict about it. Between me and the Baroness and all our booze and accouterments, plus my two guy friends and all their accouterments (drum, tambourine, three cookstoves and a dog, etc.), it was QUITE an ordeal getting everything loaded up and ready in time. The Feds were on our ass the entire time, telling us to hurry — there are only three launch times on the river (7am, 8am and 9am) and we were making them fall behind schedule. Thankfully, the Baroness and her tits and her fabulous sunny outfit all served as a sort of charm offensive, keeping the Feds at bay until we were all packed and ready to go. And then we were off!

The plan was to kayak downriver 4 miles to the Arizona Hot Springs beach, stopping along the way at various sites of interest. Our first stop, not even a mile from the launch site, was to be the fabulous, legendary Sauna Cave – a long tunnel bored into the cliff face below the Dam, through which a hot spring runs, creating a steamy sauna effect. It’s truly fabulous! But before we even got there, disaster struck!

First, the Baroness tipped over in her kayak and fell overboard, completely soaking her long chiffon skirt and fringed leather sandals and handbag. Like a bonafide champ, however, she sacked up and scrambled back aboard, none the worse for wear — I’d had the foresight to bring us Ziploc bags for our cellphones, since we’re both social media whores and can’t be without our phones for two minutes, let alone two days. So her phone and cigarettes were dry — and that’s all that really mattered!

By the time she recovered, however, we had already drifted downstream past the sauna cave!! Catastrophe!! We regrouped, and decided to paddle back upstream, against the current, to reach the little beach at the foot of the sauna cave. But on our way up, I capsized my kayak — and even worse than the Baroness!

My entire kayak flipped over, and every single thing I had was completely soaked — my Camelbak, my backpack full of gear, my clothes and my flipflops. I was struggling in the icy water, hanging on for dear life, trying to keep my flipflops on my feet and my Camelbak and backpack from sinking to the bottom of the river. Meanwhile, my sleeping bag was soaked and my kayak wouldn’t flip back over…YIKES!!!

Finally with the help of my friends, I somehow managed to right my kayak, rescue all my gear, and climb back aboard without losing a single thing (!!!). Even my phone stayed dry in its store-band baggie!! It was nothing short of a miracle, I tells you…and a real baptism by fire.

At this point, the Baroness and I were both having second thoughts as to the wisdom of this little excursion — so we all paddled into one of the many wonderful little caves lining the river, and took a few tokes to regroup. Not all of us partook, but I certainly did — and let me tell you, it was fan-fucking-tastic! Once our nerves were settled, we continued back upstream, fighting the current until at last we reached the sauna cave beach. SUCCESS!!!

After laying my things out to dry in the sunshine, we all hiked up the trail to the sauna cave — and it was truly magical! The cave is more of a tunnel that goes back into the cliff face about 50-100 feet, and halfway along it curves to the left, so that you lose sight of the daylight and you’re in complete inky pitch-black darkness. We decided to inch along in the dense, velvety steamy darkness without a flashlight, just feeling our way along the walls with our hands, sloshing through the warm water running through the bottom. Let me tell you: high as I was, it was fucking amazing!!! Like being reborn, passing through a dark, watery womb — or like one of those sensory deprivation tanks that rich New Agers pay big bucks to float in. You lose track of all time when you’re deprived of your sight like that, plus I was high as a kite, so it felt like it took forever…but finally we reached the back wall of the tunnel, covered with these calcified stalagmite-type formations that felt really cool in my altered state of consciousness. I was so glad we went through all that to get to the sauna cave, because it is BAD ASS!

By that time my clothes were mostly dry, so we packed back up and headed back downriver to the next stop: a “rain cave,” which is basically a big, beautiful mossy cave that drips hot spring water from the ceiling. The Baroness and I were super careful not to tip our kayaks from that point on, and I’m pleased to report that neither of us capsized or had any further mishaps the remainder of the trip. Maybe it was all the weed I smoked…I don’t know. Either way: Yay!

After that, we beached our kayaks at Goldstrike Hot Springs (the same springs where I originally met Ken, the pilot), and went ashore for a little hike to one of the better soaking pools. We hung out there for awhile and had some cocktails (the Baroness made gin & juice for everyone), then cruised further downriver to the Boy Scout Hot Springs. There was already a family camped out there, and we didn’t want to sully their Rockwellian idyll with our boozy antics, plus those springs are kinda lukewarm anyway, so we didn’t really stay long.

By this time it was getting later in the day, and the Baroness and I wanted to get to Arizona Hot Springs beach so we could set up camp and dry out the rest of our stuff before the sun went down. So we paddled the rest of the 4 miles to that beach, arriving about an hour before sunset. Perfect! We built a fire, wolfed down some food (kayaking burns about 50,000 calories a minute), had some drinks and then set up our tents and stuff.

As mentioned, the Baroness had gone to WalMart for supplies, and on my recommendation had purchased a $20 kiddie tent — only they were out of the real tents like mine, and she’d ended up buying something that was really more of a kids’ play tipi — printed with cartoon owls, and without a zipper or any way to close it. Additionally, it had this huge glory-hole looking thing on one side, which I guess was designed for kids to crawl through…but which for camping purposes looked like it would let in badgers and shit!!! Yikes!! Again, however, she sacked up like a pro, mixed another drink and just dealt with it. Fabulous!!!

By now it was getting dark, and us four were sort of sitting by the fire grousing about how nobody else had showed up — I’d invited my guy friend from last year, the one who had made the shroom tea, and it looked like he was flaking out, too (he was supposed to hike down through the canyon, overland, and meet us on the beach). But then, lo and behold, came two backpacking figures hiking towards us in the dusky gloom: my good ol’ buddy Alex, and my Shroom tea friend (I’ll call him Sal)! YAY!!!!

Now it was a real party! We had more drinks, built up the fire, roasted some hot dogs and stuff, and then Sal fired up his Primus stove to brew some of his famous shroom tea. Gooooooooooooooood times, let me tell you. Not all of us partook, but I’m here to tell you that I certainly did, and it was fan-fucking-tastic.

When the tea kicked in, we all headed up the canyon to the hot spring for a moonlight soak — the most magical thing in the world! I’ve been to a lot of hot springs in my day, but I have to say that I think these Arizona/White Rock ones are my #1 absolute favorites — they’re the ones you have to hike up a long, narrow slot canyon to reach, climbing up a series of waterfalls until you reach an intimidating rusty metal ladder bolted to a boulder — and did I mention the ladder is about three stories tall?! Yikes indeed! Not only is the ladder precarious as fuck (although it is securely bolted to the rock), it’s also soaking wet and slippery, so you really have to keep a death grip on it with your hands and toes! Now imagine doing all of this while you’re shrooming!!!! Whoa, maaaaaaaan!!!!!!

Astonishingly, we all made it up the ladder without mishap and enjoyed a long, surreal soak in the beautiful springs. Last year when we did this, we brought all these colored lanterns and took really cool art nude photos — the springs are in a really steep slot canyon, almost like a cave, and the lighting and reflections were really cool. This time though, we just chilled out and soaked. And when we’d had enough, we headed back down to the fire!

Alex had stayed behind with my other friend’s dog (who can’t make it up that ladder), drinking beer and Old Crow, and by the time we got back he was in fine form. A bickering match began in no time, only this time it was between him and the Baroness — they went at it all night long. In her defense, the Baroness did nothing to provoke him — that’s just the way he is. It was a super awkward situation, let me tell you. I think they ended up making amends later on, but I’m not sure — it was pretty bad. I was sorry for the youth group camped next door — they really got an earful Plus, we had set up camp right in the middle of the fuckin’ path to the outhouses (there are two vault toilets on that beach), so those poor kids had to walk past us angry drunks every time they had to pee. My sincere apologies, kids.

Anyway, around 4am we all finally passed out in a mess of beer cans, Solo cups and smoldering resentment, and I spent a miserable few hours trying to sleep, despite the fact that I had Alex’s really warm sleeping bag, plus he also let me borrow his sleeping pad, and I had my lighter and weed and everything right there. The sad fact is, I can’t sleep well unless I’m in my own bed…which really sucks for adventuring, but I’m learning how to deal with it. Meanwhile, Alex himself passed out on his spare bedroll by the fire, the Baroness konked out in her kiddie tipi (which was only 5′x5′, so her feet stuck out), and the other guys all crashed on/in their various rigs. What a fucking zoo!! I can only imagine what those poor kids next door thought when they got up at sunrise, tiptoeing past our hot fucking mess of a campsite on their way to the potties — it must have looked like the remains of Chernobyl’s Reactor No. 4. Sad!

Astonishingly, we were all up and at ‘em by 8am or so, eating omelets and drinking coffee like nothing happened. The Baroness emerged from her tipi looking radiant as always (the bitch!!), and we all packed up and then headed back for one last soak in the springs before leaving.

After a soothing soak, we all felt much better and were ready to face the rest of our journey. If you rent kayaks from the outfitters, they recommend leaving Arizona Hot Springs beach by 11:30am in order to be at Willow Beach in time for the shuttle bus that takes you back to the dam — well, luckily for us, our guy friends had gone ahead the day before and left a car there, so we didn’t have to get there at any particular time. We were able to mosey!

I’d brought these canned espresso drinks along, and was trying to figure out a way to make cocktails with them, using the limited materials at hand. After last night’s blowout, all we had left was half a bottle of Old Crow…so we improvised, mixing that with espresso and coconut milk: crowconut lattes! I’m here to tell you, it was actually a damn good drink!! And that Old Crow came in handy in more ways than one — the Baroness also used it to sanitize a cut on her foot. She had also broken one of her beautifully manicured nails, way down to the quick…but did she sit around and bitch about it?! Nah…she simply sacked up, poured some Old Crow on it, and bandaged it up with a Band Aid. And then kayaked 8 miles to Willow Beach!!! Now, that’s a badass.

Anyway, now we were wasted again, sitting in the sun on the beach, some of us baked and all of us having a blast. Sal hiked out early, to beat the heat, and Alex ended up staying another night and making friends with another group of boozy campers that had arrived that morning, so around 1pm or so, the four of us kayakers climbed aboard and set off down the river again.

Actually, only three of us were in kayaks — my one friend (the guy whose kayaks they all were) actually had a canoe. He’s a pretty rugged outdoorsman himself, and goes down on the river all the time with his dog…so much so that he devised this ingenious Dog Board that fits onto the prow of his canoe, so that his dog can lay on the front like a masthead, while he sits in the back and paddles. Meanwhile, he has a badass airbrushed drawing of an octopus on the side of the canoe, with the legend “El Pulpo” — the Octopus, because between him and his dog they have 8 limbs. How cute is that??!?!

So with El Pulpo leading us, our ragtag band of hungover, waterlogged boozers journeyed on, the rest of the way to Willow Beach. As mentioned it was an 8-mile trip…and I’m here to tell you, 8 miles never seemed so long!!! As tired and hungover as most of us were, with our various injuries, it was a wonder we even made it.

At first it was great — we glided along with the current for awhile, listening to Alanis Morissette’s “Thank U” blaring from El Pulpo’s boombox, echoing off the canyon walls. Then we glided along in silence for awhile, and it was so amazingly peaceful. We stopped for a while at Emerald Cave, this exceptionally beautiful, humongous cave where at the right time of afternoon, the light turns the water a gorgeous shade of emerald green, some of us taking one last ceremonious puff on the peace pipe….and then we basically hauled ass for Willow Beach.

By then, the weather had gotten overcast, and it looked like it might rain…so for the last two miles or so, I just paddled. Left, right, left, right, left….ugh. Kayaking is exhausting!! After that 5-hour scramble in the snow the other day, I’d gotten a great lower body workout — well, now I was getting an amazing upper body workout, too! And my liver got a great workout the night before. Fuck!!

Now, Arizona Hot Springs beach is a great place to camp out in most respects…but if I were to do this trip again, I would seriously think about camping closer to the halfway point. It’s a 12-mile trip from the Dam to Willow Beach, so ideally you could camp about 6 miles down and then not have so far to go the next day. Well, either that, or you could just not drink so much the night before, and you’d be fine :-p But seriously, there are all kinds of cool little coves and beaches along the river down there….there are TONS of options. But I guess if you want potties and those fabulous hot springs…you have no choice.

Anyway, we finally made it to Willow Beach, one after another, and all of us virtually collapsed on the shore, completely exhausted. I was so proud of the Baroness — she fucking kicked ass, had a great time, and my friends totally dug her. I have a complete newfound respect for this woman! Here’s to you, Baroness!

So anyhoo, once ashore we loaded everything up, drove back to the Hacienda, and then separated our gear and parted ways. By now it was around 8pm, already dark, and we all pretty much just straggled home to bed. I dropped off the Baroness at her Glass Castle, then came home and crashed hard, completely exhausted — not just from the kayak trip, but from ALL this crazy shit I just wrote about! Damn!!! I mean, I loooove adventuring… but it can really wear a gal out.

Still, that being said…I can’t wait to do it again!!!!

You know how back in the day people used to name their estate? Like Monticello, Gray Gardens, Menopause Manor, Peyton Place, Graceland? Well, you might not know this, but my own humble estate has a name, too.

I call my crib Villa Sinvergüenza, which basically means “house without shame” in Spanish. Why? Because it was purchased with the money I earned doing stuff other people might consider shameful — toe sucking, ball-kicking, donut-eating, twat-flashing…etc.

I am a deeply moral person, and don’t consider any of the above activities to be “wrong,” or anything to be ashamed of. Hence, this blog…and thus also the name Villa Sinvergüenza. I used my “ill-gotten” earnings to buy the place, and I use the same ill-gotten earnings to pay my property taxes and keep up with my home maintenance and repairs. I’m a good neighbor, and a good citizen. Ain’t no shame in that!

Anyway, what I need is a little plaque to hang on the wall next to my front door, letting visitors know what’s up. Just think of all the Jehovah’s Witnesses, Mormon missionaries and homeless beggars I could fend off with a sign like this!

This is really important, guys. I tried to paint my own sign, but I overestimated my artistic ability, and it came out totally crappy. So I’m putting it out here: if any of you are sign painters/carpenters/craftsmen and can hook a sister up…let me know!

I only have a budget of about $50 for this thing, which is why I’m reaching out for help. The site I used to create the above example (danthoniadesigns.com) is trying to charge me $145 for my design, and it’s only 12″ long by 5.5″ tall!!

So…if anyone can help, let me know. I’ll gladly pay you in toe sucking, ball-kicking, donut-eating, or twat-flashing

You may not realize this, but I come from a very close-knit family of eccentrics. My best friend growing up was my sister, who, despite being 18 months younger than me, has always been the “responsible” one with a good job, nice car, husband, etc. Truth be told, I always felt like kind of a loser around her, because she’s a total baller — six-figure salary, expensive clothes and all the other accouterments that make up the American Dream. But, come to find out, all along she secretly hated her bullshit lifestyle, and over the years it built up and built up and built up…until finally, last month, she quit her high-paying-but-loathsome marketing job and joined me in going full-bore bohemian!!!

To celebrate her newfound freedom, I invited her to join me on an adventure into one of my favorite corners of America…the farthest southeastern reaches of California, not far from the Mexican border. If you’ve never been there, it’s better than Disneyland — and much cheaper! And being as the desert out there is chock-a-block with off-the-grid eccentrics, artists and weirdos, it’s a GREAT place for a corporate detox! You’ll never catch anyone in those parts uttering bullshit platitudes about thinking outside the box — out there, folks are too busy THRIVING outside the motherfucking box! Fuck the box, maaaaan!!!

Our first stop on the 2014 Corporate Detox Tour was my #1 favorite desert hidey-hole, the Wonder Valley Cat Ranch — winter home-away-from-home to my kooky German artist friends. You may recall I was just out there March 1st for Rummelsnuff’s U.S. debut at the Palms Restaurant — well, I came back again because a) I wanted my sis to meet them, and b) some friends from Vegas were also going out there, so a little party was planned. And boy, what a party it was!

Aside from Käpt’n Rummelsnuff, his First Mate, my sis and I, my friend Fabian also came down from Vegas with his girlfriend…and then the neighbor lady from the ranch next door came over with a few more friends, including her latest boy-toy from the nearby Marine base (the neighbor lady is a wonderful cougar divorcée who enjoys picking up Marines at the local bars in Twentynine Palms). Käpt’n Rummelsnuff grilled up a bunch of steak, and we had a huge bonfire, drank gallons of wine, smoked a ton of weed and set off a bunch of professional-grade fireworks (the Marines are always blowing shit up on the nearby bombing range, so why can’t we?!). It was GREAT!

As we all sat around the bonfire, with fireworks exploding in the background, First Mate Christian began to sing a lovely Romanian folk song in his beautiful, crystal-clear tenor — it was part of Rummelsnuff (the band)’s latest single, “Salutare.” Before you know it, Der Käpt’n was joining in, intoning somber German utterances between verses of the Romanian folk song, and Fabian filmed everything for inclusion in the music video they were putting together for the song. Magical!!!

Because it was a full house at the Ranch, and all the beds were spoken for, my sis and I had towed out my trusty old pop-up camper and set it up in the open desert nearby…so when the party finally died down, we went out there to sleep. Then in the morning, after Fabian and his girlfriend journeyed on to Balboa Island for his wealthy matriarch grandmother’s 93rd birthday party, the rest of us drove down to The Palms Restaurant for brunch. Let me tell you something, for a dusty little podunk roadside bar, that place serves amazing food — I had a veggie omelet that was PACKED with kale and fresh green goodness. I definitely recommend stopping in for a bit if you’re traveling through that part of the country! Unfortunately, between the six of us we totally cleaned them out of eggs…so we didn’t get our pancakes, and the neighbor lady’s Marine boytoy didn’t get anything at all, and we had to order him a burger just so he didn’t starve. D’oh!

Speaking of The Palms, I heard through the grapevine that some douchey production company from L.A. went out there to film a “reality” show about the place…but the scuttlebutt is, bar staff isn’t too happy about the way they’re being portrayed (one super inaccurate character description was of a barmaid with “pouty lips and dead eyes”). But if The Palms drops out, those Hollywood fuckers already have a backup plan involving a different abandoned bar/restaurant off the Twentynine Palms highway. Lesson: never believe anything you see on TV – especially on so-called “reality” shows!!!

Anyway, after brunch we headed back to the ranch to film more footage for Rummelsnuff’s video for “Salutare.” This scene called for my sis and I to drive First Mate Christian around the desert in the back of my pickup truck, with the neighbor lady’s wayward Marine riding along as cinematographer. But before we shot a single frame, we all stopped for a quick workout so that Käpt’n and First Mate’s muscles were pumped full of blood for the camera. Then it was on, and let me tell you something…you haven’t lived until you’ve driven a pickup truck around the desert at golden hour with a greased up German tenor in the back!

All that filming worked up quite a thirst, so after we wrapped for the day, my sis and I made a quick run into Twentynine Palms for white Russian fixins. I’m here to tell you — that is one WEIRD little town! A smattering of flat little crackerbox houses scattered around the edges of this ginormous Marine base, out in the most desolate desert country you’ve ever seen (they use the base to practice desert warfare, as seen on TV in ops like Afghanistan™ and Iraq™). Around the base, Marine-friendly businesses have also sprung up to accommodate the local population, including Burger Kings, grocery stores and massage parlors….and a bizarre profusion of barbershops. There were at least two on every corner offering “$8 Marine Special”s — apparently, the boys are responsible for maintaining their own crew cuts, and it has led to a whole bizarre microeconomy.

Speaking of Marines, the neighbor lady’s poor wayward Marine was basically AWOL this whole time, sucked into the crazy Cat Ranch Freak Vortex, so since we were headed that way anyway, we gave him a ride back to the base before they cut off his nuts, or whatever it is they do to wayward Marines who exhibit bohemian tendencies! On the way back to the base, the poor kid opened up and confided some VERY unexpected information to us, which I won’t divulge here out of concern for his well-being (it was NOT “I’m gay”). Suffice it to say, you really can’t judge a book by the cover — not even a clean-cut manly-man one! But my guess is, that Marine base is a hotbed of homoeroticism. I mean, just look at that barbershop!!

Anyhoo, after all that excitement we spent the rest of the night boozing in the neighbor lady’s Jacuzzi — after a few white Russians (which are amazing with almond milk; why anyone even drinks nasty-ass cow’s milk any more is beyond me) we moved onto some champagne my sis had brought along. THIS is the kind of classy broad my sister is: not only did she bring the champers in a custom carrying case, but she had these amazing hibiscus flowers in a jar of simple syrup, and when you drop them into a glass of champagne, the petals open up and “blossom” into a beautiful (and edible) display of nature’s bounty! Astonishing!!

Alas, I couldn’t stay out boozing too late, because I had a photo shoot scheduled for the a.m. — a photographer from Flagstaff had hired me, but as he was on his way back from a seminar in L.A. it made more sense for us to shoot in Wonder Valley than for us to meet in Vegas. The neighbor lady let me wash my hair in her sink (the Cat Ranch doesn’t have running water), and then the next morning I met the photographer at The Palms and led him back to the ranch, where we spent a delightful few hours shooting fun photos and kibbitzing in the shade. He also gave me an AMAZING bracelet as a token of his esteem, which is now one of my favorite things EVER, and serves as a fabulous souvenir of my fun trip in the desert. Thanks, Dano!! <3 <3 <3

As soon as the shoot was over, my sis and I packed up the camper, said our good-byes to Käpt’n Rummelsnuff and his First Mate (promising to come back and visit next winter) and then took off down the road toward our next destination: the Salton Sea!!

If you haven’t heard of it, the Salton Sea is the biggest lake in California, but it’s in pretty shitty shape since, unlike other

lakes, it isn’t fed by any streams or underground sources — it’s just a big ol’ puddle of agricultural runoff (the lake was created by accident back in 1905, when water from the Colorado River overflowed a canal during a flood). Anyway, back in the 1950s and ’60s it was a beautiful resort area, with motels and restaurants, water sports and swimming — but now, because the water is so salty and crappy on account of its being purely agricultural runoff, everything has pretty much died off or run away. Nowadays all that’s left are a bunch of burned-out ruins and dead tilapia rotting away on the beaches — which aren’t even sand, they’re made of crumbled up fish bones and barnacle shells! OUCH!

In other words…it’s a magical place!!!

My intent was to camp out at Slab City, a sort of hippie homeless encampment on the east side of the Sea, near Niland…but my sis and I ended up wussing out in favor of the Fountain of Youth Spa and RV park, on the northern side. After a few days without running water at the Cat Ranch, we kinda wanted to take a shower and soak in the hot springs…ya know?

Besides…Fountain of Youth is one of the coolest spots ever! It’s basically an upscale trailer park where hundreds of retired Canadian snowbirds spend the entire winter — November to March, year after year. You can stay in your motorhome, or they even have mobile homes to rent — plus a boatload of fabulous amenities including the hot mineral spring Jacuzzis, swimming pools, and a steam room fed by hot mineral water. Also, because it’s mostly a 55+ resort, they have shuffleboard, bingo, aquaerobics, a poker room, a beauty parlor, an internet room and a library — plus talent shows every Friday, and stuff like clambakes and quilt-offs the rest of the week! It’s like summer camp, only in wintertime — and for old people instead of kids. Fuck, yeah!!

Because it’s all old people, the place is spotless — the cleanest public bathrooms this side of the Wynn hotel. And with a AAA membership, a dry campsite is only $17.10 — total bargain. The only drawback is, the dry campsites aren’t very picturesque. The other drawback is, because it’s all old people, you have to shut the fuck up at 10pm — at which time everything closes, including the pool. My sis and I tried to sneak into the steam room around 10:08, but the canny old campground manager busted us: “The facilities close at 10, girls!” (That’s the other good thing, we were so much younger than everyone else there they called us “girls” like we were 15!!) “Oops, we’re sorry, we’ll go to bed now!” “That’ll be fine.” That’ll be fine!!! Who says that?!?!?! Crusty old fuckers wary of traveling bohemians, that’s who!

Anyway, it was totally like staying at your grandparents’ place and it was awesome! If you’re thinking of taking a roadtrip down to that area, the F.O.Y. makes a great base because it’s totally close to all the local attractions…but has sparkling clean showers for super cheap. Keep it in mind!

So the next morning, we got up and had a quick soak and steam, and then went off to explore the fabulous Salton Sea. I had on this amazing new robe I’d made out of an old muumuu, yards and yards of flowing neon pink and orange polyester, and it really stood out against all the dull earth-tones of the landscape — everywhere we went people stopped to talk to us because of it, so I named it the Friendmaker. I also had this rainbow-colored scarf wrapped around my head like a turban, so I looked like a real freak. In other words…I fit right in.

Our first stop was legendary Salvation Mountain, everyone’s favorite monument to psychedelic religious folk art. Some old Christer kook built it by hand out of plaster-coated hay bales, then spent his lifetime painstakingly painting it…and now it shines like a crazy, colorful beacon, standing out like a sore thumb in the drab desert landscape. Kinda like my robe!

 

You can wander around inside the mountain, which is sort of like an anthill full of tunnels and alcoves with creepy little religious shrines in every nook and cranny. It’s a really wonderful place! It’s also a pretty well-known tourist attraction, thanks in part to the 2007 movie “Into the Wild,” so there were quite a few people there when we visited — an interesting mix of retired RVer snowbird looky-lous, Euro tourists, and traveling hippie vagabonds. FUN!

We spent an hour or so kibbitzing with some of the local kooks (note: when I say “kook,” it’s a term of endearment, not an insult. I’m the biggest kook of them all), and then headed down the road another quarter mile or so to Slab City.

Slab City is basically like the meth-head’s Burning Man, only it never ends — people live out here 24/7/365. It’s a wide swath of BLM land (Bureau of Land Management, i.e. gov’ment-owned land), which means you can camp there for free

up to 16 days, at which time you’re supposed to move 1/2 mile — but because Slab City is in such a remote and godforsaken part of the country, no one really fucks with it, and people have pretty much erected permanent campsites/fortresses/bunkers built from an astonishingly ingenious array of discarded and recycled materials. They call it Slab City because of the bare concrete slab foundations scattered about — remains of a long-demolished WWII-era Marine barracks. In any case, the slabs make great campsites, and tons o’ eccentrics and hobo-types live out here all year ’round.

My sis and I kind of cruised around, checking stuff out: there’s a primitive infrastructure of dirt roads throughout Slab City, so we drove around checking out the various bizarre and wonderful camps/fortresses/whatever you want to call them. It really was like Burning Man, only more authentic and with fewer fake-titted ninnies in platform boots dancing to shitty raver music.

There’s an internet cafe, a library and a main stage area called the Range, which hosts an open-mic night every Saturday that is said to be one of the kraaaaaziest parties around. I have to go back on a weekend!!! There’s supposedly going to be a big party on April 5th, but I think I’m working that day so I probably won’t make it I really want to come out and set up a campsite, and stay for a MONTH sometime — it would be so relaxing and peaceful out there, I could just get up and do Tai Chi and make mosaics out of bottle caps all day, ya know? I bet my insomnia would be cured in a jiffy, in that dry desert air! THIS is why I need that Scamp trailer, everyone!!!

My personal favorite thing was the library — we went in, and it was totally silent except for some very quiet New Age music softly playing on an old transistor radio, while a sinewy hippie woman peacefully raked the dirt floor in a Zenlike fashion. If/when I camp out here, I’m making the library my second home!

 

After cruising around awhile, we spent a good hour chatting with some of the toothless crackhead locals, who filled us in on what really goes on in Slab City. To my bourgeois dismay, it seemed as though Slab City’s heyday has passed, and most of the truly interesting artist types had long departed for greener pastures, leaving behind a skeleton crew of methheads, winos and assorted other on-the-lam no-goodniks. But then the chief methhead told us to go down the road a bit and check out East Jesus.

East Jesus is sort of like a cool, artsy annex to Slab City — equal parts Burning Man theme camp, outdoor art museum and hippie commune. There is NO WAY I can post all the amazing photos my sis and I took here, so you’ll just have to check out the Facebook album I created.

 

I’m telling you, this place is amazing. Everywhere you look is astonishingly weird, creative, kooky, subversive art created mostly from found/recycled objects and trash — but it’s really cool shit, not like the dumb crap you see at local art fairs. A lot of legit artists come out here from L.A. and other parts of the U.S. and create crazy monuments to the insanity of man, and it’s REALLY worth checking out.

As we were bumbling about in open-mouthed wonder, one of the East Jesus caretakers came out and gave us a tour of the grounds. He even took us backstage to the living area, where all the East Jesus regulars live when they’re staying onsite. Sometimes they get hundreds of guests, but in the summertime it’s so freaking hot down there that only one or two brave souls hold down the fort. Either way, it’s a working commune, so every guest has to

pitch in and do chores — they even had a job board posted, with all the task assignments listed. Fascinating! This one bad-ass chick was in charge of the vegetable gardens — that’s right, in the middle of this barren desert they had veggies growing in lovingly-tended raised beds, which were harvested and used to supplement the communal meals. Really cool!

Every square inch of that place was covered in art — Persian rugs on the desert floor, mannequins with ducks for arms standing guard in front of bedazzled trailers, charred and blistered baby-dolls’ heads mounted on wooden crosses, VW vans covered in bottle caps and Barbie doll limbs…even the outhouses were art-encrusted! The women’s outhouse had this bad ass little cabinet where you could stash your “skeletons in the closet” — there was a little notepad inside where you could write down your deepest, darkest secret, then pin it to the inside of the cabinet among all the other sad secrets. I’m telling you, you HAVE to check out my Facebook album! It’s INTENSE!

We spent a good hour or two hanging out touring East Jesus and chatting with the crew out back, but eventually it was time to move on, as we had a lot more Salton Sea to cover that day. But I’m telling you, East Jesus was the COOLEST thing I saw all day, and I really want to go back sometime and stay for awhile. Fuck, I’ll pitch in and clean the toilets or whatever…I don’t mind!!

 

Let me tell you, those hippies at East Jesus were MY kind of hippies; they had an agenda, and spent their time making BAD ASS SHIT. Down the road a piece, we ran into a bunch of the other kind of hippies — you know, the kind that drop out of some bourgeois mid-level state college to sit around on a Monday afternoon drinking cheap whiskey and banging out shitty music on a beat-up guitar, singing off-key songs about stupid shit that means nothing to anyone, hula-hooping and smoking tons of weed while babbling meaninglessly about stuff no one cares about. Blah!!!

 

Where were these other hippies, you ask? Why, at the old mudhole, of course! Before leaving the area, my sis and I stopped at the local hot springs, which is basically a mudhole with a lovingly carpeted bottom (installed by those go-getter hippies from East Jesus, of course)…but it also serves as the bathing area for all the squatters/campers/freaks/crooks who are dry camping in the area, so there’s always quite a crowd around. At the time of our visit, there were two giant-carbon-footprint-leaving schoolbuses parked nearby, home to two crews of traveling hippies and their hula hoops, children and chickens (yes, they had a flock of chickens pecking in the dust). It was equal parts Manson Family and Grapes of Wrath — interesting, but in the end depressing. We had a brief convo with a dreadlocked young psychobabbler who claimed to be named Jester, but his inebriated jibberish was so insufferable that we left after only a few minutes and went on with our travels.

I can totally see why some people are so down on hippies — while those middle-class shirkers were wallowing drunkenly in the mud like piggies (how ironic), meanwhile around the rest of the Salton Sea, hordes of Mexicans were slaving away, picking produce and pumping gas and basically easily evading the insane amount of Border Patrol agents cruising around the area like a bunch of buffoonish Keystone Kops. I’m telling you, it was CRAZY how many Border

Patrol agents we saw whizzing around on the lookout for illegal immigrants! Meanwhile, I had a truck full of weed and mushrooms, but I’m not Mexican so they waved me right on. Really bizarre. I just read a whole book about the Chinese immigrant smuggling trade, and they say Chinese smugglers regularly pay Mexicans $100 apiece to run across the border and distract the Border Patrol, while the Chinese sneak across undetected. The cops send the Mexicans back, but they’re $100 richer and don’t give a fuck — they’ll just try again tomorrow! The very definition of insanity.

Anyway, after that we cruised around the entire perimeter of the Salton Sea, stopping at the ruins of each and every shitty abandoned town along the way — it was incredible. Most of the towns still had about 20% of the population hanging in there among the decay and burned-out ruins; in one town we saw two Mexican women power-walking along a road at sunset, getting their daily workout despite the thick miasma of rotting tilapia and hopelessness hanging in the air. Life goes on, I guess!

Salton City, Salton Sea Beach, Desert Shores, Bombay Beach, Mecca…we hit them all, and they were all astonishing. I guess the cost of living is dirt cheap down there, so it’s worth it for some people. But talk about a food desert!! We went into a market in Bombay Beach to try and buy some lunch, and the only produce they had was a few wilted cucumbers and a couple onions. Meanwhile, there was an entire aisle stocked full of Coca Cola — in fact, the Coca Cola deliveryman was there with a fresh shipment!!! I ended up having Coke and peanuts — breakfast of champions! But seriously, it was fucking depressing.

Anyway, after that fabulously fascinating day we cruised back to the comfortably bourgeois Fountain of Youth and had another soak, then went to bed. But my poor pop-up camper was on its last legs, and wouldn’t even crank open all the way, so all night long I was afraid it was gonna collapse on us — it was a really windy night, and the fucker was swaying to and fro like the devil. After a shitty sleepless night, we gave up and packed up camp, and headed back to Vegas.

Part of our route took us along this extremely lonely road — CA-62, what has got to be one of the loneliest roads in America. It was really cool — nothing but sand and sagebrush, sun and blue skies…until all of a sudden, in the middle of nowhere, there was this giant signpost with signs pointing to all corners of the Earth. Fun!

Anyhoo, along the way back to Vegas we were trying to decide what to do next — we had several options for the upcoming weekend, and finally decided we would go to L.A. and surprise Rummelsnuff at this concert they were booked for in some janky little club in Glendale. It was their first OFFICIAL U.S. gig, so we figured we should go support them.

We had a place to stay — my sis has some friends who have an amazing spread in Tujunga called Gay Gardens, because it’s this sprawling old Victorian-type house on a couple acres of overgrown woodland, right in the middle of town…and they’re a gay couple. Meanwhile, we decided that since we were going to be in L.A. anyway, we might as well eat shrooms and go to Disneyland, too — something we’d always wanted to do!

So Friday afternoon we drove out to L.A., and my sister’s husband flew down to meet us. Being from Israel, he’d never been to Disneyland, and was super excited. My sis and I drove out to L.A. separately, so that way she and her husband could just cruise back up to the Bay Area afterward — my sis got there before me, and picked him up at the airport and got settled in, while I hauled ass from Vegas late as usual, after getting in a quick weight-lifting session at the gym.

I got to town just in time to chug a glass of wine and head over to Glendale, where we witnessed one of the most amazing concerts I’d ever seen! I couldn’t believe how many crazy little Goth kids crawled out of the L.A. woodwork to come see Rummelsnuff — it was really touching and amazing! My sis and I got to hang out in the backstage area and eat bratwurst with the band, because we’re so cool like that, and then after the show it was really amazing to see all the fans line up to take photos with Der Käpt’n and his First Mate. I guess they’re really popular in Germany, and with a certain Goth/New Wave-y demographic (even though they describe their style as electro-pogo).

The only bummer was, the show didn’t even start til midnight, and meanwhile my brother-in-law was on our nuts about getting up early so we could be at Disneyland by 8 or 9 am. WTF!!!!! It was open til 11pm that day; how fucking long do you want to spend there??! We didn’t leave the Rummelsnuff show til like 2am, and then had to drag ass out of bed at 7:30 to be in Anaheim by 9. UGH!!!

Now, I hadn’t been to Disneyland since like 1996 or so, so I was pretty excited. You know – Disneyland!!!!! The fucking APEX of fun and good times, right?! Well, I was so tired and grouchy after no sleep, that I was really dragging ass. Plus, that fucking place is just one fucking line after another — wait in line to get in the parking garage, then wait in line to get on the tram that takes you to the front entrance, where you wait in line AGAIN to buy tickets….so that you can go inside and wait in more fucking lines to go on the rides. Really?!?!?

Thankfully, we had a bag full of drugs with us…so my mood soon changed Tip: it’s really easy to sneak shit into Disneyland. They do a bag check, but it’s the most cursory of cursory bag checks I’ve ever been party to. You don’t even go through a metal detector! All we had were some mushrooms and pot cookies, but being paranoid, we had camouflaged them in amongst a bunch of other candy, with a story at the ready about how we were hypoglycemic, and needed to keep our blood sugar elevated. No worries though — they waved us right through.

So there I was, in a 45-minute line to ride the Jungle Cruise, surrounded by shrieking whining brats and sad fat couples in matching Mickey Mouse shirts (Disney is like a cult with some people, sadly). The sun was broiling down on my head and I was so fucking tired I just wanted to crawl into the bushes and SLEEP…and then even at the end of the wait, the reward itself (the Jungle Cruise) was so lame and hokey that it wasn’t even worth it!!!  I spent $100 on this?!?!?! ARRRRGH!!!!!

But then we each ate half a pot cookie, and shit got much better. The drugs kicked in right as we boarded the Pirates of the Caribbean, and it was wonderful – all the weird lights and smoke and creepy animatronic pirates and shit were really, really fun while high. I definitely recommend it!

But the problem was, we didn’t realize how strong these cookies were — each had 50mg of THC, and we ate half apiece…which was enough to send us into orbit! For the next few hours I’m not exactly sure what I did, aside from wander around in a haze, baking in the relentless sun, stumbling from ride to ride but too scared to go on anything more intense than the stupid steamboat and that railroad that circles the park. We did sack up and ride the teacups, but my brother-in-law was so high he freaked out when we started to spin them, so we just sat there like grinning idiots, going round and round in pointless circles (ahem). It was one of those occasions when I really wished I was sober — I was SO HIGH it was painful, and I was sure everyone was staring at me.

Finally, after about 5 hours the cookie wore off, so we had some lunch, waited a decent amount of time, and then ate the mushrooms. When those kicked in we rode Space Mountain and a few other rides, but then we got the munchies and the whole thing pretty much degenerated into a stoner foodfest orgy of junk — rice krispie treats, ice cream sundaes, frozen banana, etc. etc. etc. Bad!! We ended up standing around in a sugar-fueled food coma watching some horrible, god-awful fireworks show about Following Your Dreams, where that dumbass moron Mickey Mouse waved a baton around as Ariel, Cinderella and all the other idiots sailed around on barges waving and smiling and probably muttering curse words under their breath. Meanwhile, hundreds of shiny-eyed slack-jawed bozos stood by watching and videotaping the whole fucking thing like it was high art. WTF?!!!!

It astonishes me that this shtick is what is universally considered to be the “happiest” place on Earth — every day, thousands upon thousands of people save their money to travel to L.A. and pay out the ass to pay more out the ass (once inside, all you do is stand in line to spend more money). Everywhere you look, it’s emasculated dads shuffling around in Mickey Mouse t-shirts that match their fat wife’s Minnie Mouse t-shirt, pushing strollers full of snot-nosed brats in mini-Minnie Mouse t-shirts, sweating and sighing and inwardly dying while Making Memories™ by standing in hour-long lines. This is the yardstick by which we measure happiness??? HOW? WHY? It’s bizarre!!

Earlier in this post, I said something about how the Salton Sea area is like Disneyland — but cheaper! See?? Even I myself am guilty of holding Disneyland up as a paragon of fun times and happiness….I can’t really help it, it’s so ingrained in me as a societal norm, I guess. But now, having been there as an adult….I will never compare something to Disneyland again, unless it’s something depressing and shitty and fake. I can see enjoying it if you have little kids….but even then, it just seems like there are so many cooler places to go in the world!!!

Like East Jesus!

 

 

 

 

When not posing nude, my #1 favorite thing to wear is a caftan! You know, those long, flowy, mostly garishly-patterened robes like Mrs. Roper used to wear on Three’s Company? Well guess what: Mrs. Roper is my style icon, and I’m totally KOOKY FOR KAFTANS!

The more 1960s/70s, the better — I love all those old psychedelic neon colors and horrible manmade fibers! Nothing makes me as happy as a big ole polyester muumuu with Permanent Press pleats and a pattern so busy it takes 4 Quaaludes just to calm down after looking at it. I’m getting heated up just thinking about it!

So I’m posting this desperate cry: CALLING ALL CAFTANS!!! If you happen to have any old 1960s or 1970s caftans, muumuus, housedresses or robes of any sort lying around…holla at me! The more garish/hideous, the better — you know me!

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

I’ve had SO MANY fabulous adventures lately, I haven’t had a moment’s rest to stop and write about them — someone set the Treadmill of Fun to 11, and I’ve been racing on it non-stop since March 6th. I finally had to get the fuck out of town just to get a few minutes’ downtime to blog about it all, so I accepted a friend’s invitation to come to Florida for a few days, and kick back at his luxurious oceanfront condo. In between margaritas, I’ll try to catch up!

My adventures have been so plentiful lately that I can’t even fit them all in one blog, so this is just part one…covering all the dumb gigs I’ve been up to lately. Because despite being a fun-loving bohemian type, I still have a monthly nut to crack…so I booked as much work as possible in what little downtime I’ve had lately, in between adventures.

Most of my recent gigs were pretty lame — a tradeshow I worked for an ex-Burning Man campmate’s company, a footlicking gig for Mistress Clare’s femdom site (I *HATE* licking other people’s feet, but it pays for more travels…ya know?), and worst of all, a corporate party I worked for the concrete convention. This last one was really loathsome — one of those after-hours events where they rent out a nightclub, but it’s a total sausagefest, so they hire 150 “models” to come in and “mingle” with the guys to break up the testosterone. SHUDDER! The worst part was, they wouldn’t let us avail ourselves of the open bar, because last time some dumbass bimbo got wasted and made an ass of herself.

You tell me — how fucked-up is it to try and “mingle” with a bunch of drunk concrete-industry guys while SOBER??! Jeez! I don’t know how I made it through that night. The worst part was, out of all 150 “models” (I use quotation marks because the term was used VERY loosely here), I only knew one chick…and her not even very well. So I was on my own the whole party. Blah.

The only interesting part was watching the head of the modeling agency cruise around all night like a sharp-eyed Mother Hen, keeping an eye on her “pretty ladies.” This was an especially old-school convention talent agency that has been booking models since the ’70s or so…and honestly it looked like some of the “pretty ladies” have been working there since the ’70s!!! I’m talking some seriously beat-up old hags, masquerading as “models!” It is to my ETERNAL CONSTERNATION how rarely I get booked thru this agency, when I look at some of the others on the roster. ??? !!! People are always asking me what are my plans when I’m too old to model — well, now I know where to go. The J____ V____ Agency!!!

Anyway, I didn’t have much time to fret about it because I had the most INCREDIBLE gig lined up for the next morning. Out of all the gigs I’ve ever done, this one was WITHOUT QUESTION the most interesting…and if you’ve read this blog at all, you know that’s a strong statement.  I somehow got referred to be a background extra in a porno movie!!!

Ever since they instituted mandatory condom use in California, many of the porno studios have taken to filming in Vegas, instead…where we have no silly health concerns for our talent. This one studio in particular apparently shoots a lot of stuff in this little warehouse squatting behind the Cosmopolitan Hotel, just on the other side of the freeway, between an indoor gun range and a pawn shop. Who knew all this shit was going down in the shadow of the Vegas Strip?

This particular production company is known for its parody pornos — they make stuff like the XXX Mario Bros., Sinderella, etc. This time they were doing the porno version of The Wolf of Wall Street — working title “The Whore of Wall Street.” FABULOUS! I was hired as background, but I ended up playing a secretary with a line of dialogue — bonus!!!

Since the movie was set in a Wall Street office, we were told to wear office clothes…so I busted out my trusty pencil skirt, which is pretty much my go-to for any sort of corporate gig…even though it has a slit in the back up to there. In other words…perfect for a porno!

Now, unlike other pornos, this one actually had a plot — the star of the movie, we’ll call her Andi Andrews, was the head of a high-powered stock brokerage. She made her way to the top by sucking dick and fucking every suit who came her way, including that of the male talent, a freaky Austrian stud with a HUMONGOUS uncut penis we’ll call Dick True.

At the end of the film, to celebrate their reaching some sales goal, Andi Andrews awards her top female assistant, played by a supersexy actress we’ll call Celine Maximilian, $10,000 to get fucked up the ass by Dick True. Our job, as extras, was to hang around in the background cheering them on: “Suck! Suck!” Suck!” “Fuck that ass!” “Wooo!” Those were actually lines of dialogue in the script (astonishingly, these are very professional productions with fully formed scripts, action carefully blocked out).

So, basically it was like the most fun gig ever. The ten of us extras sat around the breakroom in our 1980s officewear (the movie was set in the ’80s, but most of us just had old-ass clothes anyway, so it was a happy accident) until the crew was finally ready for us.

I had my one line of dialogue earlier in the day — I played Ms. Andrews’s secretary, so just had to answer the phone and assure the caller that “Ms. Andrews is very professional.” There was a slight holdup — “Oh wait, we gotta film the pussy-eating scene first –” but with that out of the way, I nailed my line in two takes, which I actually thought was interesting that the director cared enough to make me do it over!! Despite what you might think, these people really DO have an attention to detail…and it was a very professional production!!

Speaking of the director, he was this awesome sort of Gen-Xer type in Morrissey glasses and a “Meat is Murder” t-shirt — not exactly how you’d picture a porn director! The rest of the crew was just as colorful, exhibiting an informal camaraderie but at the same time displaying an amazing dedication and work ethic. What a cool fucking industry! Everyone was so chill and so fun! I’d take working in the porn biz over corporate life any day.

When it was finally time to shoot the big office ass-fucking scene, us extras were all carefully positioned around the office — one guy drinking a cup of coffee, one guy on the phone, one gal carrying a file folder to this ginormous old microfiche machine they had dug up somewhere (they did a great job dressing the set with old 1980s computers and telephones…they even had a bunch of clocks hung on the wall, Wall Street style, showing the various time zones — although in a charmingly lackadaisical fashion, the minute-hands were all set at different times). Meanwhile, Dick True sat off to one side, maintaining his erection by absentmindedly stroking his  ginormous uncircumsised penis through the open fly of his 1980s polyester suit with one hand, whilst checking his text messages with the other. PRICELESS. Then once we were all in place, the action started!

The script called for Dick True and Celine Maximilian to go at it on one of the desks, about 3 feet from my virgin eyes. Before he plowed her delicate anus, they were supposed to engage in a few other positions first, including reverse cowgirl, spooning and then a brief fellatio interlude. It was really interesting to watch their shop-talk as they got into position: “Is this OK for you?” “Ach no, it feels like you’re gonna break my cock.” “Oh sorry, how about if I put my leg up this way?” “Zat’s much better.”

Then when it came time to lower Miss Maximilian’s ass onto Dick True’s ginormous penis (I can’t emphasize enough how freakish it was…like a big wrinkly geoduck), it took the participation and aid of the entire crew to get her on there comfortably. Miss Maximilian lubed up her asshole liberally (turning over her shoulder to wink at the crowd of extras watching), and then everyone pitched in to help get her in place. Like they say, it takes a village to film an anal scene!

But when she was finally on there, it was box office gold! “You good? OK — ACTION!” The minute the cameras started rolling, Miss M switched it on like a light switch: “Oh yeah!! Oooh baby!! Fuck that asshole!! Pump that giant cock in my chocolate starfish!” It was hilarious how fake it all seemed — I mean, I had pretty much figured that shit was all fake, but seeing it up close and personal (remember, I was mere feet from the action) made it seem even more surreal. Especially when they had to stop filming briefly: “Cut! Cut! I can see blood!”

But then, come to find out, it wasn’t fake!! Filming actually had to pause again for a minute when Miss M. had such an earth-shattering orgasm (from anal sex!!!) that she almost passed out, and had to take a breather for a few minutes to collect herself. WOW! I have always assumed anal sex to be nothing but torture and pain for the receiving end, and claims to the contrary to be bullshit propaganda from selfish men. Come to find out, apparently I was wrong. (But I’m still not having anal sex. Ever.)

Anyway, this all went on for about 10-15 minutes, as Dick and Celine went through their positions, recited their “lines” (I think this part was ad-libbing) and hit their marks (they really did have marks). And then, finally, it was time to film the money shot, and wrap this bitch!!

By this time, we had all been onset about 10 hours — apparently there had been major delays earlier in the day, as the shoots don’t normally take this long. Either way, by now we were all bored, tired and ready to get the fuck outta there — the extras were covertly checking their cellphones, and the crew had been there even longer than us, so they were definitely ready to wrap. Now all we were waiting for was for Dick True to shoot his wad all over Celine Maximilian’s face.

The cameramen set up a ladder behind Dick, so the director could get a high angle shooting down on the action, while a second camera guy shot directly at jizz-level. Now all we had to wait for was for Dick to bust his nut. As mentioned, he had been maintaining his erection all day by absentmindedly stroking himself, and he’d done an amazing job, as his rod was ever-ready for action. But now he had to take himself over the edge…which took a little extra special stroking.

Can you imagine being in a room full of people — ten extras, two featured talent, plus about 15 crew — all bored and tired and impatiently waiting for you to bust your nut?? To make matters worse, one of the cameramen informed him that he only had a few minutes of battery left on his camera, so he had to hurry! Talk about pressure!!

But Dick True was a pro — he just closed his eyes, scrunched up his face, and concentrated on whatever it was that floated his particular boat…roomful of gawkers or no. After a few minutes he grunted “OK I’m ready!” (please remember, he had a thick Austrian accent), so everyone jumped into action: cameras started rolling, Celine Maximilian got to her knees in front of him, and then it happened. Thick gooey streams of Austro-Hungarian jizz coated the face and chest of Miss M, who smiled and moaned and lapped it up like it was a white chocolate fountain at a Bar Mitzvah. Yum! It was fascinating to watch her go through the moves like the total pro she was — she hit all the popular poses, made all the usual faces, and said all the right things, bam bam bam. It’s like any bullshit job, I suppose — you’re on autopilot.

Then when they finally called out the magic words “THAT’S A WRAP!” Miss M. stood up and turned to the crew, face, chest and belly covered in sperm: “Who wants a huggggg??????” Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!!! Gooooooooooooooood times!

After that, she went off to get cleaned up, and the rest of us went back to get our checks for the day’s work. Let me tell you something, those people are pros about every aspect of this business — to get my check, I had to have my photo taken with my ID up next to my face, proving I was over 18. Then I had to be filmed stating that I was over 18 and had not been asked to do anything I was uncomfortable with. They covered all their bases. This was particularly interesting to me as I’d had several friends “warn” me to be careful, that “those porn guys” are notorious for luring you in over your head. Well, I have news for you: not this production company. They are TOTAL PROS! Porn gets a bad rap, but in my experience it’s a business just like any other — only more straightforward!

And then, I got the fuck out of there — I had another gig to be at in 15 minutes, but thankfully it was at the Cosmopolitan Hotel…mere feet away from the studio! Surreal, as was the entire day. But all in all I had a total fucking blast, and it is my sincere hope that they use me again for one of their movies — apparently they shoot out here all the time, so I think my chances are pretty good!!! STAY TUNED!!!!!

P.S. If interested, here’s the trailer for the movie:

 

 

 

 

I just got back from some serious desert adventuring with my sister! We had an amazing time and met many kooky people and had many fabulous adventures that I plan to blog about as soon as I get two seconds. But in the meantime…..

My beloved trusty pop-up camper is on its last legs, so if I want to cruise around this summer having more fun times, I need to replace it!

 

I am looking to buy a 13′ fiberglass trailer, as seen in this photo. They are usually made by Scamp or Casita, but I’m open to any similar, lightweight trailer that can be pulled by a 6-cylinder Ford Ranger. (I don’t want another pop-up, though…I want something I can just crawl into bed when I park.)

I can buy a brand new 13′ foot Scamp/Casita for around $14,000, but I don’t have that kind of coin lying around, so I need a used one. Since I’m already used to roughing it in a pop-up, it doesn’t need to have a toilet or shower — I just need the bed and the propane stove, mostly. I’m fine buying a junker and fixing it up, so long as it’s structurally sound and the gas line works — that kinda shit is beyond my fixing ability.

But what I *AM* good at is painting and decorating….so when I do finally get one, I plan to gussy it the fuck up, bohemian gypsy style! Then the adventures can truly begin…

So, does anyone have or know of a trailer I can buy? I’ve been checking craigslist, but I figure I’d ask here, too. I am based in Las Vegas, but am willing to drive 500 miles in any direction to pick up. Keep your eyes open for me, will ya??

 

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Where I last left off, I was trying to decide if I should stay in Vegas and do this weird Japanese documentary, or go to Baja California, Mexico, for some kooky off-road race with a guy I barely know. Unfortunately for this blog, I made the responsible decision…to stay in Vegas. FORTUNATELY for this blog, however, a lot of freaky fuckin’ shit went down while I was here!

Now you might wonder why someone with a name like Wonderhussy would ever make a lame, responsible decision about anything. I’ll tell you.

The guy who invited me, as I mentioned, is someone I barely know — I only met him a couple weeks ago, at the Gilley’s mudwrestling thing I participated in. But just because I don’t know someone is no reason to turn down a trip to Baja!

The real trouble is, he’s basically the male version of me: he lives a free and easy life of fun, travel and adventure, financing his fun by working summers at some über-bourgeois swanky golf course in Oregon. Then he spends the rest of the year snowboarding and exploring the desert. No kids, no responsibility…just fun, 24/7/365. We’ll call him Supertramp (since he’s obsessed with Alexander Supertramp a/k/a Chris McCandless, from the book/movie Into the Wild).

Well, all of that is well and good, and doesn’t bother me a bit. More concerning was the fact that this guy flips the fuck out when he drinks hard liquor!! I learned this the hard way, the first night I met him — some redneck at the bar in Gilley’s was buying him drinks all night, and the three of us went out after the rasslin’ match was over. The redneck bought us godawful piña coladas from Señor Frog’s at the Treasure Island, and then invited us over to the Mirage for some petroleum industry party that he was in town for. We followed him over there, but meanwhile I was still dragging my little pink suitcase around with me, with all my rassling costume stuff in it. Me and the redneck had to pee, so we left my bag at the party with ST (Supertramp)…but when we got back, ST had flipped out and bailed, leaving my bag stranded! FUCK! That bag had my electric vagina in it — anyone could have stolen it!!! Dammit, I worked long and hard on that vagina!!!

ST’s disappearing act was followed by a barrage of extremely derogatory text messages, so I pretty much wrote him off as a boozer. But the next day he apologized profusely, so I gave him another chance. We went out to the desert a couple days later for a mini road trip/exploration session, and it was totally fabulous — he’s a super cool dude with the same interests as me, so it was a great day. We went out by this lame-ass fake ghost town called Nelson, where come to find out, if you drive way out in the canyons, there’s this awesome area of giant boulders and stuff that is just begging to be a photo shoot location! It was fan-fuckin’-tastic — a great day. At the end of it, I had decided to go to Baja with him and his friend, and was really looking forward to it. UNTIL….

The next day, we made plans to all meet up downtown and discuss the particulars of the trip — me, him and the other guy who was going. I was out on a photo shoot all day, but the plan was to meet up afterward, around 8pm. I texted him a few times, but no answer…so just gave up and went home to go to bed early. I was fried from my day in the sun at Big Dune, anyway, so I wasn’t that bummed…but I did think it was pretty rude to stand me up like that. I get stood up A LOT, though, so I try not to take it personally (yes…A LOT of people stand me up, shockingly!).

Anyhoo, I was at home just getting ready to take off my makeup and stuff, when I got a random Facebook message on my page from some random chick from L.A.: “CALL ME! Your friend ST lost his phone; he’s wasted and stranded and needs help!” WTF! I called her, and come to find out, ST had gotten so fucked up that his friends had ditched him downtown, where he was semi-passed out at a bar in the new Downtown Grand hotel, incoherent and unable to get home. Apparently he had just enough brains to tell this random couple he met at the bar to look up Wonderhussy on Facebook and get ahold of me that way.

I sacked up, drove down there, thanked the random L.A. chick, picked his alcohol-reeking-ass up, and asked him where I should take him. Between drunken insults and claims that someone had slipped him LSD, he managed to direct me to his friends’ house way up in the ‘burbs, where after much arguing I deposited his stinky ass and then drove home. I’m not ashamed to admit I bawled my eyes out on the way — I’d been having a shitty time lately, and had really been looking forward to a Mexican getaway, however spurious. But just like everything in my life, I’m apparently the only one who has my shit together. D’OH!!!

Well, the next morning I guess he found his phone, because there were more profuse apologies, and an invitation to join him and his Baja friends at the outdoor swap meet that afternoon, so we could finally hash out the trip details. Well, by then I had already decided (with much sadness) NOT to go anywhere with this fool…but I did agree to meet them at the swap meet, since I love that place so much, and I needed to buy a Lucha Libre mask anyway. We met up and he and his friends were super cool…but once I make up my mind, it’s over. I told him I wasn’t going with them, and he was pretty salty, but oh well.

Now, you may be wondering why I needed a Lucha Libre mask — well, I’ll tell you! It occurred to me that the photos I took in my electric vagina at Big Dune, in this gold spandex bodysuit, looked a little like a Mexican wrestler — all I needed was a mask, and I could become La Panocha Eléctrica, the most fearsome Lucha Libre rassler of them all!!!! I scored an awesome gold wrestler mask at the swap meet, and am working on customizing it with sequined lightning bolts and whatnot.

Incidentally, if you’ve never been to the Broadacres Swap Meet in Vegas — GO!!! It’s the most amazing, bizarre-O place this side of Tijuana — acres and acres of booths selling shitty clothes and old crap, with religious figurines and cheap jewelry thrown in for good measure. 98% of the population is Latino, and there’s always good tuba music playing and stuff like that. It’s one of my all-time favorite places in the world!!!

So anyway, now that I had decided to stay in Vegas, I was pretty disappointed and pissed off, but whatever — I sacked up and got on with my life. ST sent me a salty text or two on his way out of town, letting me know what I was missing out on — but I already knew, motherfucker.

I was so pissed off about the whole scenario that I figured it was time for a change. I’d been in a funk since I got sick in mid-December, and to make matters worse, I was still nowhere near making my monthly nut for February. I couldn’t get a break to save my life! It was time to change that shit, so I did what I always do in that situation…I bought a magic candle to break the spell

There’s this super freaky olde-tyme Magick Shoppe down the street from where I live, called Bell Book & Candle. Please take a moment and read my Yelp review of the place — it’ll help you understand why I go here. Anyway, whenever I’m in a funk that lasts more than a day or two, I head here and have the wizard make me a Jinx-Breaking candle — one of those 7-day jar candles that you light and leave burning until the spell is gone. It always works, so the day my friends left for Baja, I went over and got a new one. And guess what? IT WORKED!!

 

Thanks to the magickal healing powers of the candle, my business started picking up right away, the moment I lit it. I made my February nut with a few hundo to spare, and the gigs kept piling up, on into March…which is off to a fabulous start

 

Most of the gigs were the usual photo shoots — I even drove all the way down to Kingman, AZ for an all-day shoot at the Holiday Inn Suites down there, LOL (video below…lots of pancake-eatin’ and twat-flashin’, FYI).

But there were also a couple fetish shoots that really stood out! One day, I finally got around to shooting with the fabulous Kayla-Jane Danger and her foot fetish site, MyDollParts.com. This bitch is a trip! Apparently she’s a very business-savvy little minx, as she runs her own full-time fetish empire and has a closet FULL of spike-heeled platform Christian Louboutins and the like…all paid for by her immense fanbase (one of her fans even gave her a new dining room table set, LOL). I kinda felt like a loser shooting with her, since she seems to have it all figured out so well and I’m still bumbling along doing gig work…but she was super cool and very simpatico, and I give her MAJOR bonus points for reading a David Sedaris book in the bathtub while I licked her feet for this one scene we shot. (David Sedaris, if you’re reading this…..you need to see that video!! It’s a riot!!!) In fact, she even sent David Sedaris a fan letter one time…and he responded!!

Anyway, the shoot was really fun and easy, and basically consisted of me licking her feet, and her licking mine for this one ballet-school scenario. And while I was licking her perfectly pedicured, high-arched little size 7.5 feet, I noticed something interesting — her feet looked familiar!! Then I remembered that back in December, I did a shoot out in the San Francisco Bay Area at this guy’s apartment…and he had a full-size silicone replica of one of Kayla-Jane’s feet on his bookshelf!!! Apparently he was one of her biggest fans, LOL. Small world!

Then another day, I did an even better shoot for TaylorMadeClips.com, run by the fabulously incomparable Ms. Taylor St. Claire, an ex-porn actress who turned to running her own fetish empire after she got out of the porn biz and quit giving a flying fuck. I shot with her once back in 2009 and had a FUCKING BLAST, but for whatever reason lost touch with her until now. Let me tell you something, I have very few heroines in this world, but Taylor St. Claire is one of them — she is just so fucking cool! She lives in a huge, ramshackle old 1970s house full of rescued stray dogs, and pads around filming everything in pajamas and slippers, no makeup, with her luscious ginormous tits barely restrained by a spaghetti-strap cami top. She has a sort of blowzy, don’t-give-a-fuck manner that I found immensely appealing…I love this woman!

Initially, we were to film an overeating clip where I would pig out and get “fatter and fatter” (Taylor has her special FX tricks, don’t you know)…so she asked me what I liked to eat. Now, I like to eat cake, pie, ice cream and cookies…..but in the interest of my waistline, I said “Umm, soup or fruit or veggies or something healthy would be best.” LAME! Thankfully, she had booked another model for the shoot — a fabulous BBW starlet by the name of Kimberly Marvel, well-known in the fetish world for her luscious curves and ginormous tits and ass. So now the plan was, I would simply feed pie to Kimberly, as she grew bigger and bigger!

Let me tell you, this shoot was a dream come true. I sat on the bed beside Kimberly, who was all propped up on pillows, wearing a gorgeous purple velour stretchy tracksuit, and fed her bites of this delicious peanut butter pie. But this wasn’t just any pie! It was a magic pie, guaranteed to make her gain 200 pounds by sundown!! And boy howdy, did it work. Her stomach, ass and hips swelled up to gigantic proportions — if you want to see it, you’ll just have to download the clip here (not sure it’s been posted yet, but plenty of other fabulous overeating clips to entertain you there in the meantime).

Meanwhile, between takes we were all eating that fucking pie — me and Taylor and her assistant/prop guy, Fred Flate. It was delicious!!! I fucking LOVE peanut butter pie…we all beat that thing into the ground!

After that first clip, we shot another one in Taylor’s creepy Mad Scientist Laboratory set — Kimberly and I played friends who had come to see the famed Dr. Fred Flate for a cosmetic procedure — I was too skinny, so Kimberly wanted him to suck out some of her fat and put it into my tits and belly. Well, kooky fucking Dr. Flate came out (I can’t even describe it, you have to see this clip), and hooked us both up to this weird machine, then left the room. And that’s when shit got fucked-up! I won’t give away all the details, but let’s just say the procedure went horribly wrong, and I got much fatter than I bargained for. IT WAS AMAZING!!

 

 

The last clip we shot was a superhero wrestling thing, where Kimberly (as supervillain Fat Cat) and me (WonderHussy) fought each other before being devoured by a giant, furry monster. This one was a lot of fun too, except that Kimberly got carried away in the fight scene and accidentally punched me in the jaw for reals, so my face was sore for a couple days. But other than that, it was an amazingly fun shoot, and an awesome day. I <3 Taylor St. Claire…and Kimberly Marvel and Fred Flate too, for that matter!!

Anyway, after all of that, there was also the little matter of the Japanese TV show that had me in such a tizzy about the Baja trip in the first place! Here’s how that went down.

So this Japanese documentary crew contacted me, asking if they could film me busking on the Strip in my showgirl costume as part of a travelogue they were filming about roadtripping from Vegas to Bryce Canyon (you know how the Japanese love cosplay). The only lame thing was, it was a “family” show, so I couldn’t wear my real busking outfit (the marijuana showgirl)…or even my new Electric Vagina costume, which I am thinking might make an awesome busking opportunity come summer

Instead, I had to put on my regular-ass old traditional showgirl costume, and we shot for about three hours: first, they “encountered” me at this fantastic old costume store in downtown Vegas, Williams Costume Co., where I “invited” them back to my house, to see my costume collection. OMG, I’m here to tell you, you haven’t LIVED until you’ve had a Japanese film crew in your closet. It was amazing!!!

After they got enough footage at my house, we cruised down to the Strip and they shot an hour or so of me standing around in front of Ballys, hustling tourists for cash. It was embarrassing because business was really slow, for several reasons: one, it was windy as fuck, and my headdress and stuff kept blowing around. Two, it was mid-afternoon, so no one was really drunk enough yet to pony up cash. And three, there are already about 500 showgirls lining the Vegas Strip, posing for photos with tourists….so me in my shitty homemade costume didn’t stand a chance!! That’s why I made the marijuana showgirl costume in the first place — to stand out from the fucking crowd!!!!!

But whatever — it was TV, so they made it work, I ended up making a few bucks, and then they paid me and gave me an awesome souvenir Japanese toenail clipper as a parting gift (!!!). They were super nice people, and I’m really glad I did it — but I didn’t have much time to dilly-dally, since I was already running late for my next adventure — the MOST AMAZING adventure in a week FULL of amazing adventures!!!

You may recall last year around this time, I drove out to the remote desert near Twentynine Palms to visit these kooky German performance artists at their winter headquarters, a crazy sort of Mad Max-style desert compound made of plywood and barbwire in this weird, ultra-remote part of the desert called Wonder Valley. Well, this year they invited me back — and this year, they were bringing this amazing German singer with them: Käpt’n Rummelsnuff!!! And best of all, the little local dive bar in Wonder Valley, The Palms Restaurant, happened to be having a big music festival that night….and Rummelsnuff was able to snag a spot on the bill!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

There was no way I was missing Rummelsnuff’s U.S. debut, so as soon as the Japanese film crew dropped me back at my house, I packed up my stuff and hauled ass for Wonder Valley. It’s about a three-hour drive from Vegas, through some very remote country — you basically have to cut through the middle of the Mojave National Preserve, which is a fabulous place, but it was pitch black for most of my drive, so I just drove as fast as the pot-holed road would allow, in order to get to The Palms in time for the show.

I made it just in time to change into my slutty cowgirl chaps from Sturgis — Rummelsnuff’s First Mate, the guy I called Franz in last year’s blog, told me they’d beat up a thrift shop in Twentynine Palms for performance costumes, so I figured I’d better dress up too. And then the music began!!

There were about 5 bands playing at The Palms that night, and every single one was AMAZING! I can’t believe all the talent in that little godforsaken corner of the Earth — it was really incredible. There were a few artsy hipster types in attendance, but there were also a lot of good old-fashioned salt-of-the-Earth desert types there, too — picture a dusty desert dive bar in the middle of nowhere, and that’s the kind of crowd it was. Sort of Mos-Eisley-Cantina-meets the Bagdad Cafe — WEIRD! Rummelsnuff and Franz were really nervous to go on, fearing the locals weren’t ready for their particular brand of craziness….but guess what?!?!? THEY KILLED IT!!!! Here’s a brief video I shot of their performance:

The crowd ate it up!!! It was truly amazing, and they did five songs to very enthusiastic applause, hooting and hollering. YAY!!!!!! I swear to you, I love that fucking place. After Rummelsnuff, some other acts came on, including this one amazingly incredible guy who played THE MOST AMAZING version of Pink Floyd’s “Us and Them” on a hammered dulcimer:

I swear, I’ve never heard anything like it!!! I’ve been on a Pink Floyd kick lately, and plus I was high and pretty buzzed, so it was really transformational for me. And as if that wasn’t enough, the last act was the headliner — the Field Hollars, an AMAZING two-man band that had the most incredible energy level of anything I’ve EVER SEEN! It was basically just a cherub-faced redheaded drummer and a crazed singer/guitarist in hillbilly overalls…but they dredged up a well of intensely fierce passion from somewhere that had the entire fucking room going CRAZY!!! The whole scene was like the end of Cheech & Chong’s Up In Smoke — I’m pretty sure everyone in there was baked (I know I was), and everyone was getting the fuck DOWN! IT WAS AMAAAAAAZING! Here’s a brief clip:

FUCK!!!!!!

After the show ended, we were all totally spent. I hung out in the backyard for awhile at this bonfire, talking to some of the locals — apparently they have bigger music festivals down there on occasion, and people camp out in the desert behind the restaurant, where there was another stage set up. What a magical place!!!

Then after awhile, I followed Rummelsnuff and his First Mate back to the Cat Ranch (a/k/a the Wonder Valley Rave Shack), where we had a nice relaxing soak in the neighbor lady’s Jacuzzi, under the amazing desert stars, talking over the amazing night’s events and smoking some more weed. Incredible! Around midnight, we got out and drove back over to the Cat Ranch and got ready for bed. Franz thought I might be more comfortable staying in the neighbor’s guest cottage, because it had indoor plumbing and running water…but I preferred to sleep in the Cat Ranch’s fabulous guest house, out in the back of their compound — rustic, with no amenities…but very cozy nonetheless!! Fuck indoor plumbing!!!!

Despite the fact that I was super cozy and had a sweet setup there, I suffered a miserable sleepless night due to my shitty insomnia, and finally gave up around 10am, got dressed in this fabulous psychedelic robe I just fashioned, and went out to join the boys for breakfast in the main cabin. We sat on the porch in the desert morning sun and had coffee, avocados and mangoes (Rummelsnuff is a health fiend), and I wanted nothing more than to stay all day…but alas, I had a photo shoot booked that night in Vegas at 6pm, so I had to leave them around noon. Before I went, I gave them some magic mushrooms as a parting gift….and then drove off through the sagebrush, leaving the two of them tripping balls in the desert sunshine. Lovely!!!!

I drove back to Vegas through the Mojave National Preserve, and it was beautiful — it had just rained, so the smell of the creosote bushes was extra-intense, and the skies were sort of overcast and magical. I LOVE THE DESERT!!!!!!

 

But before long, I was back in fucking Vegas, buck-ass naked in some dumb hotel room at the MGM with one of my fellow Goddess Collective models, pretending to hump each other for the pleasure of yet another photographer. The Oscars were on in the background, and it was a very surreal scene..in a totally different way than the previous night’s scene. But the bills have to be paid, and I need gas money to go back to Wonder Valley next weekend…..so it was totally worth it!!!!!

 

This past Saturday I finally got around to exploring a spot I’d always been curious about: Big Dune, about 100 miles northwest of Vegas, just off U.S. 95.

I pass this thing every year on my way to Burning Man, but I’m always so loaded down with costumes and drugs that I don’t want to stop — and on the way back, I’m always too tired.

So I was extra glad when my friend MG (read his blog here) came to town from Phoenix, and proposed an excursion/photo shoot to check it out. As a bonus, I had just finished making my Electric Vagina codpiece, so thought this might be a good opportunity to get some pics in it. It totally was!

It takes about 2 hours to get to Big Dune from Vegas — basically the same as going to the other dunes in the area, Kelso and Dumont. But the drive to Big Dune is super easy — just right up the 95, a few miles past the Alien Brothel Travel Center (the old Cherry Patch Ranch, re-branded to lure in tourists). At the Big Dune sign on the left, you turn off onto a dirt road for the last 5 miles, but it’s a decent road. MG’s SUV was able to take it at 45mph with no problem.

There’s a hard packed dirt area all around the dunes, where people camp out and park their cars (look for the message board as an idea of where to park), but unless you have a quad/sand rail/dune buggy/hardcore 4WD vehicle, you can’t get closer than maybe 1/4 mile to the base of the dunes, or your car will get stuck in the soft sand.

MG and I parked his car on the hard packed area and just hiked in with all our gear. Though it was only mid-February, it was already around 75 degrees, with no shade…and hiking through sand is tough! So be advised, if you want to do a photo shoot here…either bring a quad, or be prepared for a workout.

The other thing to look out for here is people — since Big Dune is fairly convenient to Vegas, lots of rednecks party here. Moreover, there’s no entrance fee (unlike Dumont), so it’s a cheaper class of redneck.

We were there on a Saturday, so there were quite a few people out there….including a whole encampment of Boy Scouts! D’OH!!! One of the scout leaders came over and asked/admonished us to stay away from the boys (since I was nude), so we agreed to hike way out into the dune field and mind our own business. God forbid those little fuckers should see a naked twat, ya know? Meanwhile they’re not allowed to be gay, either. Poor cloistered fuckers.

Wouldn’t you know it, though…despite the fact that we hiked waaaaay out away from their camp, a couple of scouts came snooping around anyway. Oh well — let ‘em get their Merit Badge in Perving! It’s bound to happen sooner or later

Ironically, on our way out at the end of the day, we noticed that the scouts had built a wooden effigy to burn later that night, Burning Man-style. Their leader even told us they were calling it the Burning Scoutmaster!

I thought that was pretty cute.. but also somewhat ironic that a notoriously intolerant organization like the BSA would emulate an all-embracing hippie fuckfest. I hate to tell ya boys, if you wanna play Burning Man, you’re going to have to accept the fact that vaginas and female nipples are a part of life. They won’t do you any harm, they aren’t inherently evil, and the less mystique you impart them, the less complicated and more fun your life will be. That’s the most important Merit Badge of them all!

Anyhoo, if you’re interested in checking out sand dunes near Vegas, Big Dune is a pretty cool place. Although time and distance-wise, if you’re looking to do a photo shoot or just hike around, you might as well just drive to the Kelso Dunes…it’s the same distance, but Kelso doesn’t allow offroad vehicles, so there won’t be any nosy rednecks racing around. (The only downside to the Kelso Dunes is that the roads are slightly worse…but still totally passable in any car.) And I DEFINITELY recommend Big Dune over Dumont — Dumont is always full of rednecks, and has an entrance fee (although it IS where they filmed the original Star Wars…so you might go just for that fact).

 

 

This past Tuesday, a longstanding dream of mine came true when I was invited to mud wrestle at Gilley’s, a country-and-western bar inside the Treasure Island hotel. A couple times a month, this group called the Power Posh Girls hosts a mudwrestling night…and they let me join in the fun!

As mentioned in my last blog, I went down there the other week to watch them, and get an idea of what I was in for. The other girls have all developed crazy wrestling personae, ranging from Little Red (riding hood) to Harajuku Hyjak (crazy Japanese anime girl)…so I knew I’d better come up with something amazing to compete with them. But what?

I already knew I’d wrestle under the name Wonderhussy (since why not)…but I had to develop a character and shtick around it. I played off the slutty Wonder Woman angle, ordering a sexxxy Wonder Woman monokini and some thigh-high boots. I didn’t have a Golden Lasso of Truth, so I spray-painted my old bullwhip gold, creating the vastly superior Pussy Whip of Truth (men can’t resist it). And I already had the cuffs, headpiece and cape, so I just embellished those a bit and I was pretty much good to go.

 

Except for one thing!

 

A long time ago, at the tender age of 17 or so, I came up with the concept of an Electric Pussy — an electrical outlet in place of a vagina, with a giant power drill plugged into it. The ultimate expression of Pussy Power!! When I started modeling, I tried to recreate this idea in a photo shoot with one of my favorite photographers.. but the image (while badass) didn’t quite come out as I had hoped. Ever since then, I’ve been trying to figure out a way to make a sort of Electric Pussy codpiece…but never really went ahead with it until now.

I knew I needed to make an Electric Pussy prosthetic panty for this rassling match. My idea was that my character, Wonderhussy, would come out to the strains of Lenny Kravitz’s “American Woman,” with a power drill plugged into my crotch. Back when I shot the above photo, I had purchased the biggest drill bit I could find at Lowe’s (sales guy: “Ya drilling concrete?” Me: “Something like that”) and I figured I’d attach it to the drill, maybe with an American flag taped to the end. Playing to the crowd of rednecks, I would then drill holes into a communist flag or a photo of Osama bin Laden or something. Boo Ya!!!

Obviously, I’m no electrician, so the pussy outlet wouldn’t really work — I borrowed my roommate’s cordless drill, then attached the cord from an old curling iron I bought at a thrift store so that it would look like it was really plugged in and working. I covered the drill with painter’s tape, then colored it in Stars and Stripes, adding a miniature American flag to the tip of the drill bit.

As for the pussy itself, it was pretty tricky. I spent hours reading all these cosplay blogs for tips on how to make body armor for cheap, and ended up molding the panty out of thick craft foam, attached to an elastic belt like a jock strap. To make it extra-durable, I covered the craft foam with a layer of glue-soaked fabric strips, then a layer of gaffer’s tape and then finally a layer of this stuff called Paperclay, which is basically a quick-drying lightweight clay that you then sand down so that it makes a smooth, lightweight top layer. I then spray painted it gold, popped in an electrical outlet, and added embellishments with electrical tape. When I was done, it looked pretty bad ass!

Now I was ready to wrassle! I was literally working on my costume until right up until the match, so when I finished, I threw everything in a bag and headed over to Gilley’s to get it on. I had been up since 7:30am working on repairing my backyard fence (more on which later), so I was pretty tired…but I was still amped as fuck to fulfill this longstanding dream of mine!

The way mudwrestling at Gilley’s works is, you arrive at 10:30pm and change into your costume, then the DJ introduces each wrestler onstage, one at a time. They play your entrance music, you get up onstage and shake your ass, tits, etc., and then the DJ asks you a few questions before auctioning you off to the crowd: “NOW, who wants to be Wonderhussy’s towel boy???” Basically, you get to swab off the mud and sweat and whatnot, and generally just look like a stud, and the bidding starts at $20.

Now normally, each wrestler gets around $100 from someone to be her towel boy (there was this one chick, Crocodile DDD, who got $400 once). But this past Tuesday was a slow night, so many of the wrestlers didn’t get huge bids. In my case, I (humiliatingly) only got $40!!!! WTF?? I felt pretty shitty about it, but one of the other girls only got $40 too, so at least I wasn’t alone. And at the end of the night we all split the take anyway, so it wasn’t too bad. But I still felt guilty, like I was letting the others down.

My opponent was Little Red (Riding Hood), a fierce, sexxxy redhead in a hooded cloak and a red thong bikini. Yowza!!! Other wrestlers that night included Lady GoGo-Get-’Em, Harajuku Hyjak, Wild Thing, Diablo Diana and Daisy Dukes, among others….there were 8 total, and we wrestled in a playoff format, with the winners wrestling each other until only one was victorious.

Little Red and I wrassled third, and I am ashamed to say she totally kicked my ass!!! Mostly because I couldn’t bring my power drill or Golden Pussy Whip into the ring, but still — I just had no idea how slippery it would be in that ring!! Prior to this, my only real wrestling experience was Blood Wrestling at the Sci-Fi Center, so I just didn’t know what to expect. But either way, my towel boy was very helpful and I had a blast rolling around in the muck, which is actually chocolate pudding. (I accidentally forgot, and licked some off my fingers later in the evening….and got severe diarrhea as a result, lol.)

Anyhoo, after your match is over you run to the back, where there is a tiny little shower room so you can clean off, wash your hair, and then change into fresh clothes and go back out to mingle with the crowd. They give you a couple free drink tickets as a thank-you, so it was all good. I had several friends show up to watch me, so after I cleaned up I went back out and had a great time socializing. (Incidentally, my waterproof makeup held up astonishingly well — thank you Blinc Brow Mousse! My brows stayed on perfectly.)

At the end of the last match, they divvy up the money and everyone gets her cut, and that’s that. As mentioned, I was reeeally embarrassed at having only gotten a $40 bid, and I was advised to act less confident next time. I had come out onstage waving my drill around, thrusting my Electric Vagina at the crowd like a real bad-ass…when come to find out, next time I should be more sexy and cutesy, and less threatening. They loved my costume and my Electric Pussy, but just told me to be more coy and less aggressive. Now that I think about it, that’s probably the main reason I have a hard time making money in life in general — I come off as too confident/assertive, and don’t simper and pule enough. Lesson learned!!!

Aaaaaaaaaaaaanyhoo, that was wrestling. I had a total fucking blast, and sincerely hope to rassle with the Power Posh Girls many more times! Check out this awesome GoPro footage taken by a friend, and then head over to the Power Posh Facebook page and “like” us!!

Anyway, aside from wrestling I had a pretty shitty week. My troubles all started on Valentine’s Day — I hate that fucking b.s. holiday as it is (I never seem to have a boyfriend when it rolls around, so I always feel left out and weird), but to make matters worse, this year I woke up to find that my new dog Freddy had WORMS! He was acting all weird, whining and fussing all night, and sure as sugar I found all these nasty little grains of rice-looking things on his blanket. GROSSSSSS!!!!

I scrapped my electric vagina-making plans and took him to the vet, where I shelled out $180 for meds, but when I brought him home is when the real trouble started. I don’t know if it was the worms, or the fact that it was a full moon or WHAT, but that little fucker just went BUCK WILD — racing around the house, getting worms everywhere, and generally acting a fool. I spent all day doing laundry and trying to calm him down, but eventually I had to go out and run errands….and that’s when the shit REALLY hit the fan. Every fucking time I left the house, I’d get a phone call from one of the neighbors: “We have your dog!” So I’d have to drop whatever I was doing and race home to get him.

This happened FOUR TIMES — once I was in the middle of lifting weights, and had to bail on my workout! Each time, I would go home, find out where he’d escaped, and block up the hole as best I could. My backyard fence was in a pretty shitty state of disrepair, with a lot of loose boards and stuff, but I kept nailing them tight (or so I thought). Still, the little fucker was SO CRAZED he kept finding new ways to bash his head on the boards and get out. He’d run a few houses down the street, then I’d drag him home. The funny thing was, he was perfectly content to follow me back in the house — but the next time I left, he’d run away again!! It was hell!!!

I was really stressing, because I had shit to do and couldn’t stay home with him. Fortunately, I have one of those dog kennel/crate things, so when I went out the last time, I locked him up in that. But apparently he went NUTS while I was gone, puked all over the inside of the crate, and somehow bashed his way out through the metal grate on the front!!! I’m telling you, that dog was BALLISTIC!!! I tried closing him up in there again that night, but he went BATSHIT, whining and drooling frantically, pawing at the gate so hard I was afraid he’d hurt himself. By this time, I was so exhausted that I got really mad, and resolved to take him to the pound in the morning. He’s really cute, so I have no doubt some family would adopt him in no time — I honestly didn’t feel too badly about it.

But in the morning, he had calmed down a lot, so I gave him a reprieve…..and instead shelled out $600 to replace my fucking fence. A friend referred me this awesome handyman who came over on Tuesday morning (which is why I had to get up at 7:30am….ugh), and I helped him repair/replace the fucking fence. What a LAME ASS way to spend $600, huh? Especially since I haven’t been working much this month.

I don’t know WHY, but as I mentioned last time, all my gigs have dried up lately. One day I was so desperate for cash, I even tested out a new app downtown in exchange for $25!!! Tough times, I tells ya. But I’m slowly clawing my way toward my nut this month…and I might just make it. I should probably go busking on the Strip in my Electric Vagina costume this Saturday night, just to make a few bucks: I could hold up a sign that says “CELL PHONE CHARGING,” and I’d probably do OK. That’ll be my last resort.

Anyway, since I haven’t been working much  lately, at least I had plenty of time to get out and about. One afternoon, I was a guest on the 702 Rox radio show, hosted by the sexxxy Miss Foxy Roxy, along with celebrity hypnotist Anthony Cools and this awesome chick who had just won Makeup Artist of the Year at the porno awards!! (She uses a special waterproof primer, so that it’s easy to clean up those facial wads. Gross!!!) Well, apparently I did such a good job on that show, they invited me back as a regular for the month of May — I’ll be reading the world news in a sexy outfit, kind of like those Naked News chicks. Maybe I’ll bring my Electric Pussy along!!

Then another night, I did an amazing photo shoot with my good friend Randy Fosth, Shutterbug-Studio. He shot my in my rassling outfit, but alas my Electric Pussy wasn’t finished yet, so he didn’t get any pics of that. But the good news is, he’s working on a book of our best photos…so look for that to be coming out soon! You won’t want to miss it!

Meanwhile, another good friend was in town — a classic liberal elitist journalist pal from New York City who comes out here fairly regularly to write about Vegas for various national magazines. Since they’re always schmoozing him with fabulous dinners and offers, he always invites me along as company, and as a result I’ve gotten to see some very intense shit which I would normally never be able to afford. This time, they hooked him up with tickets to the Britney Spears show at Planet Hollywood…so I went along out of curiosity. It turned out to be AWESOME! You can read my review here…but if you’re too lazy to click the link, basically it was awesome because it was so cheesy and unpretentious, and the room was full of gay guys and homely chicks bawling their eyes out while Britney waddled around the stage in wedge-heeled tennies and a sequined sausage-casing. Plus, because they were schmoozing my friend, we had front-row seats with bottle service — free vodka and candy served by a bangin’ hot Thai bottle waitress. FUN!

After the show, he had to go over to Beacher’s Madhouse to interview Jeff Beacher, so I tagged along there, too. If you haven’t heard of it, Beacher’s Madhouse is basically a nightclub with a stage show featuring wacky/bizarre acts like a woman who smashes watermelons with her giant tits, etc. They also have all these furry mascots hanging out, dancing with the crowd, as well as a bunch of celebrity look-a-likes and the world’s only flying Little People bartenders — basically, if you order a bottle of vodka, this dwarf comes flying out on a harness to deliver it to your table. It’s shtick, but it’s fun…even though it is, at heart, just a sort of frat-house nightclub melee. And to be honest, the wackiness feels pretty forced — I feel like a better m.o. would be if Jeff Beacher fired all his wacky staff, and just went out on the Strip every night at 10pm and hired 20 wackos, Home-Depot-style, to come in and do their shtick. God only knows you can find MUCH weirder weirdos hanging out on the sidewalk in front of Planet Hollywood any night of the week…including, I’ve even heard, some random bitch with an Electric Pussy!!! (Hmmm, maybe I should hit up Beacher for a job….)

Then another night, my same journalist friend got invited to the one-year anniversary party for this über-pretentious “hip Asian dining” joint at the Encore, named after Steve Wynn’s new trophy Frankenhag, Andrea. The party was chock-a-block with the “Who’s Who” of Vegas Society, meaning it was basically a roomful of Botoxed, collagen-lipped, fake-titted designer-label-wearing society whores and their wizened, pervy old husbands (many of whom probably jerk off to this very blog). UGH!!! If it hadn’t been for all the AMAZING free sushi, I couldn’t have handled it — plus, there were all these gorgeous babes standing around passing out free champagne.

That’s right, to balance out all the old Botox hags they had hired a bunch of sexy young models to come hang out at the party — only they weren’t really paying them; they just forced all the new hires for pool season to come to the party for no pay. I learned all this talking to one of them, this beautiful tall blonde from out of town. She had driven five hours to be at the party, and had to be back home again to work in the morning…but if she didn’t, she’d lose her coveted upcoming gig as a bottle waitress at the Encore’s pool club this summer.

I had always been curious as to how these pool babes get their gigs — I know there is FIERCE competition for those bottle service jobs, especially at the pool clubs. They’re always posting audition notices at my gym, and the girls have to show up in bikinis, with headshots — waitressing experience not important. Well, come to find out this poor blonde bitch drove up here from 5 hours away to audition at several pools this year, and it was intense! Hundreds of gorgeous girls shivering in bikinis in the bowels of ginormous hotel-casinos, waiting for hours until called up to walk down a runway in front of a table of judges. Creeeeeeeepy!!! Then the lucky ones get hired, and presumably make an ass-ton of money serving drinks to rich assholes and drunk douchebags in the hot summer sun. They also have quotas to make, a certain number of girls they have to bring into the pool each week, and table clients they have to book — it sounds like a lot of stress and I’d never want to do it!! But apparently, chicks across America flock here to try it…so what do I know? I think it goes back to my unwillingness to simper and pule.

Anyway, talking to that chick was the most interesting part of the party, and explained why there were so many babes in slutty bebe dresses and Christian Louboutins milling around. They were extra-thick at this one table, surrounding this miserable-looking old-ass pervert who kept stroking the legs of the miserable-looking blonde bitch beside him — apparently, he was some kind of mega-high roller ancient Mafia guy who had to be placated with bimbos to keep him from exploding in a geyser of dago rage. WOW! Who are these people, and what the fuck are their lives all about?!?!?!

For the people-watching alone, this party was amazing. Andrea Wynn herself mingled about the room with an industrial-strength binder clip at the back of her head holding her face taut, god only knows what kind of horribly pretentious babble spewing from her trout pout. Her blind old husband was nowhere to be seen, probably off banging an elbow through a Moldovan hooker’s eye socket. The best part of the entire party was when this alleged Grammy-winning blonde chippy sat at the grand piano and played an ÜBER-pretentious Norah-Jones-style version of Nancy Sinatra’s “Bang Bang.” The whole room of idiots stood by spellbound, as if it were the most amazing, groundbreaking artistic interpretation since Crispin Glover covered Charles Manson’s “Never Say Never to Always.” GAHHHHHHHHH!!!!! SOMEBODY PASS ME ANOTHER GLASS OF FREE CHAMPAGNE BEFORE I SHIT IN ANDREA WYNN’S MARTINI GLASS!!!!!!

And this, dear readers, is why I will never write for a mainstream Vegas publication: I simply can’t/refuse to play the game. I gotta call a spade a spade….or in this case, a Frankenhag a Frankenhag. And the saddest/funniest part of the whole thing was, all those slutty young chippies in the bebe dresses were just Frankenhags in waiting. AND THAT, my friends, is what Vegas is all about!!!!  (Also, let me tell you something — those bottle waitresses may look pretty, but a very close friend of mine was hired to create a spreadsheet for one of the pool clubs, to ensure that no two waitresses are ever at adjoining tables two days in a row — they have to do this to make sure the bitches don’t collude and figure out a way to sheist money from the club. As if they’re not already making enough!! Like I said…who ARE these fucking people?!?!)

Anyway, you can see why I desperately need to get the fuck out of town!! I’m waaaay overdue for an adventure, and thankfully, a new friend I met has offered me the perfect getaway: roadtrip down to Baja California for some crazy off-road race at the end of the month. Apparently, thousands of speed freaks and beach bums gather in San Felipe each year for this race, and my friend has invited me to come along and camp out on the beach, eat shrimp tacos and drink cheap Mexican beer. How could I say no to THAT?!?!

But meanwhile, I still haven’t made my monthly nut. And wouldn’t you know it, some Japanese TV crew contacted me yesterday, wanting to shoot footage of me busking on the Strip for a documentary they’re filming about Vegas — the same weekend as the Baja race!!!!! Fuck. Which should I do??

The Japanese crew is only paying $100, so it’s not really about the money — AND, they also tell me it’s a “family” show, so I can’t wear my Electric Vagina outfit or even my weed showgirl costume :/ I’d have to wear my regular showgirl outfit, and that is L.A.M.E. But still, I could be on Japanese TV!

On the other hand…I could also get the fuck out of town and go to Mexico, where I’ve never been, and get high as fuck with a bunch of hippie freaks and gearheads. Decisions, decisions. Which path do YOU think I should take????

 

I’m no stranger to censorship. My entire Facebook profile was deleted back in 2009 because I posted a few art nudes — despite the fact that no nipples/vagina were showing, the fact that I was naked was reason enough for them to delete my profile, and refuse to reinstate it (I appealed, and they actually emailed me back saying NO).  One of the main reasons I started this blog, in fact, was so that I could post whatever the fuck I wanted to, without fear of being flagged or deleted by some dumb Puritanical website.

I learned my lesson — nowadays, I’m cautious about what I post on Facebook. But I never thought I’d have to worry about Model Mayhem, the modeling networking site I use! They don’t allow you to use a topless or nude photo as your avatar (unless you’re male, in which case topless is fine…OF COURSE), but other than that, it’s pretty much open game over there. UNTIL NOW….

Yes friends, I am shocked to announce that I have now had a photo removed from Model Mayhem!! Fuck, all I need is a Twitter ban, and I’ll have a trifecta :-/

<– Here is the photo in question. Apparently, it violates this section of Model Mayhem’s terms of service:

“The following represent image types that are NEVER allowed to be posted on Model Mayhem:

- any and all penetration of vagina or anus”

Which, apparently, means: No hookah hoses allowed inside holy holes!!!!

When I uploaded this pic to Model Mayhem, I didn’t for a second think there’d be a problem. It’s obviously a kooky, tongue-in-cheek joke photo — there’s nothing erotic about it at all. But, one of the MM moderators contacted me yesterday, informing me that they had removed it.

OK, fine. It was no big deal, since I had shot a PG-version of the same exact photo anyway, so I just uploaded that, instead. But the whole situation IRKED me anyway.

Model Mayhem is mostly an amateur site — amateur models and amateur photographers…some more amateur than others!!! You see all kinds of awful shit on there, but…art is subjective, so who am I say what’s awful? As long as it’s between consenting adults, who cares?? My beef is mostly with the fact that Model Mayhem censored MY innocent little hoo-hah-hookah pic, while allowing the following photos to slide:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To those of who not familiar with Model Mayhem, these are just a few examples of the THOUSANDS of fucked-up photos people post on that site. There’s a HUGE market for “Damsel in Distress” photos of terrified-looking chicks tied up and gagged…lots of people are really into that.

Again, I’m not saying the above photos should be deleted from MM — as long as it was between consenting adults, who cares? First Amendment, already.

I’m just saying that I really don’t find my hookah hoo-hah photo to be any more offensive. What do you think?