Flashing Darth Vader

I was supposed to go to a big campout/rave/orgy hosted by the local Burning Man Community this weekend, out in the desert near Boulder City. I packed everything up this morning (OK, this afternoon): my camper, cooler, drum, kooky outfits, etc. But when I got out there, it was so freakin’ windy (wind advisory in effect; gusts of over 50mph) that I didn’t even bother setting up my pop-up camper for fear it would be blown over and destroyed, as happened to my old one out at Apex dry lake bed. So I just stayed long enough for a cocktail and a hot dog with my fellow Burners…and then I turned around and headed back to Vegas, and unpacked everything again 🙁 Stupid wind!!!

But since I didn’t camp out, now I have time to tell you all about this awesome photo shoot I did last week. It was another one of those hotel-room-shoots-with-some-random-dude, but this guy was totally cool and very creative. Instead of just shooting the usual cheesecake, he had me get on all fours, naked as a jaybird, and then placed the glass tabletop from the coffee table on my back. The result is totally American Psycho, don’t you think? If these hotels only knew the kinds of hijinks that went on in their rooms…


This awesome photographer also had a hankering to shoot some “flasher” shots out on the Strip; i.e. me in a trenchcoat, with little or nothing on underneath. His idea was to do a super-long exposure of the Strip first, to blur out all the pedestrians and cars…and then take a pic of me flashing everyone, and composite it together with the empty Strip shot.

So we went down to the Strip around 7pm on a warm spring evening, not looking suspicious at allllllll….him with a tripod, and me in high heels and a pleather trench coat. We went and lurked around in front of the Bellagio, waiting for the fountain show to be over so the hordes of tourists would clear out and he could take the first long-exposure shot.

Unfortunately, that part of the sidewalk NEVER clears out: between the fountains and the random wackos in costumes hustling for tips and the enterprising souls hawking glow sticks and roses, it’s pretty much a circus, 24/7. So we just went for it, crowd or no.

I don’t have a photo of the actual flash yet, but rest assured it was great. Some kook in a Darth Vader costume was standing behind me, hustling passing families into posing for photos with him, and he missed the whole thing because his back was turned. After we snapped the shot, I closed up my trenchcoat and turned around to walk back, and Darth Vader went into his shtick: “Come take a photo with me, young lady!”

Me: “No, thanks!” Darth: “Oh come now…don’t be shy!”

Me: “Shy?!!” *FLASH!!!* I opened my trenchcoat and gave him an eyeful. “Trust me…I’m NOT shy!”

At that, the poor fucker, sweating his balls off in his helmet and cape, began chortling uncontrollably, but managed to choke out a strangled “May the Force be With You!” Awesome!

Fortuitously, one of the “Hot Babes Direct To You” trucks just happened to be idling at the light nearby…so we were able to snap this additional awesome pic! I do kinda wish I was swiveled more to the side, as I feel I look a bit hippy in this shot. But it’s still a gas!

For those who don’t know, prostitution is technically illegal in Vegas (it is legal in most of the other counties in NV, including neighboring Nye county, where most of the brothels are)…but there are a multitude of “escort” agencies that will send an “entertainer” to your room to, uh, “entertain” you. It’s a total fuckin’ farce, but a huge industry, so no one’s really complaining. I personally dig it — I love all those porn-slappers out on the Strip who hand you those little cards that say stuff like “Brandi! $99 special!” To me, that’s an integral part of the Vegas experience, and I enjoy collecting the cards.

In fact, a special ambition of mine has long been to APPEAR on one of those little cards! Anyone with half a brain can tell that the photos on the cards are hired models, and not the actual escorts. I always thought it would be a gas to have my photo featured on one of the cards…and with the number of nakey pix of me floating around out there, I figured it was just a matter of time.

Well, FINALLY, back in February a photographer contacted me about doing a “controversial” shoot for an escort agency. His approach was cautious, because he knew that most chicks would recoil in horror at the prospect of posing as a hooker. Lucky for him, I’m not like most chicks — I jumped at the chance!

The shoot was to take place at this wacky mansion down in a sort of run-down part of town. That’s the beauty of Vegas — you’re tooling along in the ghetto, when all of a sudden you find yourself in a little hidden neighborhood full of custom estates. It’s very patchwork-y like that.

This mansion was absolutely incredible, lavishly furnished by someone with an excess of money and a paucity of taste. It was like they crammed every “classy” thing they could think of into this McMansion: Rolls, pool table, home theater, oversize aquarium, ginormous fireplace, grand piano, caged monkey with a boner screeching in the corner…it was fantastic!

The shoot crew involved several models (of varying degrees of skankitude), the photographer, a make-up/hair chick and this big, fat, slovenly blonde woman who appeared to be the lady of the manor (when I remarked on the amazingness of the house, she said “Thanks”). But to my trained journalist’s eye, it looked to me like the house belonged to a black man: there was a shoe rack full of size 49 Nike Air kicks by the door, a giant oil painting of Billie Holiday over the mantel, lots of Africana knick-knacks scattered about the house, and a framed certificate from the City of Los Angeles made out to a man with a distinctly Black Muslim name. I tried not to snoop around too much and arouse suspicion, but I was really curious! It seemed as though the escort biz was fairly recession-proof, and I was dying to meet the pimp behind it all. Pimpin’ may not be easy…but it apparently gets you a lot of fun toys!

The shoot itself was fairly unremarkable — the standard nude/implied nude cheesecake, only with a caged priapic monkey  in the corner screeching mercilessly the entire time. Apparently there was also an ocelot wandering the grounds, but the ocelot was said to play rough, so I was glad I didn’t run into it while naked. Also, there was said to be a pen of wolves out in the backyard — I didn’t see this, but I definitely believe it after being at that weird estate.

After the shoot, the photographer took pains to assure me that the photos wouldn’t end up on those little cards — or in print anywhere, for that matter. Supposedly, they were just for the escort agency’s website. But when he saw my disappointed expression, he cracked up: “You’re the first model I’ve shot who actually WANTS to be on a card!” And then he promised me that if I was “good,” they might put me on a card one of these days.

Man, I really hope they do! I don’t plan on running for office anytime soon, anyway… and I just think that would be the biggest hoot EVER: to be walking down the Strip and have one of those poor illegals hand me a card with my own image on it. Maybe I have a twisted sense of humor…but I just think that would be totally tits…especially if I happened to be on a date or with my grandma or something!


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The Adventures of SuperToe

I finally got some photos back from my amazing shoot with the fabulous Michael Maze the other week! To the left is “SuperToe.” What with my affinity for shiny spandex pants and my aversion to wearing underwear, it was bound to happen sooner or later!

To the left is a variation on the same theme…I’m wearing this really cool old 1970s suede jacket that I got at this amazing thrift store in San Jose, CA where I used to shop all the time when I was in college there. This place was AWESOME! It was called Community Value Center, and I bought tons of cool stuff there for super cheap back in the day (it’s not there anymore, alas). My sister and I used to buy all these crazy outfits, and then make up back-stories for them. Haven’t you ever wondered what went on in vintage clothes before you bought them?

For this jacket, we decided it used to belong to a secretary in New York City who got pregnant by her boss and had to have a back-alley abortion which resulted in her untimely death, and the donation of her jacket to charity. My sis even did a black&white photojournalism story about it back in the mid-’90s, with me posing as the secretary going about my deadly business. It was awesome!

The blonde afro wig is part of my extensive wig collection. I have about 10 wigs, and I totally dig wearing them when I’m too lazy to wash my hair. They also come in handy at Burning Man, where you can’t really wear your hair down without it becoming hopelessly snarled and coated in alkali dust.

Now this next one is a personal favorite. I call it “You kids get off the God damn roof!” Living in Vegas, I don’t ever get my ass out of bed until noon (or later)…and then it takes me around 4 hours of coffee and Internet before I can actually get myself together to face the day. Sometimes I’ll go out to check my mail in my robe, and I feel hopelessly dissolute when there are kids walking home from school. One time I overheard them say, “Did she just get UP?” Yes, Sonny….yes, I did. And if I catch your fat ass on my roof again, I’m gonna throw this apple at your face as hard as I can!

Now here’s a fun one! I had this weird old striped hoodie in my closet from dog-knows-when, but I guess I’m glad I never throw anything away, because it came in handy for my take on Dieter’s Dance Party! I was also channeling Australia’s Mike Batt, an early ’80s musician who cooked up this kooky futuristic rock opera called “Zero Zero,” all about a world of the future where Love has been outlawed. The movie was broadcast on Australian TV back in the day, and somehow my mom got ahold of the soundtrack LP and we used to listen to it all the time when we were kids: it was all black-and-white avant-garde ’80s futurism. TOTALLY cool! If you can find a copy of this movie…LET ME KNOW! I need to see it!

Now this last one is another variation on the Zero Zero theme…had to take advantage of the awesome tiled floor in his new warehouse/studio. Incidentally, his studio is right around the corner from the Red Rooster swinger’s club. For those who don’t know, the Red Rooster is THE swing club in Vegas. Sure, other clubs might be fancier (Green Door, Power Exchange)…but the Red Rooster has been going strong for over 20 years, operated by a sweet swinger couple out of their private residence…which has been added onto over the years so that it now resembles a suburban sex compound. (For more info, see my review of this club at yelp.com/biz/las-vegas-red-rooster-las-vegas#hrid:jZ7GeY_viZuYT2dkd08_SQ)

I also did another super-fabulous photo shoot this week…but those photos will have to wait for another post. Coming soon to wonderhussy.com!

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Fun With Charlie, the Broken Ventriloquist’s Dummy

I’ve been sweating balls lately because I’ve only made about $200 in the last 30 days. I work as a souvenir photographer (the technical term is “camera girl”) at one of the big theaters on the Strip, but the headliner, a saccharine banshee we’ll call Sally Dingdong, has been on a six-week hiatus.

Normally during these breaks, I like to just take the time off and pursue my modeling and fetish gigs. But a few months ago, the company I work for informed me that if I want to keep my health insurance, I have to work four shifts per week minimum, no matter what. Boo!

What this means is that when Sally Dingdong is off at Botox camp, they send me out to work other shows in town. The company I work for has photo concessions at around 20 Strip hotels, so you never know where you’ll wind up! Sometimes it’s fun, but most of the time it’s a miserable slog through wrinkled, obese masses of unwilling, underdressed fanny-packers who want absolutely NOTHING to do with you and your camera.

At least with Sally Dingdong’s show, people get dressed up and pay upwards of $200 per ticket…so selling a $45 souvenir photo isn’t that hard. But try doing that at the Riviera, or any of those other low-end dumps! It’s like banging your head against a wall, only more humiliating.

I’ve worked at most of the hotels on the Strip, and the only thing to recommend some of them is their employee dining rooms – Aria and Mandalay Bay in particular have awesome E.D.R.s that are on par with many commercial buffets in town. Those who know me know that there ain’t nothing in my fridge but vodka and eyeliner – I don’t buy groceries; I eat all my meals in the E.D.R. (casino employees get a free meal each shift). But a free dinner isn’t enough to make up for the agony of making $8.25 an hour all night long (normally we make commission, but if you don’t sell anything they pay you minimum wage for your time).

Luckily for me, this time they didn’t send me too far afield – they put me out at this avant-garde adult circus that just opened up in the plaza in front of a certain old-school mega-resort. It’s a badass show – obscene shtick and crazy, death-defying hunky Russian acrobats, held in an antique Belgian circus tent from the 1800s. REALLY cool! Alas, the crowd is mostly locals and casually-attired drunkards schlepping yard-long daiquiris on harnesses around their necks…not a prime photo-taking crowd. Even lowering the price to two-for-$20 hasn’t helped – I’ve made minimum wage every single night I’ve worked it.

On the weekends, it’s even worse – they been sending me inside to work a lounge show featuring an ex-boy-band star from England. The show itself is pretty good (his band is AMAZING), and the lounge itself is old-school awesomeness: it’s a floating Roman slave ship shrouded in dry ice and old-lady perfume, est. 1966! I totally dig the lounge, and the boy-band singer is super friendly and personable…but I’ve still been making minimum wage. The tickets in there are only $40, so no one wants to buy $45 photos…even when the star himself comes out and poses with showgoers! It’s crazy.

We did have one isolated incidence of awesomeness, when Miss Kylie Minogue came in for one night only. I wasn’t a big Kylie fan, but her audience was OFF THE CHAIN – 90% flaming gay hotness, all dressed up in Greek god costumes, waving glowsticks and going apeshit. I’ve never seen so many good-looking gay men in my life! They had a DJ spinning and the lights down low while we were shooting, and it was just like being at Gay Burning Man. FUN! And the show itself was incredible – amazing staging, lighting, and costumes, with all these ripped gay dancers dangling from the rafters, writhing in mid-air simulated orgasmic ecstasy as Miss Minogue rose up from under the stage in a giant glittering clamshell. AWESOMENESS! That show put Cher to shame, I have to say. She was great!

That night I managed to make a little over $100, so that was pretty much half my month’s income, camera-girl-wise. But I also made a few more hunnies posing for nude photos in random perverts’ hotel rooms, as I am sometimes wont to do.

I say “perverts,” but most of these guys are legit photographers – people I meet on Model Mayhem, who are traveling to Vegas and want to do some shooting in their spare time. I’ve done photo shoots in most every hotel in Vegas, from the Bellagio right on down to the Excalibur, and I actually feel pretty safe doing so because of all the hotel security – there’s cameras everywhere in Vegas, and hired goons within screaming distance at all times.   There have been a few creepy instances (more on which in a later post), but for the most part, the photogs are cool…even if a bit pervy sometimes.

My shoot last week was at the Monte Carlo, and the photographer was a young kid who had never shot a nude model before. He was kinda shy and very quiet for the whole 2-hour shoot, so it was slightly awkward…but he was really nice and very professional, so no harm done. And he didn’t try to hit on me, which was nice…but I realized why a few hours after the shoot, when I went in to work the Kylie Minogue show and he was there in the audience!!! As I mentioned, that crowd was 90% gay (at LEAST)!!!

Anyhooz, money has been tight, but who needs money when you’re having as much FUN as I have been?! In fact, I had the most fun EVER last Monday, running around town with a broken ventriloquist’s dummy as a partner in crime! Who needs Terry Fator and his dumb-ass show (see my review of this on yelp.com if you want to read something really scathing)?  

One of my good friends, a Jewish biker/bodybuilder we’ll call Muscles Manischewitz, had mentioned he always thought it would be funny to have as his Facebook profile photo a shot of him with a ventriloquist’s dummy – an old-time vaudeville-type shot, where he’s drinking a glass of water as the dummy “talks.”

Well, I’m like the Fairy Godmother of Vegas – I like making people’s dreams come true. And I happened to know that my photographer friend Curtis Joe Walker (CurtisJoeWalker.com) recently bought a ventriloquist’s dummy for $5 off a passing homeless man! I went downtown to his studio and borrowed the dummy, which was one of those old-time Charlie McCarthy dolls from back in the day… all dressed up in a little tuxedo. Nice!

I had some errands to run, and my Mother (with whom I was chatting on my Bluetooth) advised me not to leave the dummy in my car, as someone might steal it (?!). So I toted the dummy around like a kid as I went about my business. Meanwhile, keep in mind I was jabbering away on my Bluetooth headset…so to passers-by it looked like I was ranting and raving to myself while carrying a ventriloquist’s dummy!

But that didn’t stop the good crackheads of downtown Vegas from kicking me game. I got hit on more that afternoon than ever in all my days! One homeless black guy even told me this awful joke: What do Chinese people call a black man with AIDS? “Coon Die Soon.” Awful!!!!

Anyhooz, around 7pm I took the dummy down to the Strip to visit my friend Muscles Manischewitz at work, so he could take his new Facebook profile pic on his break. Muscles does the lighting for a certain celebrity impersonator show at one of the hotels, and sometimes he lets me come up in the lighting booth and hang out to watch the show and gossip. He knows ALL the gossip!

Meanwhile, another friend of mine is now performing in the show as Bobby Darin – the fabulous, incomparable Art Vargas (www.varjazz.com). If you’re ever in Vegas and have the chance to see Art’s show (he also does a lounge act) – by all means, SEE IT! It’s AWESOME! He is the most charismatic, high-energy performer, and his band is freaking amazing. They do all the old Vegas standards, but totally tongue-in-cheek…sort of like Richard Cheese meets Freddie Mercury. All the old ladies loooooove him, and you will too – I swear it!

So anyhoo, while I waited for Muscles to have his break, I watched the show. Art Vargas was amaaaaaazing as always, and the other performers were great, too – especially Harry Shahoian, the Elvis impersonator on duty that night. I’m a HUGE Elvis fan and have seen many an Elvis in my day…but this guy was without a doubt the SWARTHIEST BEAST of a manly-man Elvis I’ve ever seen – like the blue-collar, sweaty, hairy, workingman’s Elvis. Awesome!

Incidentally, one of the male backup dancers in the show, this Romanian beefcake, also moonlights as a photographer, and I’ve shot with him before, too. There are few in Vegas who haven’t seen me semi-nude…I’m THAT Bohemian.

So after the show was over, I posed for photos with Swarthy Elvis and also the Steven Tyler impersonator (who was great, too) and then when the theater had emptied out we went in to take our vaudeville pic. Muscles had rigged a solitary spotlight to shine on the stage, and they dropped the curtain down for a backdrop. I snapped several pics with Muscles’s iPhone, as “Steven Tyler” clowned around beside me, and they came out fantastic. Another dream fulfilled…bling!

Then I headed across the street to visit another friend – a wealthy-but-lonesome Tennessee oilman I met at a Bob Dylan concert I was working last year. We’ll call him J.R. He’s a suuuuuuuper nice man, and he and I struck up an unlikely friendship. He comes out to Vegas several times a year, and I always make time to hang out with him…and we always get up to some kind of crazy high-jinks.   He usually stays at the same hotel, and he knows EVERYONE in the joint, from the dealers to the waitresses to the bartenders. He’s like Mr. Vegas! I know everyone there thinks he’s my sugar daddy, and that I’m using him for money… but fuck ‘em . We’re just really good friends who happen to share a love of booze, old-timey country music, and a twisted sense of humor. And that’s that! I do run semi-shady errands for him now and then, and he does kick me a cut of his winnings here and there, but there is nothing unseemly about our relationship. It’s kind of like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, going to Sing-Sing to deliver the weather report to that mob boss – basically innocuous.

So I went over to visit him in the casino where he was playing $100-a-hand 3-Card Poker. Whenever I drop in on his gambling sessions I try to do something goofy to surprise him – one time I was wearing a yellow dress, and whipped a banana out of my purse like it was my cell phone. Everyone at the table cracked up! So this time, I thought I might as well bring my ventriloquist’s dummy along and surprise him with that.  

The casino where he always gambles is a real old-time joint that dates from the 1960s – in fact, it’s right around the corner from the aforementioned Roman slave-ship lounge. The ceiling is covered in smoke-blackened dangling crystals, the dealers all wear golden medallions, and the waitresses have all been around since opening day. I LOVE THIS CASINO! It’s everything I dig about Vegas – it’s got soul!

I spotted J.R. at one of the 3-Card Poker tables and snuck up on him with the dummy, in a little dummy voice: “How-deeee! How ya doin’?” Oh my God, the whole table went nuts! J.R. was playing with a table full of big fat good-ole-boy types, and they just went absolutely apeshit over this dummy – especially when J.R. insisted on bankrolling $100 hands for the dummy, too!! I sat there at the table with this ventriloquist’s dummy perched on my lap, his little plastic dummy hands on the table, and J.R. placed bets for both himself AND the dummy!

The best part was, once the dummy hit the table, everyone started winning! It was like he was good luck. All the players started calling him Charlie, high-fiving him and talking to him in high-pitched baby-talk voices. These were grown-ass good-ole-boy MEN, by the way! Charlie himself had a few lucky hands, winning a few hundred dollars and attracting alllllllll kinds of attention. All the waitresses wanted to talk to him, and passers-by took his photo (“No one is going to believe I saw a dummy playing poker!”). Even the pit boss came over to make sure Charlie was old enough to be in the casino!! LOL!  

I was actually surprised no one said anything about this creepy plastic dummy sitting at the poker table… he could have had a video camera inside or something! I can’t imagine Joe Pesci allowing this to take place in “Casino.” But no one in that old-school joint seemed to care. It was great! They even let us take plenty of photos, which I thought was a no-no in casino pits. Everyone was just dying of laughter…which is usually the case when J.R. and I hang out.

Well, as always, the good times only lasted until the money ran out (J.R. is a canny gambler and never goes over his self-imposed limit)…so after we left the table, we went around taking photos of Charlie in various spots around the hotel.  J.R. was absolutely enamored of that dummy, and started talking about buying one for himself! He’s the type of guy who buys everything he wants, so I’m sure it won’t be long before he has a dummy of his own. Crazy!

But after drinking five Bailey’s on the rocks and hanging out in the casino til almost midnight, it was time to put Charlie away. The very next day, after giving J.R. a ride to the airport, I packed him up in a backpack, papoose-style, with just his creepy dummy head peeking out, and rode my bike downtown to my friend’s studio to return him. I was kinda sad to see the creepy little fucker go – I had so much fun toting him around.

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The Continuing Adventures of Wonderhussy, Nude Model of the Mojave Desert

I did a photo shoot the other day with one of my favorite photographers, Michael Maze (modelmayhem.com/1314093). We always create some seriously fucked-up shit when we collaborate…like the photo at left, which I call Power Tool.

Before our shoot, I went through my immense walk-in closet, which is chock-full of costumes and props, and came up with some crazy outfits for the shoot (when shooting with Maze, the weirder the better).

He hasn’t finished editing the photos yet, but he did send me the one to the right….in which I’m wearing a wig I bought at this fabulous drag queen wig shop on Hollywood Blvd., and an old-timey 1960s Day-Glo Jantzen bathing suit I bought at a thrift store in San Jose, CA one time about 15 years ago. I knew I hung onto it for a reason!

My plan is to wear that fucked-up ensemble to Wet Republic this summer, and freak out all the ‘roided out douchebags and plastic Vegas bimbos in their barely-there Ed Hardy bikinis. Fuck ’em all, I say!

Anyhoo, the next day I had planned another photo shoot with another one of my favorite photogs, Rising Phoenix Studios (modelmayhem.com/497602). This guy is a NUT — he is originally from Georgia, but grew up in Australia…so his nearly-incomprehensible accent is somewhere between Crocodile Dundee and Boomhauer from King of Hill. Hard to understand, but an awesome photographer!

I picked him up and drove him out to one of my favorite secret shooting locations, about an hour outside Vegas. Just between us, the place is called Cathedral Canyon… a shrine some guy built to his dead daughter in a little canyon out in the middle of nowhere.

Back in the day when he first built it, the canyon was fully wired and strung with colored lights. Religious statues filled the canyon, and an Astroturf-covered suspension bridge hung high overhead. People used to come out here for parties all the time…but the man died years ago, and the place has crumbled into a sort of creepy disrepair. PERFECT for shooting weird, artsy photos!

Unfortunately, the weather was UNSEASONABLY cold that day…which kinda put the kibosh on our shoot. It’s hard to look sexy and serene when you are buck-ass-naked, shivering and trying not to look at the snow-covered, fog-shrouded mountains in the distance!

Anyway, we got some bad-ass photos…and despite the miserable chill in the air, it was fun to get out of town and explore the desert a little. I’ve done my fair share of exploring these parts, and I know where a lot of really cool stuff is… but there are still a million interesting things to discover out there in the Mojave that I haven’t stumbled upon.

Case in point: after my shoot, I met up with a new friend who told me about the coolest adventure EVER! I can’t believe I never heard about this.

So apparently, back in 1942 there was a terrible plane crash on Mt. Potosi, northwest of Vegas near the little town of Goodsprings. The actress Carole Lombard was aboard the plane, and her husband, Hollywood legend Clark Gable, rushed to Goodsprings to drink in silent misery for three days at the Pioneer Saloon, awaiting word from the search-and-rescue teams.

Everyone onboard the DC-9 aircraft had perished in the crash, and Clark Gable eventually went back to Hollywood, heartbroken and despondent. But the Pioneer Saloon, which is still open for business, has become a sort of museum dedicated to the plane crash. If you go there, after ordering a beer you can read all kinds of articles and look at photos and memorabilia of all those involved in the crash.

The Pioneer Saloon is about 45 minutes south of Vegas via Interstate 15-South (turn off at Jean and head west). It’s a popular bike run, so you might see a lot of bikers out there. Aside from the bar, there’s not much to the town…just a bunch of rusted-out old buildings.

Anyway, this new friend of mine was out there one time, and the owner of the Pioneer Saloon mentioned that he would sure like to have one of the DC-9 engines from the crash site…and that he’d be willing to pay $5000 to anyone who could bring it to him!

Because the crash site is in a very rugged, inaccessible place atop Mt. Potosi, most of the wreckage is still sitting right where it landed on the day of the crash. Most (but not all) of the human remains have been removed, but for the most part the whole plane is still there, rusting away in the desert sun.

Now, there are no trail maps describing how to get there. There’s not even a real trail for some of the way! But hungry for the $5,000 bounty, my friend spend the next six Sundays hiking around those mountains, searching for the lost engine. Just when he had given up, on the sixth Sunday, he found the wreckage!

Unfortunately, the DC-9 engine weighed about 700 pounds…so he and his friend were only able to flip it over once in an attempt to roll it down the cliff. It was too heavy to move, and its location is so inaccessible that even the helicopter pilots he asked said they’d be unwilling to try and haul it out. They did recommend some badass Army helicopter pilots who might be able to do it…but their price would be pretty high, making the $5000 bounty not worth it.

Damn!! It sucks knowing there is an easy 5 grand sitting up on Mt. Potosi, waiting for anyone badass enough to get it. I can’t figure out a way to retrieve the engine myself, so I’ve given up and moved onto another related mystery at the site.

Apparently, Carole Lombard’s gold-and-diamond wedding ring was never recovered from the crash site! Somewhere in the wreckage, or in the surrounding desert, a beautiful vintage diamond ring awaits discovery. Wouldn’t that be AWESOME to find that ring???! I bet you could sell it for some serious coin!!

I can’t wait to get out to Mt. Potosi and start looking!!!!!

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Friday the 13th

Last Friday the 13th I got a DUI (more on which in a later post). THIS Friday the 13th, I was barrelling down the Interstate at 75mph on my way to an infomercial audition, when one of my tires blew out! (Next Friday the 13th, don’t let me anywhere near my truck!)

I was able to pull over safely to the left shoulder and call AAA. It was a really hot and humid day, so I didn’t want to sit in the truck and wait. Instead, I got out and leaned on the dividing wall, basking in the noise and pollution of a thousand Porsches racing toward Henderson. Douchebags!

Because I had on my trusty pink hot pants, help arrived in no time. A kid in a mohawk pulled over first, and then the AAA tow truck arrived. As the AAA guy was changing my tire for me, the Nevada Freeway Service Patrol pulled up. This is a FREE service they offer to any stranded motorist — really cool! They cruise up and down the freeways of Vegas and Reno all day long, looking for stranded drivers to help. Good to know our tax dollars are being put to good use, at least in one arena!

Once my spare tire was on, I started the looooong drive back across town to my neighborhood Big O, to get a new tire. Because I was traveling on the spare “donut,” I could only go about 45 mph max…so I had to take surface streets. And because it was Friday afternoon in Vegas, the traffic was miserable. Thank goodness, some wacko called me on the way and diverted my attention.

I had answered an ad on Craigslist that morning looking for women who “like to laugh.” Well, I *LOVE* to laugh (who doesn’t?), so I submitted my info. Apparently, the International School of Laughter was having some sort of event in Vegas that they needed laughing women for, and it paid $100. Just my kind of odd gig!

So now my cell rings and it’s this weird, creepy-sounding man. “Helloooo, this is ____. You answered our ad on craigslist about laughing?” After exchanging pleasantries, this man went on to ask if I liked to laugh. “Yes, of course!” Then he wanted to know if I was ticklish. “Yes… of course!” Next he asked if my FEET were ticklish. “Uhhh….yes… of course!”

By this time I had him figured for a foot pervert, and I think I was correct in that he spent the next THIRTY MINUTES asking me how I would feel in various scenarios: “What if you were wearing nylon stockings? Would your feet be more ticklish?” “What if you were wearing socks?” “What if your feet were bare?”

To be honest, I’ve done a few tickle fetish videos, and my feet really AREN’T that ticklish (my ribs are another story). But I told this weird man that yes, they were ticklish as hell! Anything for a buck!!

“Goooood! You’ll be perfect!” This man had an unsettling habit of giggling at the end of every sentence. I pictured him short and fat and bald and creepy…that’s how he sounded. “Now let me ask you what you would do if you entered a room, and there was a partition in the middle with holes in it. And various people had their feet poking through the holes. Would you enjoy tickling them?”

Now I figured he was hiring for some kind of perverted tickle party. Sounded OK to me! “Yeah, sure. I’d tickle them for at LEAST 20 minutes!”

“Gooooood! Tee hee hee! And what if some of the feet had on nylons… and some were bare. Which would you tickle first? And what if you had a feather duster? And what if they wanted to tickle YOU? Tee hee hee!”

This guy went on and on and on, and I figured he must be jerking off or something. But I was raised to be polite, so I let him ramble on. But even my considerably extensive patience wore thin after 30 minutes. And besides, I had finally arrived at my destination. I need to get my tire changed!

“Listen, let’s cut to the chase. Are you having a tickle party, and if so, am I hired or what?”

He gave me some bullshit story about the International School of Laughter coming to town and that he’d be in touch with me early next week. He never really answered my question…just said he’d call me back next week. Yeah, I bet!! So he can jerk off some more!

When I got home, I Googled the “International School of Laughter…” and come to find out, there really IS one! And they DO have these weird tickle parties.
And here I thought I was just being jerked around by some pervert. Although I did go to their official site, and there was no mention of a Vegas laugh-in.

So maybe I WAS just being jerked around. We’ll see! Hopefully he calls me back, and it turns out to be true…because that would just be awesome.

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No wonder my neighbors think I’m a godless shiksa…

Last month I answered an ad on craigslist placed by a Canadian photojournalist looking for local gun owners to photograph.

I’m not a gun nut, but I do own a 9mm Sig for personal protection. (In case you’re wondering, I named it Rutger Hauer, der Sig Sauer. It has come in handy over the years, like the time some pervert broke into my apartment here in Vegas and stole all my underwear. No kidding.)

The photojournalist was the fabulous and inimitable Ben Philippi (www.benphilippi.com), and he came over to my house for the shoot. He brought with him a bag full of red-white-n-blue stripperwear, including this micro-monokini. This thing was so tiny as to be useless, but with the help of some clothing tape and a few whacks with the razor, I was good to go.

Interestingly, my gun isn’t even in any of these photos. Hmmmm…

Anyhoo, Ben is a super cool guy and he got a lot of amazing photos of me. We shot some stuff in my bedroom, but then he had me go outside into this empty lot next to my house, where I frolicked about in my micromonokini, waving the stars & stripes for all to see.

I didn’t really give a shit what my neighbors thought — I live in a weird, old-school neighborhood with no HOA (thank dog); one of those neighborhoods where people have old school buses, tanning beds and swimming pools in their front yards (yes, one of my neighbors’ pool — which is empty — is in the FRONT yard, in plain view of the street. And another neighbor has a tanning bed on his front porch. That kinda kookiness would never fly in Summerlin!).

But there is also a sizeable population of Hasidic Jews who live in my ‘hood. Even in the thick of the miserable, brain-searing Vegas summer heat, you’ll see them walking to temple on Shabbat, in full Hasidic dress — black wool hat, black wool overcoat, black wool underwear (for all I know). That’s hardcore!

They’re kind of clannish, to be honest, so I haven’t made friends with any of them…except for the autistic son of a doctor who lives down the street. This kid is about 30 and sounds and acts just like Rainman. He always wears a fedora and bowtie, and he’s the only one of the whole lot who ever bothers to say hi.  He has wished me “Good Shabbas” many a time on his way to the temple.

But the rest of ’em probably think I’m a godless shiksa. I wonder why??!! One time, I went to this raging Burning Man party out at one of the dry lake beds in the area, and it was a really windy night. So windy, in fact, that my pop-up camper (in which I was to spend the night) blew over! (It gets really windy here in Vegas…that night, the gusts were up to about 75mph!)

My friend was sleeping in the camper at the time, but he was so wasted that he didn’t even wake up when the damn thing blew over! We had to wake him up, excavate him from the wreckage, and then prop up the remains of the trailer and try to crank it back down (a pop-up camper operates like a Jack-in-the-Box).

Unfortunately, the jacking struts were irreparably bent, so I had to drive back into town like the Beverly Hillbillies, 20 mph all the way with the busted pop-up still open, swaying to-and-fro. NOT very glamorous!

I got home about 8am and stood in my driveway, hungover and still clad in my gold spandex pants and white chicken-feather jacket from the night before, ruefully surveying the damage. As I contemplated my options, a gaggle of Hasidim passed on their way to synagogue. I could just FEEL their disapproving stares boring holes into the back of my bedraggled, vodka-drenched chicken feather jacket.


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