The Goombah Squad and Lesbian Prom

 

The other night at work, as I photographed the 100,000th quivering Quebecois quaking with desire beside that godawful Sally Dingdong mannequin, I finally snapped. “THIS LEVEL OF HUBRIS CANNOT BE ALLOWED TO GO UNCHECKED!!!!” I screeched, wild-eyed and hanging on to sanity by the barest of threads. I grabbed my phone, called in my goombah squad and we took the fuckin’ thing out to the desert, where it will never traumatize another Vegas showgoer. You can thank me later!

After bashing in the mannequin’s face with a baseball bat and then unceremoniously burying it in a pit north of town, I ran off down the road with an American flag waving behind me: “FREE AT LAST! FREE AT LAST! THANK DOG ALMIGHTY, I HAVE FINALLY DRIVEN THE FRENCH FROM NEVADA!”

Then I woke up 🙁

Actually, I’ve  been TRYING to have wacky adventures lately, but it’s tough because I am also in the middle of a big ole fucked-up mess that I can’t talk about. Nothing life-threatening, but a mess nonetheless that’s been taking up pretty much every waking moment of my life since around Christmas. I left the lesbians in those hot springs and basically dove straight into a pit of shit, in which I’ve been struggling/wallowing/scuba diving for the last 4 weeks. If I could only TALK about it, I’d feel better…but this is one of those rare things in my life that must wait to be shared.

In the meantime, I just sorta hung around Vegas, photographing tourists at the show and doing odd modeling gigs on the side. I did a few scavenger hunts, and then a photographer friend of mine came to town and hired me for two days of shooting out in the desert. Always good times!

 

This photographer had a really cool idea for a sort of prom-night shoot out in the desert. He had me rent a tux for one of my model girlfriends and then we all drove out to a secret location and shot this sort of surreal sequence he’d dreamed up. The weather actually cooperated, so it was around 65 degrees and mostly sunny that day…a bonus for me, as he also shot some nudes of me, and it’s never fun to sit around naked outside when it’s cold!

I posted a fake lesbian-wedding announcement on my Facebook page, just to see how many I could fool…but the only comment I really got was, “Black dress! How edgy!” (Really……do you expect me to qualify for a WHITE one?! I’m so sooty with sin that black is the only color I could wear without the church being smitten by a wrath-infused lightning bolt thrown by the hand of Jebus.)

Anyhoo, we shot all afternoon and it was a great day. The photographer was a guy I shot with once back at that nude ghost town thing I did last July. At the time, I had gotten the impression that he and his wife (a fellow model) were swingers…but now I think they’re just cool people. I felt bad, because the poor guy had booked three or four other models for shoots while he was in town…and they ALL FLAKED!

I just don’t get it, girls — this is a really nice, classy guy who is willing to PAY YOU for modeling…and you flake?! Must be nice to have that kind of financial freedom. I hear this over and over from photographers — models are soooo flaky, that even with a paid assignment half the time they’re no-shows. WEIRD!

Not me. I’m a pro! Even though I woke up at 7AM (!!!that’s my only beef with this photog; he insisted on an 8:30am call time) the next morning to a blustery, rainy day with winds up to 60mph…I still plastered on makeup and readied myself for a FREEZING shoot up on Mount Charleston. Thankfully, the other model flaked (another one!), so the photog decided to bail on the mountain and just shoot arty stuff in his hotel room. Muuuuuuch easier!

Meanwhile, speaking of modeling, I got embroiled in a holy mess with one of my good photographer friends. This is the first guy I really shot with, and I was the first model HE had really shot with one-on-one , so we kinda bonded. I have modeled for him many, many times for FREE — we were both learning, you know? He very graciously gave me a Nikon D-80 for my time, which was really generous of him (at the time he was flying high financially…one of those guys who decides to become a photographer, then goes out and buys every piece of expensive gear he can find….in the intervening few years, he ended up filing BK and is basically destitute, to hear him talk). And he paid me twice for shoots (once up at Zion, when he literally threw the money at me across the table because he was grumpy that our shoot hadn’t gone well…he’s a grumpy kinda guy, but I learned to just kinda take it with a grain of salt, because otherwise he’s pretty cool).

Anyhoo, a lot of models around town (and photogs, too) can’t handle this guy’s personality, but I am a pretty passive person and can take quite a bit of verbal abuse. Besides, like I told you this guy can be suuuuper cool, and takes great photos, too. But he definitely has a chip on his shoulder when it comes to models — he’s been flaked on a time or ten, so it’s understandable to an extent. But one of his beefs is that models are the only ones benefiting from photography — we use the pics to get work at conventions and whatnot, but meanwhile the photogs hardly ever get ANY work. It’s true, too — there are something like 10 photographers to every person in Vegas, and you can’t expect there to be enough weddings and Valentine’s boudoir shoots for ALL of them to make a living.

My personal belief is that Model Mayhem (the site we all use, a photography networking site) is basically for amateurs. A photographer can find amateur models (like myself) on there, as opposed to going to an agency and hiring Gisele Bundchen for $30,000 a day. Meanwhile, a model can get good quality photos for free, by collaborating with the photographers on the site…but you ain’t gonna get discovered by Francesco Scavullo or anything.

Basically, neither party is gonna make much money off Model Mayhem. But at least with modeling, you can make SOME money posing for hobbyists and the occasional traveling photog who actually knows what he’s doing. I do a fair amount of shoots, but realistically I probably only make around $3000 a year from modeling. The rest comes from writing, shooting fetish videos, dumbass promotions…and photographing creepy mannequins. The fact of the matter is, I am NOT Gisele Bundchen…but I feel like I’m a great value for what I do charge.

I tried to explain to my photog friend that his customer base shouldn’t be models — I’ve seen a lot of guys get into shooting so they can charge models for headshots and whatnot. In my experience, most models don’t pay…there’s too much TF (trade) work out there. If they DO pay, it’s usually to an established guy who’s often on retainer with an agency. IMO, my photog friend’s REAL customer base is civilians, so to speak — non-models who just want glamour shots, family portraits, pet photos, boudoir pics, etc. This might sound piss poor, but again — MY customer base isn’t professional fashion photographers, either! You don’t hear me sitting around bitching that Helmut Newton won’t pay me… I just sack up and eat a jar of pickles, or whatever whoever’s paying me wants me to do (as in the pic below…do you really think Cindy Crawford would do this shit?!).

It’s a contentious subject with many photographers, and my friend was bent out of shape over it…plus, his dire financial situation has doubtless been bothering him, so he was extra-grumpy. On top of it all, he found some bozo using one of his pics of me to sell comic books online, and he got in a royal tizzy over it. (The pic has since been taken down due to his lawsuit threats.) He let me know in NO UNCERTAIN TERMS that any and all photos he’s taken of me belong to HIM, and I can only use them for self-promotional purposes. Indeed, he always had me sign a “Limited-Use Agreement” release, but my dumb ass assumed that if MY usage rights were limited, then so were his. Apparently not — he told me that his release provides for HIM to do whatever he wants with the pics, but I can’t.

My understanding of this was all wrong. I thought that if a photographer PAID me, I relinquished rights. Likewise, if I were to pay a photographer, then I would have the rights. I assumed that in a collaboration scenario, where both parties are working for free, then both parties have the same rights. WRONG!!!

Several photographers told me that no matter what, THE PHOTOGRAPHER HOLDS THE COPYRIGHT to the photo. So unless I get photographers to sign off the rights to me, I can never, ever make any money off my photos. D’OH!!!!!

This sucks for many reasons, mostly because I’m a broke hack who needs cash. I don’t mind shooting with photogs who PAY me — I will gladly pose nude for you all day long, and happily surrender all rights to you if I am being PAID. But if I’m donating my time (not just shooting time — an average of 2 hours prep, plus travel time, makeup and hair costs, countless hours at the gym and use of my extensive wardrobe)…I feel like it’s kind of assy to insist that I can’t use the pics for anything more than posting on my MM page and here. It truly sucks that I have sooooo many bad-ass photos, but I can’t do anything with them 🙁

Since I can’t afford to pay photogs, I guess my only option is to figure out a way to do self-portraits — like Cindy Sherman. Then I own everything about the G.D. image. My other option is to collaborate with an individual photographer, and come out with a calendar or book or something of pics taken by him alone. Then we can split the proceeds. I’ve actually discussed this with my friend Randy, a/k/a Shutterbug-Studio…and we’re planning to do it! I’d also like to do one with my friend Michael Maze. So watch out…..you never know!

Posted in fetish modeling, nude modeling | Tagged , , | 3 Comments

BURGLED! Plus gross endometrium pics!

Well, hell week is over. And it really was hell week – especially because at the end of it all, my truck was broken into, and the fruits of the entire fuckin’ week were stolen 🙁

As mentioned last week, CES was in town (the Consumer Electronics Show, a/k/a NerdCon 2012). This show has been coming to Vegas for over 30 years, and it’s the biggest trade show of the year – just about every bimbo in Vegas gets a gig working in one booth or another. As previously mentioned, I despise working trade shows, and the last couple of years I bailed on CES in favor of working the Adult Expo, which is held the same weekend and is way more fun.

This year, however, they scheduled the Adult Expo for the following weekend…so I was free to pimp myself out at CES L I really didn’t want to, but I need the cash pretty bad, so I took a gig working for a high-end audio company. I got the job through a photographer I once shot with, who was friends with these guys and arranged for me to work their exhibit.

The good news was, the high-end audio exhibits weren’t in the main convention center (which was a total zoo and a parking nightmare) but in some suites up at the Venetian. So instead of battling traffic, I was able to cruise right in every morning and head up to the 30th floor with relative ease. The bad news was, I was stuck standing in the hallway on the 30th floor…ALL DAY LONG, for 4 days. BOOOO-RING!

I was supposed to greet all the conference attendees as they walked by, and lure them into our suite with the promise of hearing some “really great tube audio.” WTF?! Tube Which? I had no idea what I was talking about, but over the course of the show I learned more about audio than I ever wanted to know. Apparently there are two types of amplifiers, tube and solid state (transistor)…and any audiophile worth his salt prefers the sound of the former to the latter. Trouble is, most equipment nowadays uses solid state technology, and tube amp systems are really expensive and pretty much the exclusive domain of audio snobs and old-time fanboys – which is what I dealt with all week. You know that nerdy comic book store guy on the Simpsons?! That’s the kind of guy who came to this part of the show.

The client had requested that I dress business-sexy, so I’d gone to the mall and bought a few things in preparation – but then at the last minute I was told to channel Pippa Middleton, of all people, from the royal wedding (for those of you with a life, Pippa is the sister of Kate Middleton, who just married Prince William, and at their wedding she wore a very prim-yet-form-fitting dress that accentuated her “perfect” ass, and it was all over the tabloids for some dumb reason): “What was right about her dress? Nothing. What was wrong about her dress? Everything!”

Using these inexact guidelines, I cobbled together a few sexy-yet-classy-ish outfits, and was thusly positioned in front of the suite to lure in passing audio geeks. It was pretty easy work, since many of these guys had probably never spoken to a woman, and a simple, “Hey, come here” worked wonders on their submissive psyches.  Or maybe they were just genuinely intrigued by my promise of “high-end tube audio that sounds amazing!” Either way, it was like shooting fish in a barrel.

The company I was working for designs super-duper –mega-high-end tube audio gear; so high-end that the system they were displaying at the show cost something like $60,000! They make a $25,000 turntable, for Chrissake. Everything was designed by the founder, a kooky eccentric Englishman who has done audio systems for many British rock stars. This guy was a NUT! Super-tall, super-skinny, balding and liver-spotted, with a wispy gray Amish-style beard and the finest decaying English grill I’ve ever seen. He was/is SUPER smart and SUPER eccentric, and he was one of those really smart, kooky types who just don’t give a fuck. Apparently he’s a legend in the audio biz, so all week long star-struck apostles would stop by to shake his hand and kiss his ass. Meanwhile he stood around picking his nose without a care in the world, politely thanking them but not really giving a shit. He was AWESOME!

Anyhoo, I posted up outside the door to the suite allllll weeeeeek loooooong, until I thought surely my brain would atrophy and my feet would fall off from standing in high heels all day, every day. Even worse, my hours were 10am-6pm, and then I had to be at my photographer job across the street at another hotel by 6:15. I had to literally RUN down 30 flights of stairs to the casino level, then dodge and weave, Frogger-style, through hordes of conventioneers and drunks in the casino to the parking garage, then speed around the back way to Caesars Palace, where I then had to run down to THAT basement, get changed into my uniform, and go back up to work taking photos til 11pm. IT. WAS. EXHAUSTING!

To make matters worse, my sister was in town for the same convention (she has a legit job working for a tech company that exhibits at CES every year), and her husband came along because he’s never been to Vegas, so they wanted to hang out. At the same time, these crazy girlfriends of mine from Arkansas were also here for another show (they sell stun guns and bear spray, and were exhibiting at a hunting show that came in after CES), and they wanted to go out as well. And at the SAME time, a Spanish photographer friend had invited us all to dinner and a nightclub with him and his Swedish colleagues – but he wasn’t able to get dinner reservations until 10PM!!! So even though by Friday I was basically dead on my feet (seriously, I almost physically couldn’t get out of bed by Friday morning), I had to sack up, put on my happy face, and go party.

I finished the convention at 4pm on Friday, then met up with my sis and brother-in-law for some drinks and chit-chat over at the Cosmopolitan. They left to go to a show around 9pm, and I sort of hung around until 10pm, when I met up with the Spaniard, the Swedes and the Arkansawyers at TAO, this trendy, douchey Asian restaurant back at the Venetian. Everyone hit it off swimmingly, a good time was had by all, and afterward we all went over to one of the douchebaggiest nighclubs of them all, XS at the Wynn.

Now, as you probably know by now, I despise nightclubs. XS is a particular non-favorite, because they’re such exceptional assholes over there – the door staff is insufferably rude, the drink prices are exceptionally extortionary, and the clientele consists of hordes of desperate white guys hitting on whorey Asian girls. Before you accuse me of being racist, I’m just stating a fact: at least 70% of that club’s client base is Asian girls…and on this night, they were all wearing identical skintight bebe dresses, barefooted and sloppy drunk. Asian, white, whatever — I despise that club not for its clientele so much as its staff and its lameness. One time they yelled at us for even standing in front of the nightclub, as we dithered over whether or not we should pay the $20 cover to go in (I’m a walking vagina – you should be paying me to go into your club, assholes ! You’re just using me to attract guys anyway!!!). “You can’t stand here,” they told us – so we left. Fuck you, XS!

Aaaaaanyhoo, I was dragged back into this shithole last Friday, and it was OK at first – the Swedes had a table, so at least we were able to sit down. Sit?! I was basically forced into Party Mode, since I had to make sure my Arkansas girls were having fun, and the Swedes were having fun, and the Spaniard was having fun, and everyone was having FUNFUNFUN!  So even though it felt as though my feet were about to rot off at the ankle from fatigue and edema, I made myself get up on the table and dance, dance, dance on this lame stripper pole they had up there, just to set the mood and show everyone how much FUN I was having!

Meanwhile, I had to be up at 6:30am the next morning to meet these electricians I’d hired to do some work for me, so I was miserable. I just wanted to GO HOME TO BED! But every time I tried to leave, my one girlfriend started sulking, “Come on!! STAY! All you have to do is take photos tomorrow, big deal!” So I gritted my teeth and stayed — I felt obligated to party hearty. I hate that about myself – I’m a fucking people pleaser, even when it’s to the detriment of my health!

Finally, around 3am I had had ENOUGH, and left, despite the pleading and whining of my girlfriend. They ended up staying out til 6:30am, swilling Dom Perignon and shoving Adderall pills into the face of one of the poor Swedes. Listen people, I FUCKING LIVE HERE! DO YOU SERIOUSLY THINK I WANT TO BE PARTY TO YOUR DESPERATE EXCESSES?!?!?!?! (Well, sometimes, maybe… 🙂

So I dragged myself home and was unable to sleep as I awaited the electricians – who STOOD ME UP ANYWAY!!!!! Apparently they were sick, but the dispatcher forgot to call and tell me they weren’t coming. So I got up early for nothing L

Meanwhile through all this, I’m still on pins and needles waiting for my fucking bank to approve my short sale, so I can get the fuck out of my house! I found a new place to live (hence the electricians), but I don’t really wanna move until I’m free and clear of the other place. So it’s been a VERY stressful few weeks, and I haven’t been able to sleep for shit. My eyes are so swollen, wrinkly and puckered up they look like two assholes, and my face broke out like a 13-year old. It’s bad. I have never lived through a period like this.

THEN, to make matters worse, I was ROBBED! This was the icing on the cake, and I’ll admit I sobbed like a little bitch when it happened – it was the final straw, and it was too much to handle.

I had been out running errands all day, preparing for my eventual move, and I ended up having to go straight to work from there. I had a bunch of crap I was carrying around with me, so before I went in to work I cleaned out my bag and left some stuff in my truck, rather than carry it around with me all night. I took out my sweaty gym shoes and socks, stuffed them in a cardboard box on my passenger seat,  and also left behind an old notebook I had rubber-banded together with some receipts and stuff. Then I went in to work.

That night it was a special benefit show to raise money for Sickle Cell Anemia research, so the show started and hour late and I didn’t get out til midnight. When I went out to my truck in the parking garage, I found that someone had broken in and stolen my stuff!!!

Now, if you’ve ever seen the Caesars Palace parking garage, you know that it’s ginormous and nasty. Other garages, like those of the Wynn, Bellagio, and other upscale properties get regularly power-washed, and are policed or patrolled. Well, I don’t think the Caesars garage has ever been power-washed — the floors are filthy, coated in piss, vomit, motor oil and amniotic fluids. There have been shootings in there, and I’m sure more than one baby has been conceived within its hallowed confines. Nevertheless, I’ve been parking there for 8 years without incident, so I never really think twice about it.

But this night, some FUCKING ASSWAD had gotten into my truck (due to my insane stress levels, I must have left the door unlocked – or maybe they jimmied it open, I don’t know; there was no damage). At first, all I found missing was my Breathalyzer (which cost $300, dammit!!!! I bought it because I got a DUI last year, and I’m not taking any chances) and this old 1940s Samsonite overnight case I carry around in my truck with spare panties, bikini, flip-flops, etc. Whatever – I was pissed about the Breathalyzer, but could definitely live without the suitcase.

But then I realized my notebook was missing, too – and then it hit me. I had over $1100 in cash in that fucking notebook!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I’d stashed all the money I’d earned working all those miserable gigs all week in between the pages, because I hadn’t had time to get to the bank yet. I NEVER carry that much cash around with me, but if I do, I keep it on my person – I certainly don’t leave it in my car. But I’ve been so tired and stressed lately, I forgot – and some fucking asshole took advantage of me and STOLE IT ALL L L L

So I basically worked my fucking feet down to the nubs all week for nothing.  It’s allllllllllll gone.

I broke down weeping, from fatigue, desperation, sadness and hopelessness. Will I ever get ahead in this fucked-up world?! I drove around the parking garage in a panic, tears streaming down my face as I searched all the trash cans and dumpsters in the area. My hope was that, once they’d seen there was nothing but dirty old clothes in the suitcase, maybe they’d chucked it along with the beat-up old rubber-banded notebook.

No such luck. I looked ALL OVER the place, even across the street and in the alley by the train tracks – nothing. I went back and filed an incident report with Caesars security, but they were no help – of course there were no security cameras in that shitty garage. It was hopeless.

The next day I woke up with my eyes so swollen shut from crying, I looked like I had Down’s Syndrome. Still, I glopped on some makeup and went down to the police station to report the burglary…just in case they find something out. I doubt it, but whatever. I’m supposed to call back in ten days and follow up, but I’m sure nothing will come of it. I’ll never get my Breathalyzer or my money back, and that’s a sad fuckin’ fact.

My only hope is that at least the stolen money went to a good cause – maybe someone needed to feed their kids or something. Probably not, though – I’ll bet it was some half-witted cholo thug who used it to buy Playstation games, weed and Olde Engligh. ASSHOLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

If I ever find out who did this, I am going to tie the motherfucker down and FLAY HIS BALLS. I will peel back the delicate skin on the nutsack, pin it to his groin like I’m dissecting a frog in high school biology class, then go in with an X-acto knife and carve the Ten Commandments into his gonads. I realize his testes will be far too small to contain all this text, and will probably get shredded like carnitas in the process, so when that happens I’ll scoop the mess out, mush it up like pate and spread it on toast…and make him eat it! Then I’ll stuff decaying dollar-store tuna fish into the empty cavities, sew him back up, tie him to a tree and call in a pack of hungry pit bulls to finish him off.

Fucker!

The worst part is, last week as I was rushing around town running moving-related errands, some old lady ran right into the side of my truck! I roll around in a beat-up old landscaping truck, which is already so banged up and dented that I don’t really care if I hit something or someone hits me. I got out of my truck, assessed the damage, and waved her away: “Don’t worry about it! Just do a good deed for someone else down the road. And maybe I’ll get some good karma from this.”

HAH! There’s no fuckin’ thing as karma…it’s just a crutch, to help people get through the misery of our nasty, brutish and short lives…somewhat akin to the whole Christian thing about the meek and the poor. IT’S ALL BULLSHIT, PEOPLE – fed to you by your oppressive overlords, so you won’t complain while they’re fucking your wife and taking the food from your children’s mouths. They promise you a bullshit afterlife, or a divine system of checks and balances that is TOTALLY FAKE. Wake up! I’m an atheist myself, but I still live my life by the Golden Rule: treat others as you’d be treated. I do this not because I’m afraid I’ll roast in hell or end up reincarnated as a turd…I do it because that’s how I roll. I don’t need an excuse…I’m just good for goodness’s sake. Which is more than I can say for the half-baked twat who broke into my truck – I’m willing to bet it was a gang banger or some other superstitious thug who doubtless considers himself a believer. The irony!

Aaaaaaaaaaaaanyhoo, I’m trying to get over it, because a) I have no choice, b) I have another busy week ahead. I was supposed to work the Adult Expo, but that fell through — a friend of mine (well OK, really a half-assed lounge singer/jackass/ne’er-do-well who’s been storing shit in my garage for YEARS without paying me more than $20, and who had the BALLS to write on my garage door “KEEP DOOR LOCKED” [I had a habit of leaving my side door unlocked, since I store nothing of value in there, and apparently he didn’t like that, since he has all this extremely valuable CRAP in there like papers and 1980s Dave Coulier-type shirts])…anyway, THAT guy called me a few weeks ago saying he was hired by some “big time” porn producer from L.A. to film some kind of stupid amateur webcam stuff, and the guy needed a couple girls to walk around the Expo handing out fliers. Because I know a lot of models, my friend asked if I could round up a few more girls to submit to his “big time porn producer” so he could pick who he liked. Well, he ended up picking some of my referrals…and not me!!!! WTF! He’ll be fucking sorry when those beat-up hags roll in. Caveat Emptor, douchebag!

It doesn’t matter anyway – I’m already booked for photo shoots on Friday and Saturday, and then on Sunday I have another gig anyway. So fuck it! I’ll make that stolen $1100 back in no time…without the help of an unemployed asshole in an Uncle Joey shirt.

One last thing: through all this, to make matters worse, I was on my period! I was bitching about having to hide my tampon string for a nude photo shoot, when one of my friends suggested I try the Instead cup – a little plastic cup you jam up your junk to catch the effluvia sloughing off the walls of your uterus. It can be worn up to 12 hours, and most are washable and re-usable. And to think, all this time I’ve been stuffing a piece of cotton bleached with carcinogens up there… these cups are supposedly made of medical-grade silicone, so they are a safe alternative.

I had some free samples from last year’s Adult Expo, but I’d been too weirded out to try them until now. The ones I got are called Instead SoftCups, and they are designed to be worn during sex, so that porn stars don’t have to take time off when they’re on their periods. I guess it fits up under your cervix, out of harm’s way even when a 15” cock is ramming your innards like a chocolate molcajete. Nice!

In the interest of science, I tried one out the second day of my period. And I’m here to tell you: it works exactly as advertised! I didn’t try the sex part (I haven’t had sex since the Sgt. Peanut fiasco back in September), but I wore it all day, for around 12 hours, and it was great. Very easy to insert, and no mess to remove…although it was kinda weird having to reach up inside my vagina to fish it out. But definitely doable – the samples I had were meant to be disposable, so I plan to go online and get a Luna Cup or one of the reusable brands. Let’s hear it for innovation!!!!!!!!!!

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | 13 Comments

Booth Babe Season and Crazy Corporate Shenanigans

I don’t have a whole lot  to report, because I’ve been sick with a cold and have had to stay home and lay low, instead of running around the sewers naked in the middle of the night, like last week (could there be a correlation?). But speaking of that, here are a few awesome pics from the shoot.

Vagina Dentata, baby!!! This was SO worth getting sick over 🙂 I love the way she painted my Yoni to look like the vicious, cock-biting monster it truly is. Uh oh, my secret’s out — there goes my sex life! Anyway, this was the first time I’ve had my clitoris painted…and
I must say, it was interesting!

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaanyhoo, the fun and games are all over — this past week was all about packing for my move (boo!), and the upcoming week’s all about work. Aside from my souvenir photography gig, next week I am also working as a booth hostess for some super-high-end audio company (they sell a $25,000 turntable, LOL) at my most loathed of all conventions, CES (that’s the Consumer Electronics Show, for those of you who actually have a life).

I despise working conventions. If you’ve never been to one, it’s basically a cavernous room, chilled to about minus 25 degress Celsius, blasted with harsh fluorescent light and lined with temporary booths staffed by Willy Loman types desperately hawking some shitty product or service to the hordes of badge-wearing industry-folk ambling blindly up and and down the aisles. DEPRESSING!

Sometime in the last 30 or 40 years, some genius came up with the idea of hiring hot gash to stand in front of his booth, thus attracting ten times more bored convention-goers than his cheap Chinese widgets would on their own. An industry model was born, and now you can’t hardly go to a trade show without being accosted by all manner of bleach-brained bimbos in slutty businesswoman costumes at every corner. It’s ridiculous!

I lived in Vegas for 6 years before I worked up the balls to try my hand at being a “booth model.” Before that, I assumed that to be a “model,” one had to be tall, big-titted and drop-dead gorgeous. I didn’t realize that any half-baked hag with a vagina and a waist-cincher could do it! I swear, some of the girls I’ve worked with at these things were beasts (externally…internally, they were almost ALL beasts). I myself only get booked for about one out of 5 shows I apply for…so I have to wonder how these nasty-ass ho’s are getting these gigs. I assume they have expertly PhotoShopped pictures (most of the hiring is done through agencies, based off photos). Caveat Emptor, convention clients! Meet your model in person before hiring!!!

To be a convention model/booth babe/tradeshow hostess, you need 3 things: the aforementioned flattering headshot, a slutty business costume, and a high tolerance for drudgery, sexual harassment and bullshit. If you’re still with me, your next step is to sign up with as many local modeling agencies as possible — here in Vegas, all agency contracts are non-exclusive, meaning you can sign on with as many as you wish. Sometimes a certain agency has the contract for an entire show — meaning that all models hired must come from their books…which is good news for D-listers like me, who finally get some scrapings after the agency exhausts their A-roster. But usually, it’s a free-for-all.

If you don’t feel like joining an agency (they negotiate your breaks and pay, but they also sometimes take 10-20% of your day rate), you can freelance. I’ve gotten quite a few gigs on craigslist, One Model Place and Model Mayhem. When craigslist first launched in Vegas, no one really used it, so there was virtually no competition for gigs. But now, everyone goes on craigslist…and it’s driven down the rates! All your average douche-kit wholesaler need do is post a semi-literate ad on craigslist offering $10 an hour “plus free lunch,” and his inbox will be flooded within 24 hours with photos of scraggly-extensioned, orange-complected whores, all vying for his magnificent paycheck. PLEASE!

It’s really funny what these bargain-basement A-holes ask for, too: “MUST BE BILINGUAL IN FRENCH AND KAZAKH, 7’5″ OR TALLER WITH A MINIMUM GGG CUP. $9 per hour plus free gropes.” Seriously! I wonder who these idiots end up hiring. $9/hour?!

Now, I know it sounds exceedingly petulant to grip about making $9/hour when there are Chinese peasants making 1000 iPods a day for 33cents.  But let’s just consider the market here. First of all, I know exhibitors at these expos are shelling out beaucoup bucks already — the convention hall charges them for everything from floor space to carpet to chairs and even the wastebasket. But hiring a booth model actually SAVES them money, because now they have to pay to fly one less employee out, pay for one less hotel room, etc. So you wouldn’t think they’d begrudge paying a little more than minimum wage — especially when they’re demanding “model” looks.

So, what is an appropriate wage? The average is between $250-400 for an 8 hour day. At least, that used to be the average before the cheapasses and dumbasses on Craigslist fucked it up for everyone. Now you see plenty of ads offering $100 or $125/8 hours. But most respectable agencies pay in the $250-400 range. And clients, if you’re THAT fuckin’ cheap…Sapphire strip club offers FREE booth models (seriously, they send over some of their dancers in “businesswear” to work your booth — for FREE! But again, Caveat Emptor…there’s a reason those strip clubs aren’t lit with bright fluorescent lights).

For this upcoming CES, I got the gig through a photographer I shot with once, and it’s paying only $200/day. Weak! I almost turned it down, because I can make that flashing my beaver for 2 hours, and have a lot more fun. But I’m kinda hard up for money right now, so I said yes. I’ll be sorry I did when I’m getting up at 6am every day next week! Bah!!!

It’s not just the getting up early, it’s the freezing your tits off because it’s 40 degrees in there and you’re wearing little more than a pinstriped thong. It’s the draining effect of standing on your feet under fluorescent lights all day, listening to dead-eyed salarymen bleat corporate-speak platitudes…and then having to smile and respond wittily to their half-baked come-ons. And it’s having to do all this in HIGH HEELS! Did I mention these shows run for 8 or 9 HOURS?!

Now to be fair, there were one or two shows I worked that were pretty sweet. One CES I worked for Netgear, and they let me wear a little Netgear sweater and sit on my fat ass behind a little Netgear desk all day. Another year I worked the Nightclub & Bar show for some media company, but all we did was cruise around and get free samples of booze all day, every day. But the best was this one time I worked the Adult Entertainment Expo.

The AEE (or porn convention, as it’s more commonly called) is usually held at the same time as CES, so that all the tech dorks can sneak a peek before going back home to Mommy, Junior and Little Susie. For the last two years, I bailed on CES in favor of AEE (this year for some reason, they moved AEE to the weekend following CES…so I can work both). Anyhoo, the first year I worked AEE I got the gig on craigslist — it was for Christian Audigier Condoms — a line of ultra-premium condoms made from the finest Malaysian latex (come to find out, there really is a latex tree, and it grows best in Malaysia). The guy running the company was a Beverly Hills rich kid stoner who basically just licensed the Christian Audigier name — the condoms had nothing to do with Ed Hardy or anything.

The Beverly Hills Stoner (or BHS) wasn’t even really interested in selling condoms — I think he just started the company to get booth space at the porn show. What he was REALLY interested in was this screenplay he was writing, which he kept in one of those old-time composition books. I peeked in it once when he went to the bathroom, and it was excruciating! Anyway, I think he hired me because of my ass — he was obsessed with asses, and every afternoon after we got high we would go over to the Elegant Angel booth to stare at Alexis Texas, the ginormous-assed porn star who was signing autographs over there. Yes that’s right, I said after we got high — every afternoon, after lunch, he would invite me out behind the convention center to smoke a joint. We’d be standing there on the corner of Koval Lane and Sands Ave, puffing away, me in a bikini and platforms. Nice! Who was watching over the booth during all this, you ask? Why, Mom and Dad, of course — inexplicably, his ancient Jewish Mother and Father had come along to the show, and were constantly fussing with him.

When not getting high on the streetcorner, my job duties were limited to lying on this bed they had set up in the booth, and posing for photos with showgoers. Every once in awhile, if I wanted to, I could hand out some condom samples and tell people about how ultra-premium the Malaysian latex was…but it wasn’t really necessary. Now, THAT was a sweet gig! The BHS even introduced me to Larry Flynt, plus I got my photo taken with Evan Stone and Corey Feldman. Gooooooooooood times.

That was one of the best shows I ever worked…well OK, it was pretty much the ONLY show I ever worked that was awesome. The rest of ’em were more or less interminable days of TORTURE (as I’m sure this upcoming week will be)! Thus, I present for your reading pleasure…

My Top Five Worst Tradeshow Gigs:

1. First place goes to the first trade show I ever worked, a scrapbooking convention (basically, a show for matrons and other Michaels craft store denizens). This was before I realized I could be a booth “model,” so I was just hired as a regular sales assistant for $125/day by this little old Jewish couple from Yonkers. They were very nice, but bickered constantly and the show was super boring.

2. One of the first tradeshows I booked as a booth model was the Waste Expo. Everyone who’s ANYONE in the garbage industry goes to this show, and I had a gig working for a dumpster manufacturer. They had hired me and this other chick to run this cheesy putting challenge they’d set up in their booth, and the other chick was scandalous. She was kinda homely and on the wrong side of 40, so I think she was extra flirtatious to make up for it — any time a guy came up to try the putting challenge, she would grab his club and back her ass up into his crotch to demonstrate how he should be holding it. Then she’d run over to the end of the putting green: “Now put your ball in the little hole between my legs!” Yuk, HYUK! The Waste people ate it up, though, and she even scored us each a $100 tip, by giving the dumpster manufacturer a sob story about how the “agency” takes 20% of our pay…boo hoo hoo…

3. Speaking of scandalous, the SEMA (auto accesories) show is always a good one for slutty models. The convention authority supposedly has a code of conduct when it comes to models’ outfits at shows, but apparently their standards are lax — one year, a floormat manufacturer had his models dressed in nothing more than two floormats and some string! I was fortunate enough to have scored a classy gig, doing product demos for this crazy German inwentor who lived in a Bavarian castle, where he dreamed up this light-up LED gear shift knob that uses an accelerometer to show you what gear you’re in. The had a sample gear shift mounted on a pedestal, and my job was to demo it all day long by shifting. After a few hours of my deft maneuvering, one of the guys in the booth across the aisle came over: “Honey, you’re killin’ us!” Yuk, HYUK!

3. Another year, I worked the auto show for this WEIRD company that had to sit me down over breakfast at the Cheesecake Factory to explain what they did — it was that complicated. To this day, I don’t really get it — they “provide solutions for problematic excess inventory,” but I was NOT under any circumstances to say “barter…” although it sounded to me like that’s exactly what they did. I guess they would buy a bunch of out-of-season panties from Victoria’s Secret, then trade them to some guy wanting to unload 50,000 floppy disks of the Oregon Trail. Something like that! Anyhoo, the gig was suuuuuuper boring because they left me alone all day long, every day. If anyone came by, I was to tell them “We Provide Solutions For Problematic Excess Inventory” and then give them a pen, stress ball, or other promotional tchotchke. (Speaking of that, I *HATE* when people are greedy at trade shows, and run around collecting as much free shit as they can…they always try to be sneaky, and get more than one: “Could I git one for my cousin, too?” “Have to get one for BOTH kids, you know…Dad can’t just bring home one, or it’ll be ugly!” I always lie and make up some excuse why I’m so sorry, but I can’t…it drives me NUTS!

Anyway, back to the Auto Show…it was so boring, that the highlight of the show was when this creepy member of the Saudi Automotive Industry Delegation showed up and spent an hour trying to convince me to come to Saudi Arabia sometime. Yeah, RIGHT! Do I LQQK like I’d fit in in Saudi Arabia?!?!?!?!?!?!

4. Another shitty show I worked was a convenience store owners’ powwow. Basically, all these awful “food” vendors were there passing out free samples of their nasty-ass crap: corn dogs, 5-Hour Energy drinks, etc. The bad part wasn’t the work itself (I was playing the Peanut M&M for M&M Mars…so I was inside a costume, out of harm’s way)…it was the food, which I was soooo bored that I ate at least one of everything there. Hot dogs, corn dogs, Twizzlers, Slim Jims, nachos, Twinkies…ugh, I get sick even remembering it. The name of that show shoulda been CancerCon!!

5. I worked the shoe show a couple of times for this *W*E*I*R*D* company out of Miami that made a sneaker with an implanted tracking device, so that you could keep track of your kids and demented parents. As a bonus, if you were kidnapped or got lost, all you had to do was push the panic button on the side, and the 911 call center was alerted. The shoes were overpriced and clearly a novelty, yet the company staff was overflowing with thug-glam Miamians in expensive clothes, all bitching about one another behind everyone’s backs. I personally think it was all a front for some shady drug operation…they couldn’t possibly have been real!

Anyhoo, that’s why I hate working conventions….but as you can see, they’re also kinda interesting and fun, in weird ways. Also, the bonus with the bigger shows like CES is that among the 100,000 or so attendees will be many amateur photographers…I’ve already been hit up several times on my Model Mayhem page by guys wanting to shoot during CES week. Unfortunately I’m already working day and night, so I had to turn some of them down…but I did find time to squeeze in one quickie earlier today at the Cosmopolitan.

The photographer was a guy I’ve shot with many times — a businessman from California who got tired of the corporate life and took a year’s hiatus to travel the world, photographing beautiful women. His little hiatus cost him $150,000 (he is very lavish — he pays very generously and provides luxury lingerie for the models), plus he got tangled up with one of his models (who was 20, and he’s 60)…so now his break’s over and he’s had to go back to work. He and a colleague shot me up in their CEO’s suite; the CEO hadn’t arrived yet, but everything was set up for a week of meetings — banners and signage and crap. Very depressing! My friend is still a baller, and ordered up champagne for the shoot…so I was basically lounging around on the balcony, in the sun (it was beautiful weather today), swilling champers…and getting paid for it. Life’s a bitch!

Then they wanted to play a trick on the CEO, who is apparently a very handsome but very shy Swede. I guess one time in Stockholm the three of them shared a prostitute, and the CEO went last and made an unholy mess. As revenge, they paid me $20 for a pair of my panties and left it hidden in the pillows on his bed. They also had me smear a little lipstick on his pillow for good measure!. Those craaaaaaaaaaaaazy corporate hijinks… It makes me SO GLAD I don’t work in an office, bottling up my inner freak until it’s packed so tightly it comes exploding out on every business trip! For me, every is Shenanigans Day…and that’s the way I likes it!

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Auld Lang Syne and Vagina Dentata

Thank Dog 2011 is FINALLY over. It was pretty much the most trying year of my life, which you probably already know, but here’s a brief recap.

It started out exceptionally well — amazingly so, actually, with a miraculous development along the lines of Deus ex Machina. I haven’t written about this before, so let me fill you in.

When I bought my insanely underwater house, I was dating/semi-engaged to a longtime boyfriend. We had been together about 2.5 years, but once we got the house we totally drifted apart. As previously mentioned, he was much younger than me — and MUCH squarer. In fact, he was PROUD of the fact that he liked Stove Top stuffing, baseball, and Velveeta-coated everything. Bleh! But we got along OK, until moving into the house, at which time we started drifting apart.

It wasn’t a super-dramatic split; we both just realized we were too different. He wanted a PTA mom for his future brood of Little-League-playing kids; I wanted to run around nude, smoking, cursing and blaspheming. Ya know, the usual differences! So we decided to break up, and that’s when the shit hit the fan. Because the mortgage was all in my name, he left me with an insanely underwater $340,000 mortgage, which in the interim has mysteriously ballooned to $375,000, despite my having diligently dumped in $125,000 (those crazy banks and their wacky exotic loans).

But I didn’t really get too pissed about that. Sure, it was a huge stress and it gave me a 2-year+ bout of insomnia…but what REALLY stung was what he told me the day the movers came to take away half our furniture. Come to find out, he had this weird rash on his hand, and when he went in to get it checked out…it turned out he had herpes!

He told me I’d better go get checked, too…so I did, although I resented every minute of it as an asinine waste of time, as I had never had any herpes symptoms. I figured he’d gotten it from his new girlfriend (he hooked up right away after we split). But I went to get tested anyway, just to be sure.

I swear, I have never been so nervous in my life!! For some reason it took several days for them to get the results, and all I remember is going to work, coming home and drinking giant glasses of Grand Marnier and smoking bowlsful of marijuana to dull my nerves. Mysteriously, even through all this, I slept very well (my insomnia didn’t kick in for another year, oddly.)

Finally the clinic called me to say they had my results — but I had to go in in person; they couldn’t tell me over the phone. Uh oh. I had to go straight to one of those corporate scavenger hunt gigs after the doctor — so I brought along a mini airplane bottle of Grand Marnier to chug in the parking lot if the results were bad. That way, I could at least get through my day.

Sure as sugar, the lady doctor sat me down and handed me a paper with my test results: positive. WTF!!! I knew it… just my shitty luck to have contracted an incurable STD, and not even know it. Come to find out, many people carry the herpes virus without ever exhibiting any symptoms; if your immune system is strong enough, it just sort of cruises around your bloodstream, waiting to infect others. You can still pass it on to a partner, without even knowing you have it — and that’s how it gets spread so widely. Most people don’t even know they’re doing it!

So now I was stuck with a soul-crushing mortgage AND an incurable disease. Fuck! I’m a MASTER at compartmentalization and dealing with shit, so I just crumpled up the paper with my results, shoved it in my purse, thanked the doc and went out to my truck to down that lifesaving mini of Grand Marnier. Then I drove up to Red Rock Hotel for the scavenger hunt, trying not to weep. But the bitch of it was, this was one of those scavenger hunts where I play the Bawling Bride — I was supposed to play the role of a jilted bride who has been left at the altar. The role called for me to wear a wedding dress and fake-sob, as though my heart was broken. Well, I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to pretend-cry when you’re actually in imminent danger of breaking down into legit sobs…but if you have, you know it’s TOUGH.

Somehow, I made it through the game and then had to go to work right afterwards, taking photos at the Bette Midler show of all things. That show was heinous misery every single night of its existence — talk about a shitty, cheap, miserable old crowd! I think there must have been a Miami Beach shuttle, busing in cranky old yentas and their browbeaten, grouchy old husbands night after night. It was a nightmare, but especially so on this night. I somehow made it through the evening, then FINALLY got to go home and bawl my eyes out…which I did every single night for around a month.

Then, I put on my big girl panties and dealt with it — as I always do. (This is what pisses me off about my boss at the photo company telling me I’m “negative.” If he knew half the shit I’ve been through, yet never missed a night of work…he might shut his ass-kissing piehole for 2 fucking seconds to give me an ounce of credit. Anyhoo, I got on with my life — I started nude and fetish modeling to bring in extra cash, I got some EXTREMELY DISTURBING, CREEPY HILLBILLY ROOMMATES (remind me to blog about them sometime — they were a fucking freakshow!), and I started dating again.

The easiest way for me to date while harboring a dark secret was just to bring the secret out into the light — so on all my dating profiles, I put my herpetic status on BLAST. Something like, “Well, I have herpes…if you can deal with that, read on.” Fortunately, my exceptional hotness canceled out the herpes for most guys, and I had a successful dating life for the next couple of years. After awhile, it even stopped being an issue! Although it was still an awkward bitch explaining my status to partners I met out and about (as opposed to on the dating sites, where they’d already read about my secret).

Anyhoo, I went about my life and was hired by the local paper to write for this new Guide to Adult Vegas they were launching, called AfterDarkVegas (lame name, and everything else about the site was hopelessly clunky and lame. I’ll blog more about that some other time, too). Basically, I was supposed to cruise around town checking out the naughty stuff, then blog about it. It was AWESOME, except for the fact that our local paper is CRAZY conservative, and they were soooo uncomfortable with the subject matter that it was really hard to write compelling content that also passed muster with their Mormon Censor. The only reason I even got hired was, at the time the publisher was a forward-thinking Libertarian with a pervy streak. He saw some videos I did where I drunkenly and half-nakedly impersonated Sarah Palin, and that did it. (Well, that and the fact that I inadvertently flashed everyone in corporate at one of our meetings…the slit on my “sexy business” skirt split, and my luscious ass was hanging out for all to see.)

Anyhoo, this pervy Libertarian was ousted after I’d been working there 6 months, and a new, ULTRA-CONSERVATIVE publisher took over…and the first thing he did was put the kibosh on AfterDarkVegas. I was bummed, but also secretly relieved — they had me do all this cockamamie busywork all week, which no one even bothered to read, so what the fuck was the point?! Anything I wrote that WAS interesting ended up being edited to death by my conservative overlords. So I was actually GLAD to be done with it.

After getting the news, I went home and made a big bonfire in my backyard, to burn all my business cards and paperwork and whatnot. While I was at it, I figured I should clean out my other files, as welll — I’m one of those anal packrats who saves copies of every electric bill they’ve ever gotten. As I was going through my files, I found the folder marked “herpes.” (Yes, I’m THAT anal.)

“Well gee, I won’t be needing THIS anymore,” I muttered, wondering why the hell I kept the test results in the first place. I smoothed them out (remember, I had crumpled ’em up angrily upon receipt) and read them over for the first time — and it WASN’T EVEN MY RESULTS! The wrong date of birth was printed at the top!! Due to a paperwork mixup, the doctor had given me a faulty diagnosis of herpes.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.” In the intervening 2 years, I had banged several herpetic guys — one in particular with out a condom (we were together for a year, and figured since we both had it, why bother?) many, many times. The cruel irony of it all was, I may not have been herpetic when initially tested — but I sure as sugar probably was by now! ARRRRGH!

Strangely, I found the whole thing kind of funny. I guess I was so used to the fact that I had herpes, that it didn’t even bother me anymore (really, it’s a bullshit “disease,” and half the country has it anyway with no ill effects other than unnecessary shame). But I went in to get re-tested, anyway…and sure enough, I was negative. All this time I wasted bawling my eyes out and feeling sorry for myself — for naught! If I had ONLY read the test results in the first place, none of this would have happened…but you know, I was so upset at the initial doctor’s appointment, I was in no state to read that shit. Can you blame me?

One thing I realized after all this was, electronic health records might be the wave of the future…but in this instance, I was REALLY glad to have a paper copy. And I was REALLY glad to be a packrat — if I’d thrown those results away, I would likely have gone for the REST OF MY LIFE believing I had herpes. Weird! Lesson learned: always double-check and verify test results. Ya heard?!

This was all in January 2011 — as mentioned, this year started out FABULOUS. But it went straight to hell after that. My dad killed himself by jumping in front of a train, I lost my 3-year battle to keep my house, my insomnia kicked in FIERCELY and as a result, I was diagnosed as bipolar by a jackass psychiatrist who talked to me for 5 MINUTES — and in that 5 minutes effectively destroyed my chances of ever getting individual health insurance. Because I was diagnosed bipolar (even though he qualified it as “mild” Type II), I have a pre-existing condition, and was denied by several carriers 🙁 My insurance agent told me I’d likely never be insurable unless I paid out the ass.

So I spent most of 2011 in a state of agony — my boss wanted to fire me for being negative, but I couldn’t quit or get fired because then I’d lose my insurance, so I had to suck up and kiss ass and toe the line against my will just to keep the shitty fucking insurance that had led to my misdiagnoses in the first place! Also, for most of the year I was under the misguided impression that I’d work things out with my bank, and get to keep my house — so I figured I needed to keep a steady job to prove my stability to them.

ALL.

FOR.

NOTHING.

What a shitty fucking waste of a year. In retrospect, I wish I would have short sold my house right away, bailed on my job, and run away to join the circus. But, I didn’t….so here I am. 2012 can ONLY be better!

Anyhoo, that was my 2011. It ended even worse than it started, with me short selling my house for peanuts, and being forced to pack up and get out at the bank’s convenience. As I write this, I’m STILL sitting around on pins and needles, waiting for those crooked fucking assholes to say Yea or Nay to the deal. If they let it go through, and waive the remainder of my debt, I’m free. If they don’t….I’m fucked again, plain and simple. Meanwhile, I’m living with half my shit packed up, not sure when I’ll have to leave. It’s a really shitty way to live — no wonder I can’t sleep!

Thankfully, a friend came through with a new place for me to live — a really cute little 1940s bungalow near downtown Vegas. I’m planning to move ASAP — and then GET ON with my life!

In the meantime, I tried to enjoy my miserable Christmas. My mom has been having a really bad year, too — she was laid off a couple years ago, and has been trying to find work ever since, to no avail. She’s eating through her savings, and just had to dip into her 401(k). I feel awful for her, because there’s nothing I can do — I can’t even offer to let her move in with me, because my own living situation is so precarious!

With all this shit going on, we decided not to have Christmas at my mom’s house, because it’s too fucking depressing. Instead, my awesome grandma let us borrow the family vacation condo up at Lake Tahoe, so we all rendez-voused up there for the holiday. The rest of my family drove up from the Bay Area, and I drove up from Vegas — a 7-hour drive through the middle of nothing, just like going to Burning Man! It was really cool, though. My grandma’s condo is really nice and cozy, so we sat around cussing and drinking and playing games for 3 days. It kinda sucked because my sister just had RK surgery on her eyes, so we had to keep the lights dimmed and she had to wear big sunglasses and hide her head under a blanket most of the time…but we still had some fun. Because half of us are broke, we decided not to give gifts this year…but I cheated, and got everyone gag gifts anyway: I went to my favorite Halloween store and bought seven kooky hats, all representing various personality types, and wrapped them all identically. Then I had everyone pick one and open it on Christmas Eve, which was a riot! My mom picked the St Patty’s hat (ALKIE!), my brother’s girlfriend picked the witch hat (BITCH!), my brother-in-law picked the mini top hat (DIVA!) and my sister drew the jester’s hat (TRICKSTER!). I myself ended up with a furry rabbit hat (FURRY! EEK!)…all in all, it was gooood times.

We walked over to the casinos in Stateline (the little town on the CA/NV border on the south shore of Lake Tahoe), and took a walk around the lake one day. But after three days, they all had to go back home…so I got back in my truck and headed back south, back into the midst of all my shit and troubles. I figured since I didn’t have to be at work til Wednesday night, I might as well take my time going home, and stop at some hot springs. There are a ton of natural hot springs in the Eastern Sierra along U.S. 395, so I stopped at the ones south of Bridgeport, called Travertine. They were awesome!

Now, when I go to hot springs, I prefer to bathe Au Naturel. I’m a fuckin’ hippie, OK?! But I also don’t like offending people, so I brought along my emergency bikini just in case (I keep an old bikini in my truck for just these kinds of situations). When I rolled up to the springs (very conveniently located right off the 395), there was a young couple hanging out, and they were wearing bathing trunks. So I suited up and joined them, but they left shortly thereafter anyway and three lesbians showed up, and immediately started stripping.

Now, you might think this sounds like the intro to a spicy porno movie… but you couldn’t be farther from the truth! First of all, these were REAL LIFE lesbians — not the fake-ass fantasy shit you see on TV. Secondly, ALL FOUR OF US had fur bikinis thicker than anything Jantzen ever dreamed of… and hairy armpits, too (I hadn’t shaved my bush since Burning Man in late August, and my armpits since about November)(it was for ART’S SAKE, you haters!).

Anyhoos, IT WAS FABULOUS! We all sat there together stewing our pubes in hot mineral water, chatting amiably and comfortably like the witches of MacBeth, not having to worry about judgmental guys coming in and laughing at our hairy privates. Vegas can really warp a person’s perspective vis-a-vis body image — I had almost come to believe that all women have giant plastic tits, fish lips and baby-bald labia. Not so! I think I might be a nascent lesbian — or maybe just a plain old-fashioned man-hater, I’m not sure. Either way, it was very relaxing.

But I had 6 more hours to drive, so I reluctantly dried myself off and got back in my truck after an hour or so. Boo! Then I drove back to Vegas, and faced my troubles again. Double boo!!!

Thankfully, some of my nutty artist friends came calling, and distracted me from my misery: a bodypainter friend asked if I’d be interested in doing a creepy, post-apocalyptic photo shoot down in the storm drain tunnels underneath Vegas. WOULD I?!?!?! You bet! The only caveat was, I had to shave all my pubes and pits…but it was OK, because it was totally worth shaving for: she painted JAGGEDY TEETH on my labia, and gave my vagina a monster face. VAGINA DENTATA, BABY!!!

I went over to her house around 7:30pm on Thursday night, and she spent two and a half hours painting me. Then we drove down to the this parking lot near the Rio, which is where the storm drains open up, and met the photographers, so that we could all hike down into the tunnels together.

A word about these tunnels: people LIVE in them! They run for miles and miles underneath Vegas, and their purpose is to channel rainwater to the lake whenever we get monsoonal flash-floods in the summer. The rest of the year, they’re dry and empty…and make cozy dwellings for the homeless! I actually went out once with a guy who wrote a whole book about them, which was fascinating…he explored them for miles and miles, interviewing all the creepy subterranean dwellers he came upon. I’ve been DYING to go down and check them out for myself…but I’m too big of a puss to do it alone.

Thankfully, my kooky art pals were all about it, so we hiked down into this gully, towing a giant wagonload of photo equipment with us, and made our way into one of the tunnels by the light of an oil lantern (seriously…it was like Dungeons & Dragons!). This was around 11pm, so it was pitch black. Worse, it was FREEZING fucking cold, but since I was all painted up I couldn’t really wear clothes — the bodypainter (Suzanne Lugano) loaned me a little satin robe to sort of cover up in, but it offered little protection from the elements. But I’m a BAD ASS, so I soldiered on anyway.

The two photographers had brought a propane heater and a boombox, so once we got to a good spot, about 1/8 mile into the tunnel, we set up camp, with music, heat, lights and fun. It was just like Burning Man! Apparently, the photographers (Flash Adams and Derek from Get Back the Love) had done some exploring the previous day, and had followed the tunnel all the way under the freeway, under the Strip, and came out near the Imperial Palace — where they tripped some kind of security alarm and had to run back! But in the course of their exploration, they found the perfect spot, with all kinds of super-colorful graffiti…which is where we shot. It took 45 miserable minutes to set up their lights, but then we banged out the shot in 30 minutes, and I was out of there by 1am. Nice! I don’t have many of the photos yet, but I’ve added a couple so you can see what it was like…i.e. how AWESOME it was!

Anyhoo, after that excitement, I returned to the drudgery of packing and moving. And then it was New Year’s Eve, my most loathed of all holidays. Why do I hate it? Well, for starters, it attracts somewhere around 100,000 drunken idiots to the Strip, which they proceed to bury in a river of piss and vomit in short order, before turning to drunken violence and thuggery. But the REAL reason I hate it is, the photo company makes us work EVERY SINGLE YEAR, no matter what. If you try to call out, you’re fired — because supposedly, NYE is a magical night when everyone buys photos, and they can’t afford to miss any of the business.

HAH! They filled my head with this crap back in 2000 when I first started, and I was sooooo excited: “I can’t wait for New Year’s! That’s the night they tell me I’ll make a million dollars!” My green ass was practically salivating at the thought…until I went in to work it, and found out that it’s NO DIFFERENT FROM ANY OTHER NIGHT, no matter what the corporate line is. I have worked 11 New Year’s Eves in Vegas, and I can unequivocally state that this is the truth. Whoever says otherwise is a delusional company man, and needs to put down The Secret and pick up a bottle of Common Sense. Bullshit! Nonetheless, they insist on their Draconian NYE policy…so I found myself once again schlepping in to work the dreaded Sally Dingdong show.

Just to be clear, we can all figure out who I’m talking about when I say Sally Dingdong…RIGHT?! I thought it was a pretty obvious pseudonym, but comments on my Facebook page have proved otherwise. Suffice it to say that Sally Dingdong is a sappy Quebecoise banshee, and her fans are THE. MOST. PATHETIC. SAD. SACKS. YOU. HAVE. EVER. SEEN. Seriously, I don’t know what it is about her and her schlocky music that attracts the saddest members of society — the ugly, the crippled, the deformed and the unloveable. You know that Morrissey song “November Spawned a Monster”?! I think he was describing her fans!!! It’s incomprehensible to me, since her lyrics are totally sterile and banal, and she doesn’t even write her own stuff so how can she really mean what she’s singing?! The biggest laff is that during her show, she does a cover of Janis Ian’s “At Seventeen,” and prefaces it by reciting some rehearsed pabulum about knowing exactly what it feels like to be an ugly duckling. Talk about pandering! This skinny bitch was a superstar from the time she was 14 — when was she ever an unloved ugly duckling?! I wish her fans would wake the fuck up!

ANYHOO, I suffered through a miserable night of that shit, tempered only by a few furtive swigs of champagne in a back room of the photo lab. When I got off work at 10:30, I *briefly* considered going out to the Strip to join the melee (in fact, my bodypainter friend and her crew of goddess-worshiping hippies were having a drum circle right out front of where I work)…but my existential malaise got the better of me, and I ended up choosing to get the fuck out of the parking garage while I still could (after midnight it’s a DISASTER, and can take over an hour to exit). I went home to the house that isn’t even mine anymore, lit up my bong, and got high as a kite with my dog for company. I even kissed him at midnight (no tongue, you pervs). That’s the other thing I hate about NYE — I never have anyone to kiss. Arrgh!

So anyhoo, that was my SHIT-ASS 2011. I started out 2012 OK, by driving out to update my fetish website with some new breath holding videos earlier today…and now I’m in the thick of moving. I may not be able to update for awhile, so be patient!

Posted in burning man, fetish modeling, nude modeling | Tagged , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Bucket List

Hey everyone, I added a new link up top to my Bucket List…check it out!

 

Unlike most people who sit around talking about “one day” and “someday,” my bucket list is for reals! It’s an actual ITINERARY for 2012…so watch out!

 

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86’d From the Rio and Puking Vegan-Style

What a week. It all began when Rob Cole a/k/a the Balloonmaster, who runs a local variety show down at the Onyx Theatre in the fabulously grimy Commercial Center, asked me if I could dress up as a clown and come down to create a disturbance at his show last Friday. Could I ever! I have a rainbow clown wig and a green clown nose that I’ve been DYING to try out, so I went in my closet and put together this amazing clown ensemble. It went over great at the Onyx, because first of all, the show is full of sick and twisted shit like ladies shooting darts out of their vaginas and mimes puking and lapping it up off the floor. Secondly, as mentioned, the Onyx is located in this AMAZING run-down shopping plaza called the Commercial Center, which back in the day was THE hoity-toity upscale shopping spot of ’60s Vegas. These days it’s gone to seed, and is nothing but gay bars, sex clubs, massage parlors and adult stores. In other words, better than Disneyland!

What goes over well downtown, however, doesn’t necessarily fly uptown…as I learned when I cruised over afterward to meet my friend J.R. for a nightcap at the Rio, where he was staying. I love showing up to surprise him in wacky outfits or with wacky props, as when I surprised him at Caesars with that ventriloquist’s dummy earlier this summer. J.R. loves all that kooky shit, so when I rolled in looking like Bozo he thought it was great! We immediately starting taking wacky photos at this fake World Series of Poker Final Table thing they had set up as a photo op…until a security guard came over and made us stop.

This was one of those security guards who takes their jobs EXTREMELY seriously, and was a real cowboy badass: “You can’t wear that in here,” he said, meaning my clown makeup. WTF! Half the fuckin’ whores in that dump had ten times as much spackled on their faces…just not circus-style! Makeup is makeup, and that is BLATANT CLOWN DISCRIMINATION! You’re seriously gonna kick me out, and meanwhile roll out the red carpet for that pancake-faced ho Kim Kardashian?!?! Get real!

J.R. got pissed too, and started arguing with the security guard, who got REALLY mad: “We can’t have clowns in the casino!” to which J.R. replied, “Are you kiddin’ me? This nickel joint ain’t run by nothin’ BUT clowns!” Oooh, probably not the best thing to say. We were surrounded by security guards, and were unceremoniously 86’d.

Now, I understand that you’re not allowed to wear a mask or a hood in a casino — just last week a dealer at Caesars told me I had to take the hood of my jacket off! (Srsly…get a life!) But makeup?! Apparently, it fucks with the casino’s facial-recognition software — I know this sounds sci-fi crazy, but apparently they REALLY DO have this weird software installed in all the Eyes in the Sky, that immediately recognizes the facial features of known gambling cheats, prostitutes and other personae non grata….and my clown makeup prevented them from identifying me. J.R. almost told them that he had a clown fetish, and had specifically ordered up a clown prostitute — and since he’s a Seven Stars member, they probably would have backed off. Oh well… should coulda woulda.

I didn’t have much time to worry about it, because the very next night I had two parties to attend — first my friend Guy had a pagan holiday jamboree with a Yule goat set aflame, and then I headed over to the annual Modern Holiday party at my friends James and Staci’s fabulously swanky mid-century-modern pad. I went to this party last year and was kinda shy and intimidated by all the media people and professional writers in attendance…but now that I have a few articles under my belt for CityLife (one of the local alt-weeklies here), I felt much more comfortable. Besides, people were lauding me left and right for my fabulous Facebook status updates — Clowngate being the most recent one. Did I mention you should follow me on Facebook?

After that, I laid low for a couple days, taking care o’business vis-a-vis Christmas shopping, etc. But I had to come out of retirement on Wednesday, for my girlfriend Trixxie’s company Christmas party. She works for a staffing agency that handles all the sexy blackjack dealers in town — you know how every hotel has its “Party Pit,” where buxom bims of childbearing age are on display dealing cards? Well, they were all having a party down at Binion’s, and it was open bar. Trixxie invited me as her date, and also invited me to spend the night in her room down there so that I could get REALLY fucked up and not have to worry about driving. So I packed an overnight bag and headed down.

A roomful of hot young babes with an open bar might sound good to you, but for me it was kinda boring…I didn’t know anyone, but the booze was good and the food was catered by this awesome vegan restaurant in town called Pura Vida…and it was awesome!! I beat up the buffet, had about 3 vodka cranberries, and then headed down the street to the Heart Attack Grill to hang out with my friend Dr. Jon while I waited for Trixxie to be done, so we could go bar-hopping.

At the Heart Attack Grill, Dr. Jon poured me a giant shot of Tennessee Honey, and I sat there sipping it, bullshitting with the Doctor and this other guy who hangs out there, who happens to be the President of the Fremont St. Chamber of Commerce or something like that…basically he runs shit down there. I filled his ear with all my gung-ho pro-downtown talk, and before you know it it was time to meet Trixxie across the street for more drinks at some of the hipster bars in the East Fremont district.

I don’t remember much from this point on — it was nickel beer night at the Beauty Bar, so everyone was wasted. I ran into my roommate and another girlfriend, and after a few more drinks and another bar, I was pretty well lit. I never did find Trixxie, and she wasn’t answering my texts…so when my roommate offered to drive me home, I totally accepted. I ended up puking all over her car on the way home (AMATEUR!), and then when I got inside, I FILLED my bathroom sink with puke. It was all that vegan food — and I’m here to tell you, ain’t no puke like vegan puke. It was so THICK and CHUNKY and full of lentils and carrots and stuff. Bleeeeccgghghhhhhh!

The next morning, I woke up to the taste of vomit in my mouth — and THIS <–!!! Blech! It was so chunky it wouldn’t go down the drain, so I had to fuck around with the sink until I pulled a giant clump of puke-encrusted hair out. Goooooooooood morning! Meanwhile, I had a hangover from hell and I had to be downtown for an appointment at 1:30. I tried to wake up as best as I could, but I couldn’t stomach any coffee or oatmeal, so it was rough. But I had a REALLY busy day ahead, so I sacked up and got on with it.

Whenever I’m facing a day filled with unpleasant tasks, I adhere to the adage “Put on your big girl panties and deal with it.”    <–These are my big girl panties, so I put ’em on, slapped on some makeup, and grabbed the first thing I could find to wear, which happened to be jeans and a t-shirt I had apparently bought in my drunken stupor the night before…a t-shirt that reads “TRI*SEX*UAL” in big red letters (some artist kid was selling ’em in the alley behind the Beauty Bar…I’ve always fancied myself a Patroness of the Arts). I figured it didn’t matter what my shirt said, since it was chilly out and I had to wear a hoodie over it anyway.

HOWEVER, my car was still downtown at the 4Queens, where I had valet parked it the night before. I didn’t want to wake my roommate, who was sleeping off her own hangover, so I decided I’d just ride my bike. I figured I could ride to my appointment, then ride over to get my truck. I needed the exercise, anyway!

But it was unseasonably sunny and warm, and plus I was running REALLY late and thus had to pedal like a madwoman…which made me really hot and sweaty. I had no choice but to remove my sweatshirt and tie it around my waist, pedaling furiously in my TRI SEX UAL t-shirt like the Wicked Witch of the West. To make matters worse, all I have is my Burning Man bike, which is covered in pink duct tape, and the “basket” (really just a wicker basket I spray painted pink) was broken and falling off and dangling by a thread, which made it difficult to ride fast. But somehow I made it to my appointment only 15 minutes late.

After my appointment, I next rode over to the 4Queens to get my truck. The problem was, I had lost my valet stub…so I had to plead with the valet guys. They already thought I was a freak with my crazy bike and t-shirt, and since I had no ticket they had to call Security to verify my ID against the car’s registration. Meanwhile, they started looking through the keys in the valet office..and couldn’t find them. “It’s the one with the ball sac on the keychain!!!” I informed them (remember, I had a metal sac on my keychain to remind me to be strong at times like this).

Having found my keys, it only took the security guard about 4 hours to verify that it was my truck. But then he gave me a hard time about my ID card! You see, when I go out, if I’m not driving I just bring my State-issued ID card. I got the card last year, when I had a DUI and my license was confiscated — I needed something to get into clubs with. But then once I got my license back, the photo on the ID was SO MUCH BETTER than the one on the Driver’s License, that I prefer taking it with me. Since I wasn’t driving anywhere the night before, the ID was all I really needed.

Now, it’s even worse — I FINALLY got my medical marijuana patient’s card (YAY!!!!), and the picture on THAT is EVER BETTER!! All three are approved forms of State-issued ID…so now I’m really in a quandary. Take a look:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I mean, fuck! Which one would YOU use?!?!?!?!?! (Fun game: guess which is which!)

Anyhoos, so all I had with me was my ID card…and this hard-ass security guard wasn’t gonna let me go without a driver’s license. But my license was in my overnight bag, which I had left in Trixxie’s hotel room! She had taken it with her to work that morning, and I planned to drive STRAIGHT over there and get it back. Her office isn’t far from downtown, so I just figured I’d drive reeeeeeally carefully.

But this was another one of those overly bad-ass security guards…so I had to kiss his ass a little before he FINALLY let me go, admonishing me sternly that it’s a $1500 ticket for driving without a license. I know, I know! I cruised verrrrrrrrrry slowly and law-abidingly over to Trixxie’s office, got my stuff, and breathed a sigh of relief. Oh, and did I mention I had $6,800 in cash stuffed in my bra this whole time?!?!?!?! $3,400 in each side!! (I was making a bank deposit for a friend.) Arrrrrrrrrrrgh!

After that debacle was over, I faced the worst challenge of the day: asking my boss at the souvenir photo company if I could have Christmas off. EVERY YEAR I put in a request for time off around October, to make sure I beat out everyone else and get to go home for the holidays. But this year, with all the other shit going on in my fucked-up life, it slipped my mind. So now he had me on the schedule to work this dumb Chinese concert at the MGM Grand! As you may know, Chinese people don’t buy souvenir photos — I should know; I’ve suffered through MANY a wacky Chinese show in my day (Jackie Cheung, Grasshopper, Rain, etc.). I NEVER made ONE DOLLAR off any of those shows, and there was no reason to expect anything had changed. I mean, they DO say that the Chinese are acquiring more and more American tastes for stuff like Beef and Luxury Cars…but I don’t think they’ve caught the photo bug yet.

Anyhoo, I was reeeeeally nervous to ask him, because he’s already busted my balls about taking too much time off…and I haven’t worked at all since that awful ventriloquist show back on Dec. 3rd. I sweated and stewed over it for 4 days, debating on what tactic to use and what to say. I was ready to quit over this! I finally decided to use humor, and went into his office on my knees, pleading with him. Maybe he thought I was on my knees for a different reason; I don’t know. Moreover, I don’t CARE — he gave me the time off! Yipppee!!!!! Consequently, I am headed off for Lake Tahoe in the morning — my crazy family borrowed my grandma’s vacation condo for a few days, so we’re gonna go party in the woods. Fun!!

So with that being said, I’m facing a 7.5 hour drive tomorrow, and I better get some sleep. But before I go, have a look at my Christmas Wish List, and see if there’s anything you care to throw my way. If not, no big deal…have a great holiday anyway!

http://www.amazon.com/gp/registry/wishlist/2T46RDCX54KLD

xoxoxoxoxo

Wonderhussy.

Posted in burning man, Uncategorized | Tagged , , | 6 Comments

Rodeo, Santa Rampage, and the Downy Unstopables Scavenger Hunt

Soooooo….. the other day, I wrote about the shittiness in my life of late. Well, that was so boring I had to spice it up with a photo of my bush sprayed green, just to get people to read it! But now, I’m ready to write about the FUN stuff of the last two weeks.

December in Vegas is a weird time. No one really comes to town during the Holidays, so it’s eerily deserted, in a creepy, post-Apocalyptic kinda way. Fortunately, some marketing genius figured out a way to get warm bodies into town during this slow season: have a Rodeo!

It’s true — every December, just as the last post-Thanksgiving partiers are straggling out of town to devote themselves to more important things, the National Finals Rodeo comes to town, bringing somewhere around 176,000 rednecks, hillbillies and buckle bunnies (buckle bunnies being the awesomely awesome name they give rodeo groupies). It’s a TRIP! Everywhere you go, from the Bellagio right on down to Fremont Street, the bars, casinos and restaurants are jam-packed with cow-folk. As a veteran people-watcher and connoisseur of freaks, I love this time of year above allllll others…because it’s so much fun! All the casinos roll out the burlap carpet and deck the halls (and nubile waitresses) in denim, plaid and hayseed. Talk about pandering!!!

Everywhere you go, there are Coors, Crown and Jack specials…and every unused nook & cranny houses a mechanical bull. Like I said…pandering: it’s what Vegas does best (you should see how thick they lay it on for Chinese New Year)!

Even the showroom where I slave away taking souvenir photos got into the act, hosting a couple nights of this AWFUL, lamentable, regrettable ventriloquist (no, not Terry Fator…someone even worse) (if you click that link, incidentally, it takes you to my scathing review of Terry F’s show, which was soooo obscene it was censored by Yelp!! Tip: the “XXXXs” replace the words “fag,” “Nigra,” and “suck horsecock,” FYI).

Anyhoo, I suffered through two nights of this miserable ventriloquist and a roomful of fat know-nothings, guffawing at heartland buffonery ranging from a dead terrorist to a Jalapeño on a stick. The show was so bad, in fact, that my friend J.R., who is visiting town again, bought a ticket but then got up and left halfway through. He’d rather bleed money at a poker table than have his ears bleed from listening to that crap.

J.R. came to town at just the right time, since he loooooves country music… and hot country ass. Fortunately, after the aforementioned two nights of hillbilly hell, I didn’t have to work…so I had plenty of time to hang out with him and make the rounds of Rodeo society. We attended the American Country Awards one night (yeeeeeeeeeeeee haw! That dumb bitch Taylor Swift was locked out, ha ha!) and then another night we went to the big grand opening for the new Lynyrd Skyrnd BBQ & Beer at the Excalibur.

J.R. was being wooed as an investor by the people behind this new hillbilly hotspot, so he got free VIP tickets to the opening night gala, at which none other than “Lynyrd Skynyrd” themselves played a concert! I say “Lynryd Skynrd” in quotation marks, because only one original member is still in the group — so it’s really more of a cover band. Still, they were great! All the classics were played, from “Gimme Three Steps” to “Sweet Home Alabamy.” And, of course…. “Free Bird.” Gooooooooooood times!

The best part of the whole show was seeing that fish-lipped beast Skanki Sue (she runs some kind of half-assed stripper school at the Excalibur)…but she didn’t have a VIP wristband, ha ha, so we had better seats than her herpetic, Ex-Lax-chafed ass). Score! We rocked the night away, swigging booze from Mason jars and getting jiggy with the bullriders, cow babes and washed-up Vegas detritus littering the audience (which included society cougars, young chippies and none other than Jose Canseco). It was great, except for at the end, when J.R. (who has been trying not to be such a sucker and easy mark for greedy bimbos) broke down and bought a round of drinks for a bevy of Rodeo babes. He asked me to sign the receipt for him (he didn’t trust himself not to overtip the busty bartender), and I wrote “SUCKER” on the signature line, as a joke. I thought I wrote it on his copy…but come to find out, I accidentally wrote it on the bar copy…so the pissed-off bartender threw away my ENTIRELY FULL drink while I wasn’t looking, in revenge. Bitch!

Incidentally, looking at all these Rodeo photos of myself…I realized I need a new, badass, GINORMOUS dinner-plate-sized belt buckle that says “WONDERHUSSY.” Hmmm!

So anyhoo, aside from all the yee-hawery, J.R. had mainly come to town for one thing: the Great Gift Giveaway at Caesars Palace. Every year, the casino has this big event where high rollers get to cash in their gambling credits for junk — just like back in the day at the arcade, when you won tickets and traded them in for crap. J.R. is a Seven Stars member, which is the Caesars version of the top tier (I think you have to gamble a minimum of $100,000 per year; next is Diamond, then it goes down from there)…so he had a TON of credits to cash in for crap.

Basically, it’s a ballroom filled with junk from the SkyMall catalog (I think the same people run it, actually, LOLZ) — stuff like toasters and tents and golf carts and TVs. J.R. was generous enough to share his credits with me, but all I wanted was a tool kit — I’m going to need a decent set of tools when I move, so I figured I might as well be practical. The tools I have right now are a joke — mostly free promotional screwdrivers and junk from trade shows; nothing that really works. J.R. himself bought all kinds of crazy crap…but since I’m about to pack up and move, the last thing I need is more crazy crap. Ya know?

Anyhoo, lest you think the last couple of weeks have been nothing but fun and games for me, be advised that I *DID* work as a plant in a couple of corporate scavenger hunts — I played a horticulturist in one, and a double agent in another. Good times, but nowhere near as good of times as this other scavenger hunt I participated in — as a contestant!!

Downy fabric softener was sponsoring the “World’s Biggest Digital Scavenger Hunt” on the Strip last week, and one of my media friends emailed me, asking if I wanted to team up with him and try for the $20,000 prize money. He didn’t have to ask twice! This friend is totally Type A, and verrrrrrrrrrry competitive…plus he’s really smart and a total go-getter (the little prick is younger than me by several years, yet has already published three books!)…so I knew he’d be a great teammate. And he was! He even made me come out and meet him at a Starbucks a couple nights before the game, to bone up on Vegas history and Downy trivia. Now THAT’s dedication!

On the day of the game, we had zero idea what would be required of us, so showed up woefully underdressed, in jeans and Uggs and totally un-runner-ish clothing. Meanwhile, all these other hardcore competitors were wearing Under Armour and Asics and shit. It freaked us out briefly, but we still smoked that fucking game, running up and down the Strip (ALL THE WAY from Venetian to MGM and back…over 3 miles!) for around 90 minutes. Between the two of us, we knew every shortcut and secret passageway, so we were able to beat out the other 400 contestants to win the $20,000!!! We got one of those giant novelty checks you always see on TV, presented to us by Miss Amy Sedaris, and it was crazy! (Yes, I know that’s a TERRIBLE photo of me, but I was tired and sweaty and as previously mentioned have been crying a lot lately.)

I had promised J.R. I’d take him to dinner if I won, so I made good on my promise and took him downtown to one of my favorite old-school restaurants, Binion’s Ranch Steakhouse, located high atop the ever-so-classy Binion’s Hotel in fabulous downtown Vegas. This is one of those places that hasn’t changed since 1969, and the maître d’ looks like a cross between Larry Flynt and Liberace. Need I really say more?! I told J.R. to order what eeeeeeeever he liked, and to spare no expense. For some reason this made him very nervous, and he spilled no fewer than three drinks over the course of the evening, LOLZ!

After dinner, I dragged him down the street to the Beauty Bar, a hipster hotspot I normally avoid at all costs, but which that night was hosting a faaaaaaabulous wrestling match featuring Jesus vs. Santa Claus!! “We’ll decide who’s REALLY the Reason for the Season!!”OMG, it was absolutely incredible. In addition to Santa eventually beating Jebus’s ass (with none other than Lucifer himself officiating), a big zaftig pinup chick in the audience stapled dollar bills to her twat. Just another night in downtown Vegas! Why would you ever bother going to the Strip (unless it was to win $20,000 in a scavenger hunt)??

Now, speaking of Santa and downtown Vegas, last Friday was the big semi-annual Santa Rampage, wherein hundreds of local kooks and freaks dress up like Santa Claus and go on a big pub crawl on Fremont Street. It was mostly Burning Man people at first, but more and more wackos caught on, and now all kindsa people participate. Last year I went as a Bettie Page Domme Santa, which was awesome, but I didn’t want to be unoriginal and wear the same thing twice. Thankfully, I had some leftover green hairspray from when I sprayed my pubes, so I rigged up a sort of sexxxy Grinch domme thing that went over fairly well. I partied medium-hearty from around 9pm-1am, then went home to bed. I’ve been too upset lately about my house stuff to really party…but today I decided that THAT is going to STOP immediately! Worry doesn’t help anything anyway, so I might as well eat, drink and be merry. Ho, ho, ho.

After all that excitement died down, the Rodeo left town…and now every night is a Silent Night. It’s creepy and weird, like the Rapture came and sucked up all the God-fearing, Jebus-lovin’ cowboys…leaving just us wrathful sinners languishing in Vegas, waiting for New Year’s. I personally LOVE this creepy, deserted window between Rodeo and New Year’s…I don’t care what Andy Williams says; this is truly the Most Wonderful Time of the Year! You can actually drive down the Strip in less than 40 hours, and parking is abundant. I personally feel like we locals should make this little period our own municipal holiday…all we need is a clever name for it. So far I’ve had suggestions like Foreplay, the Taint, Stripocalypse and Las Vacancy…any others?

Anyhoo, the town being basically deserted, even J.R. decided to finally leave. I took him to the airport this afternoon (I love the irony of my beat-up-ass old pickup truck rolling into the valet to collect his Seven Stars ass), and he hemmed and hawed the whole way there…FINALLY spilling his guts when I was already idling in front of the Southwest checkin: he had decided to stay a few more days! So I got back on the freeway, took him to the Rio, and then headed over to my next adventure: the Michael Jackson fan fest.

A word about Michael Jackson: I’m huge fan, but not really of his music or his treacly sappiness. I just dug his weirdness. I met him once, backstage at the Celine Dion show when I was taking photos of them together, and he was awesome (I wanted a pic with him so bad, but I could hardly hand my camera to Celine and ask her to snap one…she prolly woulda broke it).

He used to live down the street from me, in fact, back in 2008…I used to walk my dog over there now and then, hoping to catch a glimpse of him (it wasn’t even a gated community or anything, just this really weird old sort of Spanish mission-style compound near downtown). I never did see him — just an odd assortment of international fans, who would camp out in the street 24/7, waiting for him. Bizarre!

Anyhoos, ever since he died, everyone’s making a huge fuss about him and everyone likes him again. So much so that they created this abomination of a show based on his life, as interpreted by — who the fuck else — Cirque du Soleil. Bah! My most loathed of all pretentious Quebecois circus troupes, and they’re always meddling around my city, creating shows around this, that and the other. IMO, all their shows SUCK ASS, but on a sliding scale from Least Sucky (The Beatles’ LOVE, which is actually really cool, and Zumanity, which is OK) to Soul-Searingly Asinine (Viva Elvis, everything else).

My friend Guy is a huge MiJac fan, and ponied up the cash to see the new Cirque Michael Jackson show. He invited me, but I politely refused — I’ve been burned before, when my Arkansawyer girlfriend brow-beat me into going to see Viva Elvis with her in 2010 (the ONLY time I’ve ever paid for a show ticket, to my immense chagrin). Just as I suspected, he said the show sucked balls, but he invited me to at least attend the adjacent Fan Fest with him — a convention area full of Michael Jackson’s memorabilia, clothing, etc. It was pretty cool, I guess…but DEFINITELY not worth $35 plus taxes and surcharges. I did get to sit on the throne from the “Remember the Time” video, but that was about it.

One other thing I’ve been doing, now that Vegas is deserted, is try my hand at Acting. Yes, that’s Acting, with a Capital A — very serious business! I always thought it was just a matter of blowing the casting director, but come to find out there’s all this “technique” and “craft” involved…who knew? My friend Guy (from the MiJac thing) is a local actor, and has appeared in all kindsa fun stuff like Pirates of the Caribbean and Deadwood, so he convinced me to sign up for this acting workshop taught by none other than Gary Coleman’s old manager, a delightful old-school East-Coast Italian who actually had a lot of very interesting things to say. There were only about 8 people in the class, which was held in a local hotel room, but it was fascinating. The other students were straight out of “Waiting For Guffman:” besides my friend and I, it was a motley assortment of all ages and types, including an ardent Ron Paul supporter, a long-haired, thickly-accented bespectacled German named Günther, and this poooooooooooooooooor slightly chubby, homely chick with a fierce camel toe, who broke down in tears when the teacher critiqued her for her robotic delivery: “I don’t want to be a waitress forever,” she sobbed. WOW! It was STRAIGHT OUT OF A MOVIE — I even kinda had to look around for a hidden camera. Amazing!

As for my own budding acting skills, idk if I’ll make it…but it’s definitely interesting. I’ve been an extra in a bazillion movies, commercials and TV shows…and have had a few bit parts in student films and independent stuff, but I’ve never really Acted. So let’s see where this latest adventure takes me!

 

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The Shitty Update (Fun Update to Come on Wednesday)

Ho, ho, ho… BAH! This is without question the shittiest Xmas I’ve ever suffered through. I couldn’t even afford a Christmas tree, and had to settle for painting my pubes green 🙁

This is a 2-part entry, because I waited soooo long to update that I did a million interesting things, and it would take too long to write it all at once. So first, I’m just going to tell you about how fucking miserable I’ve been! Seriously, I’ve been weeping, bawling, sobbing and screaming most every night…only taking the occasional breather to guzzle alcohol and inhale medicine to dull the pain. It sucked!

Anyhoo, I’ve never been a big Christmas fan, and I’m certainly no believer…but I generally enjoy the season anyway, what with all the hot boozy drinks, parties and time spent with my nutty family. Corny as it may sound, it’s a time of year for being cozy and loved and pleasantly buzzed in front of the fire.

But this year, it’s been shit. As you’ll recall, I can’t afford the mortgage on my insanely underwater house, and my bank won’t write down my principal…so I’ve decided to short sell it. My attorney listed it the day before Thanksgiving, so all weekend (including on the holiday itself) I was getting calls from all kinds of Realtors, wanting to come check the place out. I was at my mom’s house in California, so I told everyone to come by when I got back to Vegas on Monday.

So on Monday, starting at the UNDOGLY hour of 9:30am, a constant stream of Realtors and potential buyers passed through my house. The first guy showed up at 9:30 am (!!!), and from there one it was one after the other, sometimes two at a time, all…day….long. It was exhausting! Do you have any idea how demoralizing it is to have total strangers tramping through your home, poking into your closets and drawers and looking askance at your wigs and oddities?! I felt like I was running a fuckin’ museum! (I should have opened up a gift shop, to sell my panties!)

All types of people crossed my threshold — it  seemed that all of Vegas wanted a piece of the action! Rightly so, since it was listed at $109,000 — a steal! I mean, a ridiculous steal — all day long people were asking me suspiciously, “So why are you selling this place?” as if I was hiding some awful secret, like, “Oh, because there was a mass murder here and the place is haunted by a thousand ghosts,” or, “Oh, there’s a mad plumbing problem.” The sad truth is, I’m selling it because I HAVE to! I don’t WANT to — I just can’t afford it. I LOVE my house, but I refuse to spend the rest of my life paying off a bum loan on it.

Of course I didn’t say all that to my potential buyers — I was trying to sell the fuckin’ joint, not freak people out. I even took care to cover up the ginormous DDD-size tits on my porn-shop mannequin — normally, as you know, I refuse to kow-tow to the bourgeois moral code of the day…but for propriety’s sake, I did cover her up with a scarf. And good thing– not one but TWO Orthodox Jewish families came in to look! One mother was pregnant with a toddler in tow — can’t have little Ari traumatized by titties at the crazy godless shiksa’s house! (Even though that little bastard Ari toddled into MY kitchen, and opened MY cupboard door, and took out one of MY Capri-Suns and put his drooly crumby lips all over it. Fucker!)

Yes that’s right, not one but TWO Orthodox families came to look — one of them even submitted an offer, mentioning on the offer that I should sell to them because their Rabbi lives down the street and my little side patio would be the perfect spot for them to build a Sukkot hut on Passover. Hmm! Wicca World is also down the block…maybe if I’d have mentioned that in the listing, I could have sold to a wizard!

I showed to several other parties, including a young Mexican couple in a Jarritos van (which probably freaked my neighbors out), an old Filipino couple, a trapeze artist from Cirque du Soleil and a wacky pink-haired drummer wearing those Vibram 5-toe shoes. All in all, your typical Vegas house-buying crowd. This went on and on and on until the last party left around 6:30pm…and by day’s end, I had eight offers. Not bad!

My attorney advised me on which offer to accept (the Mexicans in the Jarritos van, hahahahaha — they had straight cash, yo), so then I had to go back and fill out about 50 pages of paperwork, attesting to my broke-ass financial state and basically pleading with Friendly Mr. Banker the Buttfucking, Bloodsucking Ass Pirate to let me off the hook. *HOPEFULLY* they accept the offer and waive the remainder of my debt… but who knows? Even if they do (which I REALLY hope they do), it could be months before it’s all said and done! And meanwhile…I can’t make any plans for my own future. It SUCKS!

It’s gotten to the point where I can’t even stomach the sound of Xmas music — I’ll be driving around town on my miserable rounds, glaring at other people’s cozy houses with lit trees and decorations in the windows, and some dumb fuckin’ Peace on Earth Silent Night shit comes on the radio, and I start bawling my eyes out in anger, fear and JEALOUSY. Why did I fuck up so badly?! Arrrrrrrgh! I go home to “my” house, which isn’t even MINE, and half the shit is already in boxes, and I didn’t even bother putting up any decorations. What’s the point?

All I want is a cute little bungalow in a shitty neighborhood — so long as it’s MINE! I just want a place, however humble, that is ALL MINE, that no fucking banker will ever be able to gouge excess money from me for. Is that too much to ask? Out of idle curiosity, I did a search of the real estate listings in Vegas for all single family homes under $50,000 — and nearly 4,000 listings came up! Seriously!

NOW HEAR THIS: there has to be somebody reading this who can help me. I’m guessing that bastard Jamie Dimon didn’t read my last post (although, frighteningly, after I emailed him…someone actually called me the very next day! It was just a secretary, and she didn’t offer much more than a half-assed vow to “look into” my fraudulent mortgage…but still. After three years of banging my head on the wall, to finally get an answer totally blew my mind!).

Anyhoo, as I was saying, there has to be SOMEBODY among my readership with $50,000 to spare. If you’re out there, please buy me this house:

http://www.ziprealty.com/property/1300-GRIFFITH-AVE-LAS-VEGAS-NV-89104/42735544/detail#

If you don’t care for this house in particular, there are many more on my list, which I’ll gladly share with you. And I promise to pay you back in a timely manner, at 2% interest…or, if you prefer, you could just gift it to me out of the generosity of your heart. Or we could work out a trade where I write for you, model for you or vacuum your balls for you….or whatever!

All I’m saying is, because of my predicament, I won’t be able to buy a house myself, in my own name, for quite some time. And I’m gonna be forced out of my current joint sooooon…in the dead of winter, no less. Have a heart! Otherwise, I’m gonna end up living at one of those shitty weekly motels with all the hookers and drug dealers (seriously! I already have it planned out).

I fell like one of those unbearable sappy Xmas story characters: [spoken in a thick baby voice] “Dear Jebus [or Santa, whatever], all I want for Christmas is a home of my own.” I just wanna lay in MY OWN BED, under MY OWN roof, and not have to fucking worry anymore! Why, once I get my own home at last, I’ll even take a page from Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and give my porno mannequin a name. All these years I’ve had her, I never bothered naming her, because as Holly Golightly said:

“Poor slob without a name! The way I see it, I haven’t got the right to give [her] one. We don’t belong to each other. We just took up one day…I don’t want to own anything until I find a place where me and things go together. I’m not sure where that is but I know what it is like. It’s like Tiffany’s.”

Well, that’s where me and the fake-ass, bullshitting, false-hope-giving movies part ways: I would NEVER want to live at a place like Tiffany’s.

Unless you’re talking about Tiffany’s Cafe at the White Cross Drugstore in downtown Vegas. I’d live there anytime!

Part Two soon to come….stay tuned!

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Jamie Dimon v. Wonderhussy


  

I *FINALLY* figured out the one person who can still help me save my house……Jamie Dimon, CEO of JPMorganChase. He’s the greedy asshole sitting atop the pile of crooked and ill-begotten mortgages in Chase’s coffers… after three years of dealing with powerless underlings who “can’t” help me, I finally found the one who can.

HELP ME, JAMIE DIMON! YOU’RE MY ONLY HOPE!

All I’m asking is for you to let me short-refi my house for the amount that it is currently short selling for. It is currently appraised at $105,000. *PLEASE* let me buy it back from you guys for that amount! PLEASE! 🙂

If I don’t hear back from Jamie Dimon, then it’s time to go to Plan B. Alpha Male douchebags like this are what keep Vegas afloat…I’m sure it’s just a matter of time before Jamie Dimon comes to town for some kind of corporate-sponsored debauchery. I’m asking allllll my local readers who are strippers, prostitutes and drug dealers to MEMORIZE HIS FEATURES! He’s BOUND to show up one of these days, and when he does….

LET ME KNOW!

Also, I’m sure a stuffed-shirt Type-A power player like Jamie Dimon has SOME kinda weird fetish. Likely he’s into being abused, dominated, pissed on or having his balls tortured. If anyone knows of his having such a fetish…

LET ME KNOW!

I’ll be happy to accommodate 🙂 I won’t even charge him — Jamie, if you’re reading this and you’re turned on by any of this…

LET ME KNOW!

I won’t even charge you! I’m sure we could work out a trade. I’ll humiliate you however you like…and in exchange, you could just give me… say….my house.

Deal?

I’m waiiiiiiting…..

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Foot-Sucking Robot Meets Bunny and the Quadruple Bypass Burger

Talk about kicking a girl when she’s down!! Look what they made me do at Footmode.com last week…

 

 

 

 

 

Picking up where I left off last time: I was on my way to my monthly shoot for Footmode — but since I was no longer a starry-eyed newbie (this being my third shoot with them), they took off the gloves. Whereas last time they let me be the Domme in all the shoots, sticking my feet in the face of the other girls and making them sniff ’em… this time I had to take a turn as a sub, and let the other girls kick MY ass and otherwise humiliate me (the first pic shows my evil scientist nemesis using a remote control to turn me into a toe-sucking robot). It was all in good fun, but it was still slightly degrading…but also weirdly therapeutic. I’ve spent the last month or so alternating between fits of bawling and rage, so it was kinda fun to express my pain and misery on camera.

 

 

 

 

 

It wasn’t ALL bad, though; I still got to put on a cheerleading uniform and act like a bitch for a good half of the shoot…which was ALSO extremely therapeutic! (I always wanted to be a cheerleader in school, but we were always too poor to afford the uniforms and training camp and stuff….plus I am a klutz and a terrible dancer; so this is as close as it gets, for me.)

 

 

 

 

 

Anyhoo, this went on for eight hours over two days, and was a welcome distraction from the lameness my life has become. Aside from this, all I’ve been doing is collecting boxes, packing up my shit, and getting ready to move. My house was finally listed on the MLS the day before Thanksgiving, and I got around 10 calls from prospective buyers in the first few hours. Some asshole is gonna get a bangin’ deal on my place, sooner than later! Which I guess is good for me…but it’s still lame, depressing and tiring. Now I gotta find a new place to live :-/ Bah, humbug! It’s a good thing I’m an atheist, or I’d be really pissed to be spending my Christmas in this fashion!!!

Aaaaanyhoo, another welcome distraction was Girls’ Night Out with my friend Bunny, a cross-dressing misanthropist and incorrigible cynic I met back in the day at Ye Olde Photo Lab. Listen to how fucked up the company we work for is: because of her “condition” (pre-op transsexual who works in full drag), they would only let her work the Cher show (figuring Cher fans to be a bunch of cross-dressing homos and weirdos who wouldn’t be offended by her). Personally, I don’t know what they were so worried about; clueless straight men used to hit on her ALL THE TIME… but the photo company insisted on hiding her away up in the balcony (in the cheap seats), so she never made any money, got discouraged, quit, and finally moved to Seattle, where she was apparently held in indentured servitude at a lodge in the mountains until finally escaping back to Vegas. Being desperate, she went straight back to the photo company to ask for her job back…but they never liked her on account of her cynicism (they all drink The Secret on a regular basis, and if you’re not with ’em, you’re a second-class citizen). At first they told her they weren’t hiring….a lie, since they have super-high turnover due to the shittiness of working conditions. Finally they got desperate enough to hire her back, but hid her away over at this drag show in one of the dumpy old hotels, where she was languishing until I plucked her out and whisked her away to Fremont Street for a night of fun!

Our first stop was the Heart Attack Grill — after my spaghetti and ice cream pigouts of the week before, and prior to the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday, I was working on a short piece for Las Vegas City Life (one of our local alt-weeklies) on my adventures in gluttony. Since I failed at the spaghetti challenge, I hoped to redeem myself at the Heart Attack Grill by polishing off one of their Quadruple Bypass Burgers — 2 pounds of beef smothered in Velveeta, onions and bacon, on a lard-toasted bun, accompanied by lard-bathed French fries and a 2,000-calorie Butterfat milkshake with vanilla vodka in it. YUM!

Bunny is always watching her figure, so she just had a shake while I went balls-out. I was REALLY hungry that day, having eaten nothing and done all those Footmode shoots, so I thought I stood a good chance. I should have listened to the bartender, Mike, who warned me that these burgers are like the Hydra of Greek mythology — take a bite, and it just gets bigger. And it was true! After only about 1/3 to 1/2 the burger, I was stuffed. Maybe if I hadn’t guzzled 2000 calories’ worth of butterfat & booze while waiting for my food, I would have made more of a dent in it…but as it happened, I was sadly vanquished again 🙁 And I didn’t even have bacon on it! (Bacon and most porkly products weird me out, so I asked them to hold the bacon.) I am pleased to report, however, that the burger itself tasted excellent! The fries were OK, but only if I held my breath while eating — otherwise the lardy smell was too much for my delicate stomach. But the shake was the BEST part — I will definitely be stopping in again for one of these!

After conceding defeat, Dr. Jon came over and made sure I was OK with a brief post-pigout checkup — which I passed with flying colors! I tried to stick around and have a drink at the bar, but I started to feel pretty sick from all the meat and lard (I generally eat a fairly meat-free, low-fat diet) and figured I’d better walk it off. So Bunny and I went for a stroll down Fremont Street, heading over to check out the new Plaza Hotel, which was just renovated/remodeled and has generated a lot of buzz.

The old Plaza was one of my fave downtown hangouts because of its state of genteel, smoke-drenched decay…and its proximity to the downtown Vegas Greyhound Bus depot, which is right next door and makes for a GREAT influx of crackheads and weirdos. They used to have this amazingly crappy little lounge off the main casino where this crazy stoned Eskimo named Dusty Barron used to play guitar/sing/ramble on incoherently…but alas, due to the new renovations, Dusty and the lounge are gone with the wind. Boo! Apparently, the owners of the Plaza were able to score a bunch of swanky new furnishings for cheap from the unfinished ruins of the half-built-but-never-opened Fontainebleau, so the new Plaza looks (and smells) amazing. You’d never know it was the same joint! Aside from the furnishings, there’s also a new cupcake place, a swanky new salon where the stylists wear lingerie, and a lounge/miniature golf course run by Anthony Cools called The Swingers’ Club (that’s me by the 18th hole, a/k/a the Haunted Hole… hahaha. Plenty o’cobwebs in my hole, too).

They are also FINALLY re-opening the fabulous steakhouse that used to sit up under that glass dome on the second floor, looking down at the circus of the Fremont Street Experience. Now THAT was a swanky place to eat! It was one of those old-school Vegas steakhouses with caricatures of local celebrities on the walls and a grand piano in the lounge, but it was at the Plaza so it was cheap and unassuming. They closed it down a few years ago to put in a pretentious tapas place, but it didn’t do well because its suburbanite following were too big of pussies to venture downtown (this was the pre-gentrification period, before the hipster zealots at Zappos.com bought up everything).

Aaaaaanyhoo, in keeping with the “let’s spruce up downtown” spirit, the Plaza re-branded the steakhouse Oscar’s, after Oscar Goodman, our lovable gin-blossomed ex-mobster ex-mayor (his wife is now mayor, so he’s more like the Mayor’s Consort these days…although word is that he’s getting his own “People’s Court”-type show, to be filmed in the theater at the Hilton!). Apparently, Oscar’s is going to be one of those old-school swanky Vegas steakhouses, and what’s more they are going to hire a bunch of “broads” to work as sort of atmosphere models — i.e. sit at the bar and impart Vegas lore and tourism info to interested diners. Sounds like the PERFECT job for Wonderhussy, eh?! Alas, their job fair was between 9-11am the next morning, and I was too hung over to get over there in time 🙁

Anyway, Bunny and I sneaked into Oscar’s and had a look around before it officially opened…and I can report with assurance that THIS PLACE WILL BE AWESOME! Anyone want to go to dinner??? 😀  Then a security guard kicked us out, so we meandered back down Fremont Street to this piano bar called “Don’t Tell Mama,” a place I have long avoided because it just looks like one of those lame-ass places where yuppies and homos get drunk and sing Billy Joel songs. After going in for a bit, and sipping on ginger ale (Bunny doesn’t drink, and my stomach was still wrestling with 2 pounds of beef-n-lard), I can say that my prejudicial assessment was correct. No, THANKS! Although I do have to give mad props to one of the bartenders, an unassuming-looking tomboy type who has an amazing voice and belted out a bunch of really challenging songs while I was there. Go, tomboy bartender!

After that, I bid Bunny adieu and went home for my usual nightly ritual of crying, drinking wine and eating magic cookies. But before I left, Bunny asked how the Mullet McWartface show was going. You may recall that the headliner in the showroom where I work recently changed from Captain Fantastic to this washed-up, raspy-voiced ex-coxswain with a spiky blonde mullet and an army of slavering cougar devotees — and you may remember as well that times have been reeeeeeally tough, photo-sales-wise. But all Bunny wanted to know was if I had a way to pass along a message to Mullet McWartface, who is well known to be a model railroad enthusiast! You see, Bunny’s hobby is wandering around the hinterlands photographing train tracks in the mist, and she wanted to see about maybe selling some of her prints to Mullet. I had to regretfully inform her that alas, I have no contact with Mullet himself…although I had been carrying on a sort of low-key flirtation with his bass player, unbeknownst to me. I would see him every night in the employee dining room, and I knew he had something to do with the show, but I assumed he was a roadie or stagehand or something, since he was eating slop in the EDR with all the other peons. Then I went in to watch the show on the last night of Mullet’s engagement, just to see what all the cougars were so fired up about, and I saw that he was actually the bass player. Either way, I had no way to pass along Bunny’s message…and now Mullet and his entourage are gone, not to return for their next engagement until March 2012.

Sooooo, after my big night out with Bunny, I wrote this scintillating article about my food adventures, and then it was time to pack up for the trip home to California for Thanksgiving. I always go home for the holidays — it seems suuuper-depressing to stay in Vegas at that time of year, although I have heard from friends that it’s actually awesome (in particular, the youth hostel downtown has a potluck dinner with all the backpacking Euro kids, and that sounds INCREDIBLE!). This year was somewhat inconvenient for me, however, since as mentioned my house was listed on the MLS the day before the holiday, so all day Wednesday and even on Thanksgiving itself I was deluged with phone calls. But whatever! I still had a good time with my nutty family.

A word about my family: they are not as transparent as I am, and don’t like having their photos posted online. So I have no pics to share — just like the time I went to that Wiccan jamboree at the Sekhmet Temple, you’ll have to use your imagination! Anyhoo, we’re pretty close-knit and for the holidays we all meet up at my mom’s house in San Jose, CA (not really her house; she’s been renting forever and plans to try and buy a house up farther north, in real hippie-dippy NorCal country, soon). Everyone was there: my oldest sis and her Israeli hubby (with whom I camped at Burning Man), my little sis (a recent college grad with a psychology degree, living at home while working as a office temp), and my bro (a recent engineering grad who just got his first “real” job as a programmer at some company in Sacramento) and his girlfriend (a student at “casually-pepper-spraying-cop-land a/k/a UC Davis). We spent all weekend eating, boozing, smoking and drumming — gooooooood times 🙂

One day we all got dressed and took a drive up north a ways to the little town where my mom and dad grew up and met, and where my dad lived most of his life before ending it all in a fit of depression earlier this year by stepping in front of an Amtrak train on Tax Day. We had heard of a little memorial someone had erected in his memory near the train tracks, so we went down to check it out and pay our respects…all while making many tasteless gallows-humor jokes about trains, which passed by at intervals. Weird, but fun! I forgot to stop in and have a shot of Rumpleminze at the local bar, as was my dad’s tradition in life (he usually had a beer and a shot of Rumpleminze…but on the day he killed himself, he had FIVE shots)…but from now on, I vow that whenever I’m in the town of Martinez, CA, I will have a shot of Rumpleminze in his honor! As Dog is my witness!!!

But now the holiday is over and everyone had to go back to the real world…which for me means facing down a week of unmitigated hell. I have no fewer than 8 different Realtors bringing prospective buyers over tomorrow, and in between all that I still have to pack up more stuff, lift weights and look for a new place to live. NOT very much fun, I’m afraid. Better put on my Big Girl panties, like they say…

I’ll leave you with some photos from my shoot with Cam Attree earlier this month — the one where I froze my ASS off running around the desert in inclement weather. They came out awesome, despite my mental and physical misery throughout the entire shoot, and he even wrote a blog about it:

http://www.nudephotographer.com.au/2011/11/23/

vegas-part-2-wonder-hussy-the-lake-beds/

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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