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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Friday the 13th

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Haters!

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wonderhussy has narrowly escaped the clutches of the morality police and has fled into the wilds of wordpress

This site is still under construction. But, in the meantime…because I can….

Shit! Piss! Fuck! Tits! I have nipples, and I shouldn’t be punished for showing them!

Take that, Mark Z…

<3 wonderhussy

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