I’ve lived in Vegas 14 years now, and over that time I’ve gone through phases of loving it…and hating it. Well, right now I happen to be right in the middle of one of those times where I FUCKING LOATHE IT :/
These periods of Loathing Las Vegas usually coincide with summer — a time of year when it is screaming, broiling, baking, unbearably soul-searingly hot and humid, due to the seasonal monsoonal thunderstorms that move in. It’s like 150 degrees, with 80% humidity — the whole city becomes one big rotting, steaming shitpile of tweekers, crackheads, alcoholics, assholes and douchebags. The omnipresent grit — which normally I find endearing — congeals into a sticky, sweaty, acrid grime that inexorably works its way in under your fingernails and down into the deepest crevices of your soul, causing (in my case) a deep existential malaise :/
When I left California at the beginning of the month, my initial plan was to do like I did when I came back from Mexico — come home just long enough to do laundry, wash my hair and pack new clothes…then get the fuck out of here in less than 24 hours, and go back to California until it was time for Burning Man. I figured I could rustle up a few gigs in the Bay Area, and at least stay cool in the forest and party in San Francisco, while also spending more time with my family.
Unfortunately, some nearsighted dipshit ran a stop sign, and put the kibosh to all my plans :/
That’s right, I had only been back in town a day or two, and was headed downtown to pick up a Burning Man ticket for my sister…when this dumbass blew right through a stop sign, right in front of me. I tried to brake in time, but ended up hitting the back corner of his shitty little Hyundai — crumpling my bumper in the process The ends of the bumper were bent, curled all the way back in towards my tires — so much so that I couldn’t even drive my beloved truck.
Now, I don’t know if you’ve been in a fender bender lately, but due to budget cuts, it’s real shitty the way it goes down anymore — the cops and paramedics show up, but only to ascertain that no one was hurt. They don’t write a report, they don’t issue a ticket (for RUNNING A STOP SIGN!!!), and they don’t take statements. It’s all up to you — in my case, all up to ME, since the other asshole’s car was driveable, and he was able to cruise off just fine.
The first thing I did was call my insurance, to make sure I followed proper procedure — I know how these assholes are (I’m still reading that John Grisham book I got at the lending library at those Mexican hot springs, so believe me, I’m well-informed), and I wanted to make double sure I did everything by the book. So while I’m wading thru automated hell — “Press 1 for this, Press 2 for that–” the cops are on my ass, telling me I need to move my truck out of the intersection PRONTO! Meanwhile, I’m also trying to take photos of the scene, to prove I wasn’t at fault, and get the other driver’s info, and figure out what the fuck I’m gonna do…all at once. Add to that the fact that it was about 175 degrees outside and humid as fuck, and I’m not ashamed to say I broke down weeping. FUCK THIS TOWN!!!
Finally, I got through to my insurance, the cops were able to move my truck by letting air out of the tires, and I was assured that a tow truck was on its way. My friend DC works at a body shop, so I called him and told him I was coming…and then the cops left me sitting there bawling in the miserable nuclear heat, waiting for the tow truck. FUCK!
Anyway, to make a very long, boring story short, DC was a huge help to me, and basically took care of everything — once I got to his shop, he had a rental car place come pick me up, and I got a shitty little Hyundai of my very own to tootle around in til my truck was fixed. Couldn’t take long, right? I mean, it was just a crumpled bumper — easy peasy, no? Well, NOTHING is every easy when insurance is involved. Despite the fact that this was a pretty fucking clear-cut case of this other bozo running a stop sign, I had to wait about a week for his insurance to do an investigation — and until they admitted liability, DC couldn’t start working on my truck.
So meanwhile I’ve been driving this fuckin’ Hyundai since August 5, which will be paid for by the other guy’s insurance once they admit it was his fault…but if I wanted additional collision coverage on the rental, I had to pony up $13/day out of my own pocket. With the way my luck has been going lately, I figured I’d better get it — so now, through no fucking fault of my own, I’m out $208 just because some fucking idiot ran a stop sign in front of me.
I know, I know — First World Problems. I wasn’t hurt and at least I had a car to drive — but it just came at a really bad time! I NEED my truck at this time of year — prepping for Burning Man aside, I also wanted to spend this downtime shopping for a camper shell, which now I couldn’t do either.
Even worse, a couple days later a friend called me, saying his sex toy warehouse was going out of business, and could I please come over and take as much of his inventory as possible with me?!?! FUCK!!! Of all the times not to have a truck!!!!!
As it was, I raced over there in my shitty little rental and filled two giant Hefty bags with fucked-up shit — I’m not a big sex toy user, but I did need some rubber dongs for this performance art piece I was doing the following weekend, so I took this guy for every dong he had — strap ons, buttplugs, vibrators, dildos — plus a bunch of other fucked up stuff like nipple clamps, bondage tape, rubber sheets and even a pocket pussy for good measure.
While I’m going through my friend’s boxes of inventory picking stuff out, he comes through: “You’re being too picky!! JUST TAKE IT ALL!” And I’m like, “I CAN’T!! I HAVE A HYUNDAI!!!!!!!”
Like I said, as it was I ended up dragging two huge overflowing Hefty bags out to the parking lot, and of course one of the bags split open and dongs fell out all over the sidewalk, only unfortunately there weren’t any schools or churches nearby — it was in an industrial part of town, so no one freaked out I told you I’ve been having shitty luck, LOL!
Anyhoo, I went home and took all the dongs out of their packaging and lined them up on the counter, just to cheer myself up. It was like the Baskin-Robbins of dongs…and it did bring a smile to my face, however briefly. Then I threw all the packaging materials into my recycle bin…and boy would I have loved to see the garbageman’s face when he picked up THAT recycle bin!!!
So anyway, dongs or no, now I was really stuck in Vegas, until my truck was fixed. Trapped!!!! It was like the old CCR song, “Oh Lord, I’m stuck in Lodi again…” only 100x worse. Not only was it hot and humid, but my roommate had broken my coffee pot, so I was stuck drinking instant shit until the replacement arrived in the mail…and then on top of it all, I lost my favorite skull bracelet at the gym I wore that fucker all up and down the coast from Mexico to Canada, but only Vegas could kill it, apparently. Just like my truck :/
So, since I was stuck in town, I figured might as well make the most of it. I worked out a lot, hitting the gym as often as possible, and also figured I might as well try to make a few bucks while I was at it. Random-ass gigs usually find their way to me…but wouldn’t you fuckin’ know it, the only calls I got were for stuff in the Bay Area!!! Work around Vegas had seemingly dried the fuck up!
Oh well, not a problem — I’m resourceful; I’ll just put on a costume and go busking down on Fremont Street and make some cash money! You may recall last time I did that I made $200 in 3 hours, so I figured I’d go out every night I was in Vegas and make what I could, to sock away some cash before I went to Burning Man. After all, I SHOULD have been in Sturgis that very same week, raking it in at the Knuckle Saloon…but like I said last time, the manager out there didn’t want to hire us back, because this one bartender didn’t get along with the other girl I went with, and talked shit about both of us to him
OK, so anyway, back to busking. The first Saturday night I was back in town, I got all dressed up in this slutty Marie Antoinette costume — I normally busk in my marijuana showgirl outfit, but figured I’d try something new, since when I used to work at the Act, people went APE SHIT over that Marie Antoinette costume. I figured the Japanese would dig it, ya know? So with a powdered face and a towering wig and my ass hanging out f a pink lace thong, I mixed up a drink and headed down to Fremont to get rich…or die trying. And guess what, I really almost did die!
When I got down there, it was super crowded and crazier than usual — Saturday night, hot and humid and sweaty and scented with piss, booze and body odor. There are so many regulations on street performers down there now, they’re all basically forced to stand in one of three little areas — ghettoes, if you will. Since you can’t busk within 10 feet of a kiosk, 20 feet of a casino, 20 feet of a crosswalk or 200 feet of a stage when a performance is going on, all the performers have basically been corralled into these three little pockets of competitive misery and angst — and IT SUCKED!
At first I stood around near a friendly enough group of superheros and half-naked chicks wearing pasties and tiger stripes, but the naked chicks were getting all the action so I moved along to the next pocket, and hung out by “Robert DeNiro” and “Scarface,” who were so frosty toward me I almost forgot it was 183 degrees out that night. So then I spotted a less densely-packed area by “Mr. T” and “Rick James,” and went to stand over by them. And that’s when the shitstorm started!
“You cain’t stand here,” Mr. T announced, swaggering over to me in a threatening manner. “This our spot.”
“What do you mean? There’s no reserving spots…I know the law, I wrote an article about this shit for City Life back in the day!”
Oooh, now Mr. T was pissed: “Whatchu talkin’ bout?!!! THIS OUR SPOT! I’ll call security right now; they’ll tell your ass what’s up!”
Now his buddy Rick James was eyeing me ruefully — I think he remembered me from when I interviewed him for that City Life article, and no doubt remembered how sympathetic and fair I’d been in my coverage of his pathetic-ass story. But he didn’t stand up for me — he just let Mr. T keep screaming at me. Well FUCK YOU, TOO, you fuckin’ loser! If anyone is interested, his real name is something like G.P. Entertainer, and he’s a total fucking spineless tool. If you see him down there, tell him I said Fuck You!
Anyway, I wasn’t about to back down, and now Mr. T was really pissed — he probably didn’t really want to call security, because if they got involved they’d probably kick us all out. But at this point I still harbored hopes of making a few bucks, so I decided it would be best if I did just move along to another spot — but as I walked off I made sure to flip him off, and I’m ashamed to say, even bent over and spread my asscheeks at him a bit (I was wearing two thongs, so it wasn’t as bad as it sounds): “Fuck youuuuuu!!!”
Oooh, now he was REALLY pissed! “FUCK YOU, YA STANKY-ASS HO!”
At this point, the existential malaise was seeping back in — I went to college, for chrissake — what the fuck was I doing fighting with Mr. T over some dumb busking turf?! I meandered around Fremont Street for a few more minutes, trying to salvage the night, but it was no use — I was terrified of all the other angry buskers, and the mean security, and I wasn’t sure where exactly I could stand, and I was getting swampass from wearing that giant wig and stuff in the hot weather….and it was basically just a nightmare. One of the other friendly buskers told me I would do better down in front of the Bellagio in that outfit — “You’re too classy for downtown!” so I even drove all the way over to the Strip, and parked in the shadow of that dumbass new Ferris Wheel, and walked around scoping out the buskers in that part of town….but I just wasn’t feeling it, and eventually I gave up and went home…now more depressed than ever. I made $5 all night, from some Japanese ladies (see??)…BUSKFAIL! You know you’re pathetic when you even fail at busking.
So after that debacle, I swore off busking for good — fuck that loser-ass shit. Not to worry, though — like I said, random gigs have a way of finding me; all I had to do was sit back and wait for some to come in. Alas, however…..the only gigs that came my way were few and far between, and didn’t pay very well, for the most part. Fortunately for this blog, however…at least they were exceptionally interesting!
First, I was hired to perform as my male alter ego, Johnny Areola, at a drag king show they were having for Lesbian Night at this bar downtown, the Lady Silvia. Yes, I was actually paid (a nominal sum, to be sure…but paid nevertheless)…so I guess that makes me a professional drag king now, LOL!
Anyhoo, that’s why I was hoarding all those dongs earlier in the week — I wanted to be well-equipped as Johnny Areola come the show! I picked out the biggest one that would fit in my jeans, and wore that all night…but then also stashed the biggest, most obscene one in my jacket pocket, so I could whip it out towards the end of my performance and freak everyone out!! Lulz!!!
It was awesome! I did George Michael’s “Faith” (my go-to number), and whipped out the surprise dong toward the end, during the guitar solo — which it was perfectly suited for, all jangly and dangly. The only bummer was, I didn’t make any tips — most of the other drag kings got dollar bills handed to them by overheated lesbians (there were a LOT of lesbians there) because their acts were more authentic — I think the lesbians knew I was just joking around, and wasn’t serious about the lifestyle. Oh, well!
Most of the other drag kings were frighteningly realistic looking — a couple
of cowboys, a reggae-type guy, an Asian androgyne — but then there was this one other amazing showman named Jeffrey Xerxes Brice who dressed up like Rick James (and was MUCH better than that dumbass fool G.P. Entertainer, I must say)….and she and I were definitely cut from the same cloth. She didn’t make any tips either — shocker. Come on lesbians — where’s your sense of humor?! Ehhh, it was all good….I did get paid, and I got a free drink as well, and had a few laffs. So it was all worth it!
Anyway, on to my other gigs. Another day, a friend hooked me up with a day gig scanning badges at a hacker convention at Mandalay Bay — OMFG!!! This was fascinating — all these hacker kids get together in Vegas every year to compare notes and hack each other and play World of Warcraft or whatever the fuck, I don’t know. Actually, it’s a two-part convention — I was working the “corporate” show, which was all antivirus companies and shit like that, trying to stop the hackers. But meanwhile, the real fun was over at the Rio, where the DEFCON show was going down.
I kept hearing about how crazy DEFCON was — you have to turn your phone to airplane mode or shut it down completely, or you’ll get hacked. You can’t use the ATMs, or you’ll get hacked. Hell, you can’t even use the elevators — they even hacked those one year, so they wouldn’t go to the right floors!!! Those fucking kids are too smart for their own good, I tell you.
Well, I knew I had to go check this shit out in person, so one night my friend Justin and I went over to see what was up. We didn’t have badges, but figured it would be fun to “hack” our way into a hacker convention — which we did, and it was actually super lame. It was basically just darkened ballrooms full of gamer kids hunched over laptops, pecking furiously away at incomprehensible numerical shit. WTF?!? Youth really is wasted on the young! But I guess it was kind of fun to see…in a bizarre way. Some of them were drunk and running around the casino in crazy hats, like kids all hopped up on Pixy Stix.
Then my gigs took the usual turn toward the seedy — this is Vegas, after all. I got a text from an acquaintance who runs an event management company, and was helping facilitate some high roller’s crazy Vegas party in the Fantasy Suite up at the Palms Hotel. In addition to having strippers and prostitutes and burlesque girls shooting darts from their vaginae, the high roller also wanted to hire some topless chicks to hang out at the pool as atmosphere, at a rate of $100/hour…so I heaved a sigh and said “Sure, I’ll do it.” I felt pretty cheap, though — I mean, I have no problem being naked, but when it’s just to fulfill some rich d-bag’s sexist Vegas fantasy, it kind of loses its luster…ya know? Still, it was a 4-hour booking, and $400 is $400 — I can buy a lot of gas (and adventures) with that. So I suited up and went over, with one of the other Goddesses from the Goddess Collective in tow.
We were supposed to be there from 10pm-2am…but wouldn’t you know it, as soon as we got there they told us the guy had changed his mind, and we weren’t needed after all. D’OH!! Still, the guy who hired me paid us each a more than decent amount for our time, so I guess it was all good — I didn’t end up having to fulfill the d-bag’s fantasy after all, and still got paid. Hmmm.
Then a few days later, I got another call from the same porn production company I did that gig for as an extra back in April or whenever it was. This time, they were filming a movie about nut milking, and needed a female extra to play a massage therapist at a spa — no hanky panky, all I had to do was rub this one actress’s shoulders for a few minutes. So of course, I said yes.
It was mostly the same crew as the last movie I shot with them, but much smaller — the last one was the porn version of the Wolf of Wall Street, so there were tons of extras and big production values and whatnot, whereas this one was just a quickie about nut milking at a spa (apparently that’s a thing…a guy lays on a massage table with his balls and junk hanging through a hole, and a chick “milks” him from underneath the table).
The scene was being shot at a private residence in the suburbs that was currently listed for sale, which I found interesting; I know the seller has to disclose if any murders were committed or meth was cooked on the property…but do they have to disclose if a porn was filmed there? Anyhoo, the scenario was: this couple is relaxing at an upscale resort, but the wife is bored. She pees in the pool, then sees her ex-boyfriend come in with his new girl, and decides to milk him under the table while he’s getting massaged on top by the new girl — unbeknownst to the new girl, who keeps asking him to turn over so they can fuck — “no one will see us!!!” He ends up busting his nut all over the girl under the table, who emerges covered in jizz, to the shock and dismay of the girl up top — and chaos ensues. LOL!
Well, unfortunately for me, this time I didn’t get to witness any of the real action — my scene was just at the very beginning, after the wife pees in the pool. I’m just kneeling there massaging her shoulders in my white masseuse outfit, cool as a cucumber. The actress I was massaging was super cool, too — very friendly and straightforward. She told me she has three little kids she’s supporting on her own, and she was tiny — like a little bird, no more than 90 pounds, and only about 26 years old. What a trip, that someone so fragile and delicate was in such a hardcore industry! I hope it all works out OK for her and her kids!
The best part of the shoot, just like last time, was the awesome director — this Gen X-er type guy in Morrissey glasses with the most fabulous straightforward manner: “Can I get a reflector on her vagina? Sweetness, roll up a towel and prop your vagina on it so I can get a better angle. Atta girl, there ya go.” That guy is one of my favorite people, EVER! Especially because he doesn’t fuck around, and gets shit done fast — I was done in under 3 hours.
Anyhoo, the last gig I did during this miserable period in my life was by far the most interesting…and in a way, the most depressing of them all. My Goddess Collective colleague from the topless pool party texted me one day to see if I could model for this group of plastic surgeons who were taking a sculpture class at an anatomy school, to gain a better understanding of the human body and how it should look. It was 9am on a Sunday morning, but wtf….I’m an atheist; I got nothing better to do on a Sunday morning than stand around naked being judged!
So I cruise over to this anatomy school, and would you believe it was right next door, in the very same strip mall, as my friend’s dildo warehouse where earlier that week I’d been dragging a bag of dicks thru the parking lot?! LOL….Vegas; what a small town.
Anyway, this gig consisted of standing on a pedestal in front of a room of plastic surgeons, nude except for a G-string, while the instructors pointed out various flaws on my body. Sobering! Actually, I’m being facetious — they were really nice, and kept reminding me how there was nothing wrong with my body; they were just using me as an example of what they would do, if someone came in wanting work done. Hmmm.
Now, these were top-of-the line doctors, mostly from Vegas (which is one of the plastic surgery capitals of the world) but also a few from around the country/world, and it was actually a really cool idea for them to take this sculpture class, to better understand the human body in its ideal form. They each had to sculpt their own little human figure out of clay, which is what my Goddess Collective colleague had been doing — she’d been working there all week, modeling for their sculptures (she is a teeny tiny little thing with a perfect body for that kind of shit — the exact body type most hags ask for when they go under the knife).
So overall, it was a really fun and interesting experience — first they all watched a slideshow about beauty norms, and then they had my friend and I both get up on pedestals in the font of the room, so they could compare our physiques. Arrrrrgh!! I always feel like a moose next to this little bitch!! One of the instructors, a professional sculptor who runs the school, took out these giant calipers and measured our dimensions and ratios and shit from navel to hip, etc…and shockingly, she and I had the same dimensions. She’s just so skinny, it looks different on her. Interesting!! All I can say is, during our break, we went out to the breakfast area and for the first time in my life, I was not tempted to eat a bagel or pastry or anything!!!!!!!!
After the break, my friend stepped down and it was all me — the other instructor, who is a plastic surgeon here in town, got out his blue grease pencil and started drawing lines all over my body, showing where he would make incisions and suck out fat and whatnot — in theory, of course (they all kept reminding me of that, telling me I had a great body. Hmmm). Then they had me lie down on a gurney, so they could see how those lines shifted when I was lying flat. I’m here to tell you, it was like one of those alien abduction videos — lying naked on a table, with a horde of plastic surgeons hovering overhead, staring at you. WEIRD!!!
But what was really weird was the feeling of being judged — these were all professionals, at the top of their field, so I know they were automatically sizing me up, figuring out how they could give me tits. None of them really said anything to that effect…but I guarantee that’s what they were thinking! They must have figured I was a broke-ass hack, saving my pennies for a tit job…when little did they know I have enough cheese to get FOUR sets of tits, like a cat…I just don’t want to! Now, I’m not saying I’m above getting plastic surgery — when the times comes, I will definitely buy some Botox…and if there were a procedure that could lengthen one’s legs about 6 inches, I would sign up in a flash. But tits…meh.
And the rest of it, I take care of the old-fashioned way — at the gym! In fact, after they let me go from that seminar, I headed straight over there for some weightlifting — without even washing off the blue pencil lines!!! The lines gave me something to strive for…ya know??! Like, if I did enough reps, eventually I would fit the pattern that society has cut for us! (It didn’t work, but I got a lot of strange looks…which was fun.)
So, that gig was fun at the time…but I think it got to me on a subconscious level, because I was even more bummed out after that. I’m telling you, I just couldn’t shake this damn cloud of gloom that’s been following me around all month! I tried to do what I normally do when I’m in a funk — go over and get one of those magic spell-breaking candles they sell at the corner Magick Shoppe…but I think the place went out of business or something, because every time I went over there, it was closed So I made my own little altar at home, and said some words and made positive intentions and shit, and even gathered up some wild sage to burn while I was hiking last week near Mountain Springs (the only place cool enough to hike out here this time of year is the mountains)…..but even that damn hike was jinxed, as I slipped and fell and scraped the shit out of my knee I never fall while hiking!! So, I don’t know what the fuck is up.
Thankfully, I had one more gig lined up that was also a fabulous adventure, and it was pretty much the only thing I did lately that made me happy. My friends at the Palms Restaurant in Wonder Valley, CA (remote desert near Twentynine Palms, between Vegas and Palm Springs) were hosting an experimental noise disco festival in their backyard last Saturday, and they hired me to come out and go-go dance at it!
Now, you know I’m a terrible dancer — I even got fired from the Act because of it! Well, this was experimental noise music — far out shit with weird tempos and strange noises and all kinds of dissonance and discordance and whatnot, so for once in my life I was GOLDEN!!!! They had this stage set up out back, with flashing lights and weird patterns playing on a projection screen, while three bands rotated sets: Phog Masheen (two amazing guys in lab coats playing fucked-up synthesizer noises and weird electronic trombone-type things), Alien Agenda (a live drummer and a guitarist/singer who played some super experimental beats) and then Hernia, this amazing couple in little cloth Dutch caps who screeched and howled and made weird noises into the mic, and I’m pretty sure the guy was playing his electric guitar with a vibrator!!! FAR OUT!!!!!
Anyway, all this crazy shit was going down in the open desert behind the Palms, and a decent amount of locals crawled out of their swamp-cooled caverns to check it out, even though it was still around 95 degrees at night. That place is even hotter than Vegas, I think!! But I had a blast — me and the other gogo dancer just went nuts, going with the flow and interpreting the music as it moved our bodies, and then at the end of the night, all three bands got on stage together and all played at once!!! Talk about far out — it was INSANE!!!
Now, the pay for this gig wasn’t very much — just about enough to cover my gas there and back, but it was TOTALLY worth the experience. Any excuse to visit Wonder Valley, even in mid-August! Plus, the woman who invited me hooked me up with the most fabulous little desert cabin to stay in, all to myself — the Rusty Arrow Ranch, right across the highway from the Palms. What a bad ass house that was — decorated all kooky with funky art and artifacts. I’d love to stay there again! It would be amazing in the winter — there’s a fireplace and a hot tub out back, and the stargazing out there is incredible!
On top of that, they also hooked me up with free drinks and free breakfast at the Palms, so all in all it was a fanTAStic trip! And what made it even moreso was, some random local guy messaged me on Facebook right before I went out there, inviting me to go rock climbing with him in Joshua Tree National Park the afternoon before the noise disco (we had a mutual friend in one of the Palms staff, is how he found me on Facebook). So since I’ve never been rock climbing before, and despite the fact that it was about 150 degrees out, I said SURE!
So I drove out from Vegas that afternoon, dropped off my bags at the Rusty Arrow Ranch, and then met up with my rock climbing buddy at the Palms around 2:30…and we headed out to Joshua Tree. This guy turned out to be super cool — a retired schoolteacher who has lived to climb pretty much his whole life — only now, he has a family, so he doesn’t get out as much as he used to. But he still gets a thrill from showing others his passion, which is why he wanted to take me out for a climb.
Out at Joshua Tree we met up with his other climbing buddy, this awesome musician who divides his time between playing in two badass bands, and teaching music at a local middle school. (There are a ton of artists and musicians out in that part of the country, because it’s so cheap to live, I guess.) Anyway, this kid also loves to climb, so between the two of them I was in good hands. They set me up with some gear, gave me a few pointers, and then I was on my way…crawling painstakingly up the sheer face of a giant cliff, in the blazing midafternoon desert sun. WTF was I thinking?!?!?!?!
I’m one of those people who likes to try anything once, so it was a great experience for me in that respect. Plus, I’ve never considered myself really athletic or outdoorsy in that way — I’ve always been more the bookish, artsy type — so it was kind of reaffirming to my spirit to do something badass like rock climb. Ya know? But that being said, it was pretty hard….and definitely freaky, so I’m not sure if I’ll do it again. But my new rock climbing pals are planning to come up to Vegas to do some climbing later this year, and they already said they’re dragging me along. D’oh!!!!!
Anyway, either way you look at it, it was a really fun afternoon — I pushed my boundaries, got some fresh air and sunshine, and made some cool new friends. Then I went back to the Rusty Arrow Ranch, took a quick shower and nap, and then danced all night at the Noise Disco. Nothing but good times in Wonder Valley — my two rock climbing pals even showed up for the disco! But boy…was I ever exhausted after that!!!
Alas, I didn’t have much time to rest — the next morning, after a delicious veggie omelet at the Palms, I hauled ass back to Vegas because I had planned to audition for a game show that evening with some friends. Now, I can’t say too much about it because I probably signed some kind of non-disclosure agreement for it…but it’s a new show that basically tests your pop culture knowledge. The only downside to it is, you can’t go on alone — you have to have a partner (which means splitting the prize money…grrr). The potential prize is $20k, so that means if I get on, and if I win, I’m looking at about $8k after taxes, after splitting it with my partner (who, incidentally, is DC…the guy who’s working on my truck, and who I hiked Tikaboo Peak with. A super cool dude, for sure!).
But that’s a lot of “if”s — DC and I did ace the audition, and made it to the very final round, and they said we have a 98% chance of getting called to L.A. to be on the show for reals. So….stay tuned for that!! Dog knows, I sure could use $8k.
So, aaaaaaanyhoo….writing all this down just now, it really does seem like I’ve had a lot of interesting adventures the past few weeks, so I don’t know why I’ve been so bummed. It just felt like a lot of the time, I was sitting around sweating my balls off, killing time til Burning Man — which makes me really bummed, as I hate to “kill” time; there’s little enough of it as it is, especially in my beloved summertime! Many times over the past weeks, I wished so hard I was camping at June Lake or Zion or the Lost Coast, or any of a thousand wonderful places…but I had no one to go with :-/ People are always saying they want to go on adventures with me, but they almost always end up flaking. I can’t tell you HOW MANY TIMES I was stood up the past few weeks :-/ I guess need to start sacking up and going alone.
So, with that in mind….I plan to drive to Burning Man tomorrow, and camp out alone halfway along the route, by Walker Lake. I’ve never camped solo before, so it would be a really character-building little adventure…plus it would break up the long-ass drive nicely. Of course I’d RATHER stay at the famously creepy Clown Motel in nearby Tonopah...but I haven’t been working much lately, so my budget does not, alas, allow for that luxury.
But even THAT fucking plan is being stymied — my truck STILL isn’t ready!! That damn idiot’s insurance FINALLY admitted liability last week, but for whatever reason the bumper won’t be fixed til tomorrow morning. Which is cutting it kinda close… but I figured if I can at least get everything all packed up and ready to go, all I’ll have to do is pick up the truck, load ‘er up, hitch ‘er up and cruise on out.
BUT, OF COURSE my run of bad luck is still holding strong — when I went out to the garage this evening to try and get stuff ready, my fucking garage door opener is busted, and the damn door won’t even open. My roommate opens it 50 times a day to get his moped out and go to Circle K or whatever…but the one time I try to open it, it breaks. F U C K!!!!!!!
OK, OK, I know….First World Problems. I’ll deal with the damn door when I get back — meanwhile, barring further misfortune, first thing tomorrow I’ll just manually force open the fuckin’ door and push the damn trailer out…oh but wait, I forgot, I had taken the wheels off so I could get new tires for the trip, and I can’t put the wheels back on because my FUCKING TIRE IRON IS IN MY TRUCK….WHICH IS STILL IN THE SHOP!!!
So basically, I can’t do anything til I get my damn truck back.
And meanwhile…I REALLY hope my string of bad luck ends, soon. I’ve had a sinking suspicion this will end up being my “shitty” Burning Man year — everyone has one, but I never really have as of yet. Hopefully I’m wrong…but I’m not even sure my trailer will crank/stay open, so we’ll see. Eh, either way…I can sleep in a tent, and get shitfaced and high and forget all my troubles… until they all come crashing back down on me on Sept. 2nd :/
See you then!!!
P.S. Remember when that Japanese TV crew filmed me in my closet back in March?? Well, it finally aired…check it out!!
P.P.S. Also check out this awesome campaign ad I made for my run to become Miss Las Vegas Hempfest 2014! Vote for me….or the commies win!!
Incoming search terms:
- did mr T get plastic surgery
- porno in pilot cabin