The Forgotten City

1384193 10202833635259167 1953310602764594751 n 169x300 The Forgotten CityFriends, I attended an EPIC party this past weekend. The local Burning Man group threw a massive 3-day desert party out in Boulder City, and around 600 people showed up to tune in, turn on, and camp out in what basically amounted to a mini version of the real Burning Man.

Now, I know Burning Man is basically just a big frat kegger with tutus and hula hoops…but for many people, the whole Burning Man ethos has become a lifestyle and a real community. There are probably at least a thousand Burners (as they call Burning Man habitués) living in Vegas, and our local group is pretty hardcore. Many of them/us meet up all the time for parties, campouts, drum circles, spaghetti dinners and art events…and it really is kind of like a big, funky, fucked-up family. Some of us are annoying as fuck, some are fun, some are raging drunks, and some are dependable and helpful. But for better or for worse, we all hang out together, and have been for years.

Back before I started this blog, I didn’t have (m)any friends outside my ghetto-ass work colleagues and my boyfriend at the time, who was ultraconservative and kinda square. But when I broke up with him, I had a sort of bohemian Renaissance, and came back wackier than ever. My sister suggested I embrace my newfound nuttiness and go with her to Burning Man, so I joined the local Burning Man group to figure it out. And I made a TON of friends! Say what you will about Burners — they’re super friendly people.

That was in 2009, and since then I’ve been to Burning Man 5 times and many local events as well. And over the years, it’s been the same crew of loonies in the local Burner community. Sometimes I get tired of it, and take a break for awhile…but I always end up coming back. Who the fuck else am I gonna hang out with? I mean, I have other circles of friends…but my Burner friends are the nuttiest.

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Fried as fuck!!!

Anyway, this past weekend was the local officially-sanctioned Burning Man Regional event — a pretty big to-do, so I decided to go. I hadn’t been to many local Burner events lately, so I figured it was time for me to stick my toe back in the waters and see what was new. Well, guess what? NOTHING was new — they were all the same loony, loopy, hoopy pill-popping druggie alkies — with a few meditative yoga types thrown in. In other words…..I fit right in!

Our local regional campout is called The Forgotten City, and this was the 5th year it was held. 600 people showed up from as far afield as LA and San Diego, and it was actually pretty amazing! Even though it was only a 3-day event, people spent a TON of time, money and energy setting up art, dance floors and theme camps…so that when it was all done, it really did look like a little mini Burning Man. Hey — as recently as 1992, the real Burning Man only had 600 attendees (now it’s 68,000)! You never know!!

Anyhoo, I drove out to Boulder City on Friday morning and set up camp. This was a good opportunity for me to test out my poor pop-up camper, which is on its last legs — after my trip to the Salton Sea in March, I really thought it was kaput. But my frenemy Alex greased up the gears for me, and it seems to be working OK for now. We’ll see if it survives the REAL Burning Man!

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my camp

I camped out with a group of people I didn’t really know — my friend Scott and a few of his pals, plus another couple who are among the more responsible/capable local Burners. It turned out to be a super cool arrangement! I set up my camper and shade structure, and then pimped out my space into a little photo studio. Part of the whole Burning Man culture is sharing your art with others, and making an inclusive, interactive experience…so I decided to share my love of costumes and photography by taking psychedelic portraits of my fellow campers. I did this at the real Burning Man last year, and it was so much fun that I figured I’d do it again. I even ordered a bunch of Polaroid film, so that I could give out hard copies.

And honestly, after just 5 minutes I felt right at home — before even setting up my camper, I was half-naked, drinking a mimosa and chatting with a tranny friend in the warm spring sunshine. THAT’s living, my friends icon smile The Forgotten City

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with the radio show crew

Unfortunately, I had already committed to a gig in town that afternoon, so I couldn’t get too wasted — around 3pm I had to sack up and drive back to Vegas to be on the 702Rox internet radio show with Foxy Roxy. I’ve been making sporadic appearances on her show lately, and this week she wanted to use me as a guinea pig for this company called IV Rescue that does vitamin drips to cure hangovers. That’s right — Vegas is so fucked up that they figured out a way for you to party all night at the club, then get shot full of B-12 in the morning so you can make it out to the pool and party all day!!! It’s a wonder anyone in this town has a liver anymore!!

Anyway, I told them the timing was all wrong, and that I was only now headed to a three-day rave where I would likely get fucked the fuck up, thus requiring an IV on Monday when I got back. But they assured me it was OK to do it this way – -a preemptive strike, as it were, plumping me up with fluids and vitamins to ward off the upcoming assault. So despite my misgivings, they jabbed a needle in my arm and filled ‘er up.

As soon as the radio show was over, I hauled ass straight back to Boulder City, only stopping off to pick up two other local Burners who needed rides. One poor guy had to ride in the back of my truck, but it was all good — it was Burning Man, maaaaaan!!! We got back to the party around sunset, and it was ON!

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at work in the photo studio

The next three days are really kind of a blur. I remember drinking a lot of booze, smoking a ton of weed and eating a mushroom or two…all the while running around half-naked in a clown wig and two strategically-placed light-up balloons. F U N !!! During the afternoons, a steady stream of victims found their way into my little photo studio, and subjected themselves to my cosplay madness: you see, when you have your portrait taken by me, you have to let go and let Wonderhussy; that means *I* get to choose what you wear! I did a pretty good job on everyone though, I have to say.

In addition, the colorful tapestries I had hung up everywhere as a backdrop and as shade also happened to be printed with 3D ink…so my studio also did double duty as a 3D chill lounge. I had a bunch of 3D glasses, and a mound of pillows on my mom’s old Oriental carpet on the ground, so you could just lay around and zone out. Many took advantage of this. It was awesome!

One interesting thing I did while photographing people was, I would ask them to tell me about themselves. Man did I get some interesting stories! One couple met on an airplane (I never sit next to anyone interesting on planes), another couple met at a youth hostel in Ecuador. Another pair of friends met on a base in Antarctica!!! I’m telling you, these Burners really get around! It was really interesting to hear people talk…I’m a good listener, especially when I’m half naked and drinking a Bloody Mary icon smile The Forgotten City

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Saturday night

Anyway, I did my portraits all afternoon, and then partied all night. Saturday night was the real shindig — a friend and I ate some mushrooms (actually, I’m pretty sure 99% of the people there had eaten something) and went cruising around to see what was up. There was a big space-themed White Party that night, so I put on my good old Alien Disco ensemble and went to town. Some friends and I rode this piranha-shaped mutant vehicle around all night, stopping off at camps here and there to dance, drum, drink, whatever. I had a blast!!!

Everywhere you looked, it was wackos — trannies, tutus, naked people, sparkle ponies (what they call cute stripper-type chicks all dolled up in furry platform boots). It kinda seemed depressing, at first — like, can you believe all these 30- and 40-somethings dressed up in idiotic costumes, acting like 3-year-olds? Is that all there is? Shouldn’t we be out somewhere building a well or making a difference? Writing a book or something?

Then, the mushrooms kicked in! Book?! What book?!?!?!?

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My favorite photo EVER (not from this weekend, from a different event) when I was shrooming in my alien disco outfit

I don’t particularly love electronic dance music, but I’m here to tell you…when you’re wearing an alien afro and 6-inch thick platform boots and have a bellyful of drugs, it’s the best!! I danced my ass off! I had a smile on my face so big, it almost cracked my face in half. The euphoria I experienced was actually somewhat akin to a transcendent experience, so I guess I understand the whole Whirling Dervish thing, where dance is a form of meditation. If you’re drugged up, anyway. I don’t think I’d feel the same way sober!

But looking around, I actually did feel my attitudes changing toward those around me. I lead such a fucked-up, out-there life that I tend to look down on “weekend warriors,” who put on a tutu and get drunk at festivals but then go back to being a square on Monday. But at this party, I looked around and realized that as trite as it seems to me…Burning Man really IS a transformative experience for many people! Some people are really just too shy/square/inhibited to let their freak flag fly until they’re at a party surrounded by 599 other freaks doing the same thing. Maybe I’m just getting soft in my old age…but it’s actually really touching to watch it go down!

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one of the awesome portraits I took this weekend

One case in point was this cute bro-type guy who was new to the scene. He came by my photo studio in the afternoon and I made him up in a fez and stuff, like that creepy monkey in that Stephen King movie, and he was really good-natured about it — like he was really willing to immerse himself fully in the experience. Then we ran into him that night at the Party Naked Tiki Bar.

The Party Naked Tiki Bar is this awesome enclave of middle-aged nudists who set up this huge enclosed plywood tiki bar every year, with colorfully painted privacy walls and a strict no-photography policy. I always rolled my eyes at the no-photo thing in the past — really, who cares?! – but with my newfound mellowness, I actually get it. The aforementioned bro-type guy was there, and he allowed himself to really break down his personal barriers and get totally naked, which you could tell was a huge deal for him! If you do get naked at the Tiki Bar, they give you a flower lei necklace with a commemorative plaque on it, and this guy seemed really proud to have earned his lei. He had a super endearing kind of bashful pride about him, standing there naked, getting hugs from random people.

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another of my awesome portraits

Like I said, I live this kind of shit 24/7/365…so the novelty of shit like this seems a little lame to me at times. Buncha naked people in a tiki bar? Big deal!! But, I need to check myself. Not everyone is used to running around naked on a warm desert night, mingling with trannies and tutus and gay guys and naked grannies. It really IS a transformative experience for many — and I dig it!!!

Even better, that particular night I was hanging out with this super-awesome local longtime Burner chick from New York, who has sort of become one of the elder statespeople/leaders of the Burning Man movement here. This is a woman who really has her shit together, and I’ve always looked up to her and her husband. They’re fun, but also capable, productive, super-smart people…not just bean-eaters running around hula hooping in zebra suits, ya know?

Well, the shy naked bro guy told us he was going to the real Burning Man for the first time this year, and asked for advice…and this woman gave him the best advice I’ve ever heard: she told him not to expect too much. If you go in expecting a life-changing experience…you’ll only be disappointed. Just go have fun!

DAMN! Where was this woman when first went to Burning Man?!?

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my first night at Burning Man…OK, I don’t LOOK very disappointed!!

The most vivid memory I have from my first Burning Man was the total disappointment I experienced, before even setting foot through the gate. I had read online, and heard from many friends, about how amazing the art and music were, and how the community would touch your heart and change your way of thinking, and you would find your soulmate and your purpose in life, blah blah blah. Well, those hopes were all dashed in the first 5 minutes I spent waiting in the Will Call line…which was basically just a big drunken free-for-all of frat boys in Dick-in-the-Box costumes. This is what I drove 10 hours to experience?! A giant kegger?!?!?!

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yet another portrait

I had fun my first Burning Man, but spent a good portion of the week thinking about how I’d never go again. How all this b.s. about art and connectedness was just an excuse for frat bros to ogle naked chicks while getting hopped up on ecstasy and dancing to shitty club music all day and all night. My attitude lightened up considerably after I ate LSD and ecstasy myself…so much so that I ended up coming back four more times (despite the fact that the acid/ecstasy gave me permanent insomnia that persists to this day). But I always found it kinda sad that it took drugs to make me enjoy Burning Man.

If only I’d known ahead of time not to put too much stock in it….it might have changed shit!

Anyway, as it is, over the years I’ve come to appreciate Burning Man for what it is — a big kooky party full of the funnest, craziest people you’ll ever meet. I don’t think I’ve ever once had a meaningful conversation with anyone there, and I’ve certainly never met a soulmate…but I have made some cool friends, and had some really fun times. So as they say…I guess it is what it is! And what it is, is pretty fucking fun. Especially if you’re on drugs!

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I first met this jolly fellow at Saguaro Man in 2012!

Meaningful or not, one thing I really dig about the Burning Man scene is the astonishing diversity of the participants. It’s not just hippies or ravers — it’s an amazing cross-section of all types of people. At this particular weekend campout we had cholos from L.A., local hicks who snuck in from Boulder City, club kids from Vegas, hippies, ravers, middle-aged stagehands, drummers, artists, airport bartenders and limo drivers! Fuck, I spent all night hanging out with a buff mook in an Indian headdress who was rolling his balls off…and I never had such a good time!!!




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hanging out one afternoon

The astonishing cross-section of humanity there was really driven home to me as I was riding along on the piranha-shaped mutant vehicle one night, idly chatting with the guy next to me…a sort of methy, biker-ish burned-out middle-aged white dude in a t shirt and khaki cargo shorts. His voice sounded familiar…and wouldn’t you know it, it turned out to be none other than a certain mad scientist assistant to a certain fetish goddess whose site I shoot for often!!! It was really hard to wrap my mind around the fact that I was sitting on a piranha-shaped car, in an alien afro wig, next to this guy…who I associated with a totally different sphere of my life. Far out!!!

But that’s what’s so great about Burning Man — you never know who you’ll run into. P. Diddy, Johnny Depp, Goldie Hawn — all have been known to roll around Burning Man on the downlow. It’s the great equalizer!

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one more portrait

Another really cool thing about the scene is that you don’t have to worry — one of the guys I gave a ride to left his laptop in my truck all weekend, with the door unlocked. I couldn’t find him when I left, so I brought his laptop home with me…and he never even broke a sweat. He knew I’d hang onto it for him…which is, when you think about it, a really amazing show of trust. Likewise, I was able to run around in balloons and a clown wig, and not worry about anyone trying to molest me — at Burning Man (and Burning Man events), people are just cool.

Anyhoo, I partied my balls off til sunrise on Sunday morning, and then went to bed a bit earlier on Monday morning because I was so exhausted, and hadn’t been sleeping well out there. I had finally sunk into a blessed, deep dark slumber….when I was rudely awoken at 5:30am by the BLASTING, POUNDING strains of Metallica coming from a local jokester’s camp. I couldn’t really be mad, though…it was listed in the guidebook as “Monday Morning Metallica,” guaranteed to get your chi flowing just in time to pack up camp. As irritating as it was to be woken up just as I was finally getting some sleep….I had to laugh. It was so subversive…so Burning Man!!!

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Don’t forget to “Like” me on Facebook!
Pic by Astroid Photography

So, I ended up getting up way earlier than I intended, and packed up my camp, drove home, and put everything away. It was a lot of work to do for just three days…but it was totally worth it. I had a blast, met some super cool new people, and had fun getting to know people I already knew, better. Plus, I hardly checked my cell phone at all, and had very little time to worry about bogus shit in life like “direction,” “career” or “future.”

Escapism, you might call it. I call it therapy!!!

Oh, and P.S…..the IV drip was inconclusive. I mean, I felt like shit when I got home….but I suppose without it, I might have been dead!!!

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Spying on Area 51!

How was YOUR weekend?? Mine was awesome!

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Not that the term “weekend” has any real significance to a freewheeling Bohemian like me — in my world, every day is a weekend! I shed the oppressive yoke of 8-5 M-F back in Oct. 2000 when I moved here to Vegas…and then I shed the oppressive yoke of ANY schedule at all when I quit my last “job”-job in Dec. 2012. Now that I’m self-employed and set my own schedule, it can sometimes be kinda hard to even remember what day of the week it is at all!

But I usually party xtra hard on the “weekends,” since that’s when the rest of the world is off…and that’s when all the best parties are icon smile Spying on Area 51!

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photo by Adam Sternberg

This past weekend started on a bum note: on Friday night, one of my all-time favorite bands, WAR, was performing at the Hard Rock Hotel with none other than Cheech & Chong!! I really wanted to go see the show (I ***LOVE*** WAR) but alas….none of my 2,568 Facebook friends wanted to come with, so I didn’t buy a ticket. But as it happened, I ended up being a guest on a radio show that same night at the Double Down Saloon, right across the street…so I figured I’d cruise over to the Hard Rock afterward, and try to sneak or bullshit my way into the show. Alas again, I failed miserably…and ended up just listening to “Cisco Kid” from the foyer, just out of sight of the stage…before slinking home to eat a pint of Almond Dream and watch Mad Men. Booooo!!!

The following day (Saturday) was much better: I spent the afternoon kayaking on the Colorado River with a friend (well OK, we really just paddled about 100 feet into a cove, then got high and sat around bullshitting for 5 hours). And then when the sun set, we cruised back up the highway to the nearest dry lake bed for this bad-ass monthly full-moon drum circle!

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pic by Bennie S.

I haven’t been to a drum circle in ages, and I was stoked. I looooove me some drumming — especially on a warm summer’s night, around a bonfire in the middle of the desert with a bunch of likeminded hippies and freaks. Goooood times! There were about 100 people hanging out drumming, dancing, drinking and just being mellow under the canopy of stars. It wasn’t just drums, either — I had my trusty maracas, plus there was a guy with a guitar, and a guy playing a flute, and a fabulous Earth Mother-Goddess named B.B. playing this magical steel-drum-type instrument made out of a recycled propane tank. I recognized her from back in 2009 when I bought my first pop-up camper from her and her boyfriend, so I went over to chat. Come to find out, her boyfriend makes the drums and tunes each one to a different weird, ethereal octave — one of them was tuned to an Egyptian tonal scale, another to an Oriental one. And they all sounded amazingly haunting, like the music from “Close Encounters” that they use to communicate with the aliens. Check them out here: SO AMAZING!

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Speaking of aliens, I couldn’t stay at the drum circle all night because I had to be up at 7am for this day trip I had planned up to Area 51. I had originally planned to camp out at the drum circle and just sleep in my truck bed, under the stars, and then head to Area 51 from there….but I guess I’m too high maintenance to be that much of a gypsy, because the lure of a hot shower and my comfy bed was too much to resist, so I left around 1am and headed home.

Then the next morning, it was on! My friend D.C. came over at 8am (!!!) to pick me up, and we headed on up the road in his truck to see what we could see.

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For the non-tinfoil-hat-wearing among you who might not know, “Area 51″ is this secret government air base in western Nevada where they test all the latest military aircraft. Because the security up there is tighter than a nun’s pussy, all kinds of rumors have circulated over the years about what exactly is going on in there: some say the flying saucer from the Roswell, NM crash is stored there…some say there are alien bodies cryogenically frozen there…and some even say the gov’t is conducting all kinda weird research out there, including but not limited to their having attached a baby’s head to a penguin’s body (I’m not kidding, someone told me that back in 2000, when I first visited the area).

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Basically, the base is located on a huge dry lake bed (not unlike the drum circle) called Groom Lake, surrounded by formidable mountains on all sides. The few entry gates are heavily secured, and in fact there are security patrols all around the entire perimeter…our tax dollars at work. You can drive or even hike right up to the perimeter line, but there are signs at the edge stating that trespassers will be shot, basically….so proceed at your own risk!

Since you can’t get into the base ( though I’m working on a plan…bwahaha), the next best thing you can do is climb to the top of one of the nearby mountains and spy into it with a high-powered telescope. There used to be two really good vantage points on the mountains directly surrounding Groom Lake, but the gov’ment got wise to people spying on them, and extended the boundaries of the base to include those peaks. Fuckers!

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Area 51, as seen from the top of Tikaboo Peak (through a shitty Samsung Galaxy SIII camera)

Fortunately, some savvy tinfoil-hat-wearer figured out there was another mountain a bit farther away, that also offers a relatively clear view of the goings-on at the base: Tikaboo Peak, near Badger Mountain off U.S. 93 just south of Alamo. It’s about 26 air miles from the base, but it’s the closest/best view you can get. And if you arrive early in the day, and pack a telescope/binocs/sniper rifle with scope…you too can sneak a peek at the shenanigans afoot at Area 51! Peek-a-boo, Tikaboo!

I’ve been wanting to hike this mountain forever, and I tried to set up an overnight trip where some friends and I would camp out at the base of the mountain, then hike up first thing in the morning and check it out. Unfortunately, every single Facebook “friend” who said they wanted to come (I’m starting to doubt that I even have any real friends on FB) bailed or pussed out….so it ended up being just me and D.C., and we decided to do it as a day trip. But a campout would be optimal….so hit me up if you REALLY want to go, and are sincere about it!

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the lonely road to Area 51

Anyhoo, D.C. and I cruised up the 93 north of Vegas for about an hour and a half, through miles and miles of remote, barren desert…until we reached the unexpectedly lush oasis of the Pahranagat Wildlife Refuge — two lakes surrounded by green, marshy waterfowl blinds. Just before the Upper Lake, there’s a little dirt road on the left-hand side which takes you up to Badger Mountain and Tikaboo Peak. (Incidentally, I used these directions to find the trailhead:

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Basically, you drive up a fairly decent dirt road for about 45 minutes until you reach a campsite with this creepy sort of scarecrow monument…and then you pretty much hike straight up the side of the mountain for another 45 minutes til you reach the top. It’s a pretty hardcore hike — I did it in flip-flops, carrying my CamelBak and D.C.’s telescope, but I was totally winded and had to change into my tennies for the hike back down…so be advised! This hike is not for heavy smokers or the out-of-shape.

The trail can be kind of hard to keep track of at times, but thankfully some helpful tinfoil-hatter wrapped rocks in extra tinfoil along the way…so just follow the silver rocks, and you’ll be there in no time icon smile Spying on Area 51! What an ingenious way to mark a trail, huh?! Much better than those dumbass hippie cairns you usually see, which any passing deer could knock over with a single fart!

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sniper’s nest

Anyhoo, when you finally reach the peak, there’s a clearing big enough for a few tents to camp out on, but not much room for anything else. A U.S. Gov’t “Climate Monitoring” tower hogs much of the space, with a big ole camera watching over you in the name of “climate monitoring” (a likely story!!). And the rest of the space is taken up by this rock bunker some nutters built, facing Area 51, with a handy ledge to rest your sniper rifle’s scope on. Also provided in the bunker are a couple tarps, a couple knives and one of those little trail register notebooks in a plastic jar. Of course, the trail register is filled cover-to-cover with conspiracy gobbledy-gook…and shitty penis drawings :/


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At the top, D.C. set up his telescope and we took turns peering through it, squinting at the distant shapes of buildings, airplane hangars and baby-headed penguins. There were a bunch of wildfires burning in San Diego at the time, so the sky was really hazy and visibility was worse than normal. Plus, it was already afternoon…and the best light for spying on Area 51 is early morning. So we kinda fucked that up….but it was still fun to look!

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After a few minutes, however, we got tired of squinting…so after signing the trail register and packing the telescope back up, we headed back down the mountain to the truck, and continued on our journey to the next stop: Rachel, NV…home of the world-famous Little A’Le’Inn!

Rachel is the closest “town” to Area 51, and they capitalize on that fact as much as possible. The only real thing going on in Rachel (population: less than the Moody Blues) is the Little A’Le’Inn, a collection of double-wide trailers fashioned into a bar & grill, gift shoppe and motel for the intrepid UFO enthusiast. I’d been there four or five times in the past, but my last visit was in 2007…so I figured I was long overdue for another visit. It’s always an interesting time…and this time was certainly no exception!

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sign marking the “Extraterrestrial Highway,” now covered in stickers

To get to Rachel from Tikaboo Peak, we continued north on U.S. 93 past Upper Pahranagat Lake, through the little farm town of Alamo, and then left on highway 375…which was long ago renamed “The Extraterrestrial Highway” in the interest of tourism. Another hour or so down the road, you hit Rachel. It’s not much more than a few trailers, so don’t blink or you’ll miss it.

Just before getting to Rachel, you also pass this one poor local rancher’s mailbox which, because it is the only thing for miles around, has become a sort of unofficial stopping place for UFO tourists, and everyone writes their names and shit on it. Astonishingly, when I visited back in 2000, I etched the entire long-ass lame-ass URL to my old blog on it (…and some poor fool actually took note and posted in my guestbook!!!! (Incidentally, here’s a link to my old blog…inexplicably preserved in the internet archives.)

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poor Steve Medlin’s mailbox, covered in wacky grafitti

After passing Steve Medlin’s beleaguered mailbox, Rachel is just a few more miles ahead. We pulled in at the Little A’Le’Inn, starving for some of their world-famous delicious Alien Burgers…and the bar atmosphere did not disappoint. Aside from D.C. and I, there was a drunken farmhand from a farm 59.7 miles away (this was the closest bar to where he lived and worked) (!!), the cute gypsy bartender he was besotted with (she lives in a camper, and travels from place to place when she gets bored) (!!!!), and the owner, Connie, a fantastic, salt-of the-Earth woman who filled us in on all the local gossip:

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the besotted farmboy and the traveling gypsy barmaid

It seems that folks in the area look down on the denizens of Rachel (all ten of them) — especially those hoity-toity Mormon fuckers down in Alamo, who think Rachel is worse than Sodom & Gomorrah because it has a bar!!! (Alamo itself is basically a dry town…the only place you can buy booze is at the Shell station in nearby Ash Springs, or at this one janky motel south of town.)

Moreover, Connie got in a real jam with the Alamo morality police because her kids were distributing condoms to their high school classmates!! Connie, being a sensible fucking person, keeps a cookie jar of condoms by the door of her trailer, so that none of her kids knock anybody up/get knocked up. Well, not only do the stores in Alamo not sell booze, they don’t sell condoms either…so the other high school kids were relying on Connnie’s brood to supply them with the contraband. Apparently they had a code, and would send a text message reading: “I need a brown bag…”

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The parking lot of the Little A’Le’Inn

Well, one day the principal of Alamo high school caught wind of this, and called Connie in for a stern talking-to! And guess what happened? Miss Connie don’t brook no sass: she flipped open her son’s cell phone and waved it in that hypocrite principal’s face, because guess what? None other than the principal’s very own thirteen-year-old-daughter had just texted, asking for a brown bag!!! BAM!!!! “This is just a little Peyton Place, and you’re all Harper Valley hypocrites!!” BOO-YA!!!!

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A’Le’Inn exterior

I found all this smalltown gossip infinitely more interesting than all the bullshit Area 51 gov’ment conspiracy conjecture…but either way, Rachel is a fantastic place to visit and the whole Area 51 experience is really a must-do for any serious fan of desert weirdness. If you really want to make a trip of it, I have two recommended itineraries:

1. Drive up from Vegas one afternoon and set up camp at the base of Badger Mountain. Spend all night boozing and/or shrooming around a campfire, then get up at dawn to hike up to the summit and spy on the base with a telescope. After a few hours, hike down and head to Rachel for lunch, by way of Steve Medlin’s mailbox. Bonus: stop off at the market in Alamo and ask if they sell condoms!!!

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View from the A’Le’Inn

2. Drive up from Vegas, with an optional pit stop at Badger Mtn. to hike up Tikaboo Peak. Continue on to Rachel, stopping in Alamo to inquire about condoms…then book a room at the Little A’Le’Inn and stay the night! I did this once, back in 2000, and it was fantastic — they have these double-wides out back with shared bathrooms, and there’s a lending library in the bar, full of VHS tapes about real-life alien abductions and whatnot that you can take back to your room and watch until you’re blue in the face.

Either way…call me! I’d be happy to be your guide. Why would anyone want to spend their Vegas vacay at Hakkasan or Cirque du Soleil, when this fabulousness is right up the road? You tell me!

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Inside the A’Le’Inn

Anyhoo…we left Rachel around 5:30, arriving back in Vegas around sunset. And that was my weekend! I’d say it was a doozy, but….next weekend’s looking pretty great, too; it’s the annual local Burning Man campout in Boulder City, and I’ve got a few surprises up my sleeve. Stay tuned! icon smile Spying on Area 51!

P.S. For more photos of my trip, see my FB album! 

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Wonderhussy’s Field Guide to Wildlife of the Vegas Strip

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The other day, I got an emergency Tweet from none other than Ms. Taylor St. Claire: she had a pro fitness/porn model coming in for a Lift & Carry shoot the next day, but the other model had flaked. Could I possibly step in last-minute?

Could I ever! First of all, I’d do most anything for Taylor St. Claire — she’s amazing. I’ve mentioned her before: a gorgeous, brainybosomy ex-porn starlet who got tired of the game and quit to start her own fetish empire, which she maintains at That site mainly caters to inflation fetishists — weight gain clips, overeating clips, and girls being blown up into giant blueberries, that kind of thing. But Taylor also shoots all kinds of other random shit — anything that sells, which basically means a little bit of everything! I’ve shot superhero stuff for her, sweater fetish, and even pedal-pumping (where you literally sit in a car and press the gas pedal with your foot, over and over… that’s it).

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And secondly, if there’e one fetish I loooove to shoot, it’s lift & carry; it’s SO easy! I used to shoot that genre now and then for this crazy Canadian muscle fetish site: basically, it involved a bunch of gorgeous lady weightlifter/fitness model types picking me up and carrying me around like a sack of potatoes, showing off how strong they were. As the one being carried, you really don’t have to do much at all — super easy.

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So when Taylor called me over, I knew I was in for an easy shoot. Which was a good thing, because I had an art-nude shoot out in the canyon that same afternoon, and only had one hour to get this shit done. But Taylor is a pro, so I knew it wouldn’t be a problem. And the woman I’d be lifted and carried by was also a real pro — none other than the legendary Miss Austin Taylor!!

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Basically, we just had to knock out three 10-minute clips: first, Austin and I are working out at the gym…when I notice her amazing muscles, and she offers to pick me up, squat me, lift me, etc. Second, I’m the bratty schoolgirl forced to stay after class for detention: I keep mouthing off until Teacher gets pissed, rips open her frumpy spinster teacher outfit to reveal gleaming muscles and heaving breasts, picks me up over her shoulder and spanks the sass right out of me!! And third, I’m sitting at home minding my own business when out of nowhere, a sexy lady cop busts through the door and arrests me — carrying me off to the station over her shoulder. Warrant?! Austin Taylor don’t need no stinkin’ warrant!!!!

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Being Arty in the Canyon
By Oyo Photography

As predicted, it was an easy and very fun shoot, and we were done in no time…allowing plenty of time for my artsy shenanigans in the canyon. But it got me thinking, as I went about my business over the next few days: is there any correlation between effort expended and eventual payout? In my experience…not at all!!! Consider this anecdotal evidence from my last few weeks of work:

  • I made more in one hour of being carried around by a sexy porn star than I did in six lamentable hours of handing out flyers in sweltering heat to rednecks at a motocross race
  • I made more lolling around a dry lakebed naked for 4 hours than I did “caddying” a golf game with ten rambunctious, drunken Canucks for 8 hours
  • If someone ever takes me up on my Model Mayhem vagina photography challenge, I’ll make more money in one hour than I made all week working the Hardware Convention!!!!!

It’s really interesting to think about. And it’s almost to the point where I’d rather just roll over in bed, flash my twat to some slavering perv, collect my money and then go back to sleep…rather than deal with all this other rigamarole. Almost!!!

But, then I’d miss out on all the fun. Right??!

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a real-life still from the Supercross race

Actually…right! Even doing some of those lowly workaday gigs like the Hardware Show, I had a pretty good time and met a lot of really interesting people. The guys I worked for at the Hardware Show were super cool, and in fact so were the dudes I worked for at the Supercross race (the crowds at that latter event, however, were another story. Nothing but pure, nasty-ass, sunburned-redneck-speed-freak solid white trash. UGH!!!!).

So I guess you could say I’m not ready to hang up my hat and become a lazy prostitute yet. To that end, I decided it was high time I got some new headshots taken — you know, nice photos I can use to submit for “legit” gigs. Sure, as a full-time model I have bazillions of photos….but the sad truth is, I’m naked or wearing a clown wig with an Uzi up my ass or something in all of them. I can hardly submit that to these convention modeling agencies — I needed nice, corporate-looking photos!! So I hit up a few local photographers and arranged to shoot trades with them (meaning “you shoot my boring-ass headshot in trade for whatever type of shots you want of me”).

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One of my go-to “normal” shots for the last 4 years
By Jim K Decker

Now, shooting a “nice” headshot is a tricky thing. It’s kinda like when you’re writing your resume — you want to come off as knowledgeable and experienced, yet still fun and young and innovative…right?? Now, imagine trying to convey all that in a single photo!! You want a photo that says, “I have washboard abs and can crack a walnut in my ass, but I’m also reliable and drama-free, with a decent grasp of the English language, a sparkling wit, and the ability to hand out lanyards and koosh balls to greedy conventioneers!!! But I’m also FUN and SEXY and you MIGHT just get some!!!!!!!!!icon biggrin Wonderhussys Field Guide to Wildlife of the Vegas Strip

Anyway, every time I try to take a good headshot I totally choke up. I can take a million gorgeous art-nudes or zany concept shots…but when it comes time to looking “marketable,” I always freeze up. Consequently, I’ve been using the same old tired-ass headshots for years….and I hate to say, but they don’t book me much work :-/

So anyway, I did a few shoots…and guess what happened?! The naked, zany part of the shoots yielded amazing photos….but the headshot part, not so much. Witness the following examples:

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nudie = excellent
by Bennie Shapiro

 Wonderhussys Field Guide to Wildlife of the Vegas Strip

by Bennie Shapiro










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Zany concept shot=awesome!
Pic by Michael Maze


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corporate shot=meh
By Michael Maze









Now, I’m not blaming the photographers at all — both the aforementioned examples are great photographers. I have no one to blame but myself. I think it all goes back to self-esteem: because I see myself as a D-list model, I don’t feel “interesting” or even noteworthy unless I’m flashing twat or doing something salacious. I feel that my legs aren’t long enough, I’m not tall enough, and my tits aren’t big enough to really catch anyone’s attention in a “normal” shot, so it’s almost like I don’t even try. My inner light only starts to shine when I’m naked, because nudity is basically my Cloak of Invincibility…and only then do I feel worthy of attention!

Anyway, enough psychoanalyzing. Either way, I got around the whole issue by shooting with a new guy who didn’t expect me to get naked or weird — ALL we shot were corporate-type headshots, so failure wasn’t an option:

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By Scott K

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By Scott K









So, now that I have some new ammo in my arsenal…hopefully I’ll score up many more fabulous, interesting (and well-paying) gigs in the future! (Fingers crossed!)

Now it has recently come to my attention that, if I were like other girls in Vegas, I wouldn’t be worrying so much about earning a living — I’d just be mooching off some idiot! This might come off as catty trash-talking…but I’m here to tell you, it’s the sad truth that I’m living in a city full of bald-faced (and no doubt bald-twatted) whores. ***NOTE: when I use the term “whore,” I mean absolutely NO disrespect toward any woman who is earning an honest living by having sex with men — I’m referring to the lazy half-assers masquerading as “models,” who are really just looking for a well-off moron to sink their talons into. Real prostitutes, I have respect for.

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One of those stock photos I posed for strikes again…this time in the local paper

What brings this up, you ask? A good friend was recently in town, and this particular friend is fond of recruiting female companionship on the worst website this side of AshleyMadison…. What’ I’ve written about this site before, but for those who don’t know, What’sYourPrice (WYP) is basically a site where “generous” guys bid on dates with “attractive” women…supposedly eliminating time-wasters, and leading straight to true love. HMMMMM!!!!!

I’ve used the site myself, but state explicitly in my profile that I’m only offering my services as a dinner date — I am not interested in a sugar daddy, or in romance of any kind, for that matter. I’m just there to make money, and I state my fee right at the top of the page: $200 for a 3-hour date.

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By Bennie Shapiro

Well, apparently guys like being milked and lied to, because my profile doesn’t get much action — shocker!! Meanwhile, there is a multitude of other Vegas hookers on the site, each with slutty selfies as profile pics and long litanies of demands: they’re all looking for “generous gentlemen” who will treat them “like a lady,” and then they’ll “see what happens.” Let me decode this for you, guys: these bitches are looking for FREE SWAG, after which they will BOUNCE!

As mentioned, my visiting friend is a frequent user of the site, and he let me use his login info to browse the listings (my competition). Thus, I was able to scope out the other hookers — and it was shocking! And HILARIOUS!!!

First off, I recognized more than a few of the “ladies” on that site — you know who you are, ya hookers! Second, NONE of the other gals were offering platonic services like me — they all, without fail, were looking for True Love™ and That Special Someone™ Now I ask you…..who the fuck uses a site called “What’sYourPrice” to find true love????? Only a seriously deluded shmoe….or a seriously disingenuous whore, THAT’S WHO!!!!!!!!!!

Anyway, I know firsthand how awful this site is — not because of my own dates (which have been almost without fail surprisingly pleasant), but because of the trials and tribulations of my friend, who as mentioned has gone on several dates with various tattered remnants of raggedy Vegas puss. He comes out here a few times a year, and usually books at least one or two WYP dates while he’s here….and so far he’s been stood up, ignored, lied to and taken advantage of by a succession of shameless, ill-mannered, self-centered hookers. It’s a total disgrace!!!

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By Oyo Photography

Things got really bad this trip, because the poor guy finally met someone he thought he really liked. He made a more than generous offer of $400 to have the hag come hang out with him at the pool for the afternoon, and they hit it off so he took her shopping the next day. (He genuinely enjoys buying things for people, so it was his idea.) They went over to the Fashion Show Mall, where of course she dragged him straight into Neiman’s, where of course there was this pair of $1,200 Christian Louboutins that she just had to try on. A $1,200 pair of high heels — can you imagine?! Anyway, my generous friend bought her a dress and jewelry and who knows what all else, but he balked at the shoes — rightfully so!

Anyhoo, now this bitch was allllll fired up to get those shoes. I know, because he kept showing me her text messages: “Did you get my shoes?” LMFAO!!!! What’s really funny is, the three of us were all supposed to go to dinner Friday night, but at the last minute the hooker’s dog twisted its leg or something, so she couldn’t come. My friend and I figured out it was really a case of her being afraid that I’d see right through her shenanigans — my brain isn’t connected to testicles, so I can usually see what’s up with these bitches. I mean, I could already see from her photos that she was not 31, as she claimed to be…nor was she single (the dumbass had on a ring in one of her photos) or childless (as a simple Facebook search revealed…I mean, come on! If you’re gonna lie, at least do it well!!).

So anyhoo, despite this sad hag’s constant nagging, my friend never did buy her the shoes…and consequently, she never did meet up with him again (this despite her tearful avowal that she was starting to have “feelings” for him…”feelings,” apparently, that were directly related to the possibility of scoring Louboutin shoes). What a sad bitch!! You’re 41 years old, lady….buy your own fucking shoes!!!!!

Not to worry, my friend also had a backup date from WYP — some other disingenuous leather-twatted old chippy who had roped him into another one of his $400 poolside escapades. Only this bitch flaked out on him altogether — first she had a “sinus infection,” so they rescheduled for later in the week…but before that could even happen, she texted him that her girlfriend was in town and offered to put on some kind of show for him for an exorbitant price. JEEZUM! They really are all whores on there, just like the name says. My advice for any lonely guys coming to Vegas is to AVOID this site! Unless you enjoy being taken advantage of…which, apparently, plenty of men do, since the site is alive and well and apparently thriving.

I should come out with my own fucking site: Wonderhussy’s Field Guide to Wildlife of the Vegas Strip. I’ll have photos and annotations describing all the various types of gash you encounter out here, with warnings and advice on how to best interact with each species, like so:

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Fig 1.


  • Mutton dressed as lamb — beware! This species of golddigging, Botox-faced Frankenhag haunts upscale lounges and steakhouses, usually in packs of three that are so foul of spirit, they make the witches of MacBeth look like the McGuire Sisters!


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Fig 2.


  • Les B. Friends — with your wallet! This deceptive species will rub up on each other in the most provocative manner possible, causing you to lose track of your credit cards…at which point they abandon all faux-Sapphic affectations and head straight for Neiman Marcus. Beware!


A Field Guide is actually a good idea…but in reality, I’m just jealous, because I’m so bad at playing the game myself. An example came just the other week, when I was hostessing/caddying that “lads’ weekend” golf trip thing with the Canadians. Basically, I was hostess, entertainer, pimp, procurer, golf caddy and model (we did a photo shoot one day) — sort of a one-stop shop! And on the last day of the trip, we were all supposed to go to a pool party together. However, it was raining that day, so plans were scrapped and the guys invited us over to brainstorm and figure out something else fun to do instead.

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training my dog, Freddy, to look into the camera prior to his first ever pro photo shoot

No one ended up coming up with a fun idea, and by then the weather had cleared somewhat…so the guys decided to go to the hotel pool after all. But now, us girls didn’t have our pool gear with us. Being a terrible Vegas Ho, I always roll around with a spare bikini in my truck — it’s my ugliest old beater, to be sure, but I carry it around just for emergencies like this one, so I was prepared.

However, one of the other gals piped up first: “We didn’t bring our bikinis; you guys will have to buy us new ones!” So now it was off to the pool shop, where all manner of overpriced swimwear is sold, so that the “guys” could “pick out” new bikinis for us gals. On the way to the shop, about half the guys bailed out, not wanting to shell out any extra money…so only the poor suckers who couldn’t dip out got stuck with the bill. By the time we got to the shop, there were only 4 or 5 guys left, and they made a sort of halfhearted judging committee as we gals tried on bikinis.

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By Bennie Shapiro

True to my nature, I picked out the cheapest one I could find…but even still, no one stepped up to pay for it! It was so awkward, like back in the day in gym class when you’re the last spaz standing around waiting to be picked for volleyball, and no one wants you. Finally, one guy sprung for the top….and then finally another guy begrudgingly squeaked open his wallet to pay for the bottom, but by that time the situation was so awkward that I wanted to throw the fuckin’ thing at the wall and go straight back to college!!!!!!!! And grow my armpits out while I’m at it — fuck all y’all!

But instead, I just sacked up and had about six cocktails, and laughed and danced and titillated like a good, if somewhat ineffective, Vegas Ho. Because bikini or no…I was on the payroll. And I always pride myself in doing a good job…whatever the job may be! Let’s just hope the next one allows me to save more face. I mean, I’d rather be spanked and carried around by a porn star any day than be stuck pandering to philandering, overgrown frat boys!

P.S. Here’s a little cannabutter tutorial I made the other day, out in Florida at a friend’s house. Fun!!



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My Life as a Blueberry, and Other Weird Gigs


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I always thought it would be cool to be one of those traveling gypsy-type models, so when one of my photographer friends invited me to come shoot with him this summer up in Seattle, I decided to plan a whole modeling road trip around it. I posted a casting call on Model Mayhem, and before you know it I had six or seven shoots lined up, mostly in the Seattle area, but a few in the Bay Area and Reno as well. My plan is to leave Vegas around July 12th, then make my way up to the Bay Area, spend some time with my family there, and then continue up the coast to Portland and Seattle before heading back down toward Tahoe for a family reunion with my grandma and extended family on the 25th.

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unlike OTHER models! photo by Jorge Lara for

My sis agreed to come along with me, so we plan to make it a fun adventure, like we did on our Salton Sea foray last month. But in order for it to be REALLY fun, I decided I need to get my finances in order before I go: if I earn enough money to pay all my July bills up front, before I leave…then I won’t be under as much pressure to make money while I’m traveling, and can use my modeling earnings on the trip itself, for meals and hotels and whatnot…instead of living off Alpo and couch-surfing, like other traveling models.

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tit-tini! Photo by Jorge Lara

Since I’m already super-anal about my finances, and have long figured out it costs me $70/day to live, I know exactly how much cash I need to earn before July 1st. If I earn enough, I can even go up there a few days earlier, and spend more time with my family — and if I really bust my hump, I can even make enough to cover August as well…which would be awesome, since I’m not sure yet if I’ll be going back to work Sturgis again this year. I certainly want to, but I have to confirm with the manager of the saloon where I worked last year…and he was kinda hard to read. My plan is to hit him up in early May, and see if he wants me back…in which case I’ll do like I did last year, and spend the first half of August spanking drunken bikers, and the second half running around naked at Burning Man icon smile My Life as a Blueberry, and Other Weird Gigs

So anyhoo, in preparation for my summer adventures, I’ve been busting my ass, hustling for a buck left and right, socking it away. And as always, no job is too small…or too freaky!!!

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ONE MILLION B.C.!! photo by Dan P.

Not all my gigs were freaky, though — I actually did a few normal, “nice-girl”-type jobs recently, just to keep my nice-girl skills from rusting. One night I worked a charity fundraiser wine-pouring event for this smoking hot French winemaker, who used to be a rugby star but retired to open a winery in the south of France. Must be nice!!! Anyway, he only showed up for photos at the beginning of the event, and then delegated the job to his assistant, this adorable little French hottie who took a shine to me. I offered to give him a ride back to his hotel after the event, because there were no taxis at the venue, and to thank me for my help he hooked me up with two cases of bad-ass hi-class French wine! SCORE! I normally drink Two Buck Chuck or worse, so this shit is a real treat.

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cork sniffers?! Photo by Dan P.

Meanwhile, I was kinda nervous about pouring hi-class wine for all these cork-sniffers — this was a huge charity event they hold every year, and all the Botoxed society Frankenmatrons of Vegas come out to show off their new lips and tits and whatnot and talk fancy-talk about wine, while their husbands perv on all the model servers. But I needn’t have worried — everyone was so fucking wasted it was embarrassing. These dumb-ass poseur chippies would stumble up to my table with their wineglasses held out for a pour, and the French hottie would start blathering about the terroir and notes of oak and shit, and you could see these dumb-ass bitches had zero idea what he was talking about — nor did they care, they just wanted to get fucked up for free. It was amazing! I don’t know why I’m always so self-conscious at these events — despite the fact that I am a foul-mouthed plebian, I have more class and brains in one hair on my big toe than most of these idiots have in their entire collagen-plumped bodies.

Aaaanyhoo, aside from pouring wine to the wealthy, I also put in a few days at a tradeshow, which I always loathe, but this one wasn’t so bad because I was working with a pretty good girlfriend of mine who makes things fun. NOTE to prospective tradeshow clients: if you are looking to hire a booth model, consider hiring two! I find that two models are waaaay more effective than one, because they can tag-team these poor shlub conventioneers and hustle them into signing up for your iPad drawing or whatever-the-fuck hustle you have going to generate leads. MUCH more effective!

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with some guy from Sons of Anarchy at a photo shoot!

The best part about working tradeshows is the corporate gobbledygook they have you parrot, to reel in prospective leads: at this show, they told us to say that “we” (and by “we,” I mean the client, not “me”) are a cloud-based project management solutions platform. Now, you tell me….what the fuck is a “cloud-based project management solutions platform?!?!?!” 

What’s really interesting is, you’d think that booth models who actually understand what they’re saying would be the most effective — but you’d be WRONG!!! It doesn’t matter one bit if the model understands the first thing about cloud-based project management solutions platforms (hereafter to referred to as “CBPMSPs”) — as long as she’s attractive, and personable, and calls the guy by his name (as seen on his nametag)…she can pretty much talk him into signing up for anything. I’ve seen this firsthand with the chick I was working with — she’s beautiful, flirty and aggressive, but has such a thick accent that I’m gonna say 95% of the guys she hustled in had no idea what was going on….they just did what she wanted, because she’s hot and was persistent. She could have been signing them up for chemical castration, for all they knew! But anyhow, I really like working with this chick because she’s one of the best I’ve ever personally witnessed, and she makes it fun and easy to rope in leads. Although I must admit, I’ve already forgotten what a CBPMSP is, and moreover…I don’t care!

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goofing around in Michael Maze’s studio

Anyway, like I said I don’t really love tradeshow gigs, but they do pay well and can be kinda interesting, here and there. But I have a hard time getting those gigs, because when it comes time to apply, I have very few “decent” photos I can submit, like headshots! I have hundreds and hundreds of photos, but in most of them I’m naked or wearing a Viking helmet or something, so I can’t use them to get “straight” work. With that in mind, I set up a few photo shoots recently to get “square” shots…but gawd, it’s so boring!!!!! I shot with my one of my favorite photographer/friends Michael Maze the other night specifically for the purpose of getting a boring-ass headshot, but things devolved quickly until the next thing you know, I was wrassling on the floor in a Lucha Libre mask and my electric vagina :-/ I just can’t seem to get it together and be normal!!! Arrrrrgh!

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photo by Michael Maze

The easiest solution to this quandary is just to not do any “normal” gigs — which of course I have no problem with, as I’ve certainly done my fair share of unorthodox gigs lately. The freakiest and most fun were these two fetish sites I shot for: first I did a shoot for, where you strip naked and pretend to be a piece of furniture, like a plant stand or a nightstand or something (?!?!?!). This was one of the WEIRDEST shoots I’ve done — two-minute videos, no talking or anything, just sitting there naked holding a plant. Bizarre!

whussy labBB My Life as a Blueberry, and Other Weird Gigs

But even more bizarre, and  quite possibly the most amazing, freakiest, funnest gig I have EVER DONE, was for the other week. Taylor shoots a lot of inflation fetish, where a girl gets fatter and fatter until she explodes or whatever — and one of her most popular sub-genres is the blueberry fetish, where a girl turns into a giant blueberry, a la Violet Beauregard in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (I guess a lot of guys popped their first woody during that scene, so it remains a hot-button for them for the rest of their lives). Well, I finally made a lifelong dream of mine come true last week when I was blown up into a giant blueberry!!!!!!!!!!

OMG, it was amazing — in the video, I play a Monsanto scientist, working on a genetically mutated blueberry big enough to feed the entire world. But when I go to add the special super-sizing agent to the blueberry DNA, it froths over and accidentally spills on my hand…causing me to turn blue, and swell up into a giant blueberry!!!!!! Oh, no!!!!! I get bigger and bigger, and more and more terrified…until finally I just give in and realize how good it feels to be a giant blueberry swollen with delicious blueberry juice — mmmmm! The feel of all that blueberry juice sloshing around against my taut skin feels so good that I end up just moaning and groaning and finally disappearing into the blueberry altogether….until finally, I grow so big that I EXPLODE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! OMGif you’re into the blueberry fetish you will bust your fucking nut in no time watching this amazing masterpiece!!!!

While I was there, I also filmed another clip of dirty blueberry talk. I’ve been chewing magic Wonka gum, so I’m already swollen up and blue like a blueberry: “Would you like to join me? Here, chew this gum! Do you taste the roast beef and tomato soup? So yummy!! Now do you taste the baked potato?? Mmmmmmm!!!! Uh-oh, now it’s time for dessert — here comes the blueberry pie!!!! Do you taste it?? Doesn’t it taste good??? Oh no, look! You’re starting to turn blue and swell up too! Your fingers are turning blue, your arms are swelling up and turning blue….oh my, now even your dick and balls are turning blue and swelling up!! Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!!!!!” 

In summary, I can’t fucking believe I got paid to something this fucking fun!!! It was amazing!!!! The only downside was, I had blueberry juice in my ears and toenails for like a week afterward. But that was OK, since I also put in another night of mud-rasslin’ at Gilley’s….and that messed me up pretty bad, too.

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my fabulous British towel boy

You may recall that last time I mud-rassled, I accidentally ingested some of the chocolate pudding “mud,” and was afflicted with terrible diarrhea afterward. Well, this time I knew better, so made sure to keep my lips shut, and to shower off thoroughly afterward. This rassling experience was better all-around than my last time, which you might recall was slightly scarring since I only got a $40 bid to be my towel boy — well, this time, some poor drunk guy bid $60 on me, and paid up….but was so wasted that they had to escort him out of the bar before he had a chance to get in the ring with me. So they auctioned me off a second time, and this awesome British dude bid another $60 on me — and he was cool. He helped me defeat my first opponent, Kombat Kitty…but then I faced off against Betty Rage, and she beat my ass icon sad My Life as a Blueberry, and Other Weird Gigs Oh well, you can’t win ‘em all!!

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last year on 4/20

Then before you know it, it was April 20th again — a/k/a 420, the national pot-smokers’ holiday! Last year, I had just finished making my marijuana showgirl costume in time for this momentous occasion, but you may recall that I went out busking with my friend Jay Joint in his giant joint costume, and they made us leave Fremont Street because his costume was “inappropriate.” Well, this year I decided to go out alone, since a) I didn’t want to get kicked out again, and b) I wanted to go out earlier, and Jay Joint never goes out til after 10pm.

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busking on Fremont with my friend Bam Bam!

So this year I headed downtown to the Fremont Street Experience pedestrian mall around 7pm, and went to town. It was great!! I made about $200 in three hours, and could have stayed longer if I hadn’t been bummed the fuck out by the oppressive police-state vibe down there. See, Fremont Street is technically a public thoroughfare, but they blocked it off to vehicle traffic and put in this cheesy light show canopy thingy overhead, so now it’s run by a gang of buzzkilling thugs known as the Fremont Street Experience, LLC, which I guess all the casinos down there pay into. Because it’s still technically a public thoroughfare, they can’t ban buskers (street performers) outright — but they can and do make it next to impossible for us to work our shtick!!

I hadn’t been down there more than 5 minutes when a security guard came up to me: “You’re new here, aren’t you? Well, you can’t stand within 200 feet of a performance stage when there’s a performance going on.”

“Oh, OK! I’m sorry!”  I moved down the street, 200 feet-ish away, but I couldn’t stand there, either: “You can’t stand within 20 feet of a crosswalk, it’s a hazard.”

“Oh, my bad, I’m sorry! Where can I stand?!”

“Over here, by these trash cans. But don’t get closer than 10 feet to any of the kiosks, or 20 feet from any casino entrance!!!” “YES, SIR!!!”

So I basically glued my feet to this one tiny little spot where he’d said it was OK to stand, and meanwhile there were about 50 other buskers working the same patch of ground, since it was basically one of the only free zones on the entire fuckin’ street. I mean, Captain America, Thor, the Incredible Hulk, Iron Man, Elvis, Michael Jackson and three sets of showgirls were all crammed into this little bitty shitty spot, and it was nuts! 

Still, things were going pretty well for me until these two beat-up old stripper-looking showgirls showed up in raggedy-ass bedraggled costumes. They might not have looked like much — but every time someone posed for a photo with them, they would each raise one leg up in the air so that their ankle was behind their neck, basically flashing their sequined twats at the camera!!! Forget about it — my business was over! I tried to walk down Fremont Street to another spot, but it was so fucking tricky trying to figure out what was 200 feet from this and 20 feet from that, while still maintaining a distance of 10 feet from the other, that I kept fucking up and getting yelled at. Finally this one snaggle-toothed redneck kid security guard screamed at me to get out and go home, because I wasn’t listening to him!!!

I was like, “Hey man, I’m really making a sincere effort to abide by your regulations, but I find them baffling! I don’t have a tape measure on me!” At this he relented a bit, and showed me exactly where I could stand: “You see that sign in front of the ABC Store? You can stand anywhere on the far side of the “B” in “ABC.” Are you fuckin’ serious?!?!?!?!?

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photo by Adam Sternberg

Look, I know what’s going on: these fucking casinos downtown are pissed off that tourists should spend a few bucks outside their gambling tables, god forbid. They’d rather see people piss their money away on craps, blackjack and plastic footballs full of sugary alcohol slush!!! It’s so fucked up I don’t even know where to begin…but that’s the way it’s gonna be, and mark my fucking words, they will not rest until they’ve regulated every fucking inch of space down there to the point where there’s no room to busk whatsoever. Fuckin’ Vegas, man!!! I wish that all the hundreds of Vegas street performers and buskers would all band together and stage a fuckin’ protest march down there — how awesome would that be?!?! Can you imagine — a throng of a thousand Elmos, Elvises and SpongeBobs???? They’d never be able to stop all of us!!!!

By that time, I was so disheartened that I gave up and started walking back to my car…but on the way, my headdress inadvertently got in the background of some big fat saggy-titted hag in a slutty pirate costume’s photo, and she snarled at me to get the fuck out: “GIT OFF’N MY LAND!” basically. JEEZ! The atmosphere down there is so toxic and miserable, I don’t know when I’ll have the balls to go back down there. I mean, it was good cash money, but….at what price?!?

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stuck in the bunker again!

One final wacky gig I did lately was act as concierge for this group of rowdy drunken Canadian guys who come out every year to play golf and cat around: I caddied for them last year, and they were so taken with me that this year they hired me to arrange everything. The first day, I set up a nude photo shoot with me and my fellow Goddess Collective members up at Red Rock Canyon — we drove the guys out there and posed for softcore lesbo photos for a couple hours, and a great time was had by all. Then the next day, we all met up at a local golf course and proceeded to booze our way around the course, taking all manner of salacious photos and engaging in all kinds of naughty shenanigans involving strategically-placed golf tees and lots of puns involving the word “balls.” The final day, we were all supposed to get a cabana at one of the big pool parties, but the weather had turned shitty so we ended up just getting wasted at their hotel Jacuzzi, then going to the nightclub and getting fucked up til all hours of the night.

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too much to drink!

Now, I haven’t set foot in a nightclub since the days when I was working at The Act…and guess what, it was just as abhorrent an experience as I recalled! This particular place, HAZE, was especially lame and unremarkable — they actually had the gall to hire that tired-ass moron from Jersey Shore, Pauly D, as DJ!!! Even worse, all the star-struck, fat-assed farm girls in the crowd were absolutely stoked, holding up their cell phones to capture footage of this momentous occasion. JEEEZ!!!!

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golf shenanigans!

Still, I’m not sure what happened but I ended up having a fantastic time — I was dressed really sloppily, in leggings and flip-flops (remember, we were boozing at the pool all day), but something happened and I went bat shit dancing, burning about 1,000,000 calories and having a really good time, despite the horrible DJ and lame-ass environment…so I guess it wasn’t all bad! The only downside was, after all that I felt like I’d been hit by a giant alcoholic Canuck bus — I mean, I was exhausted when those guys left! I don’t know how they did it.

Now that I think about it, I was probably tired not only because of the Canadian guys…but because of all the other crazy shit I’ve been up to lately! I mean, not only the shit I’ve already covered in this blog — that was all just work!! Don’t forget, I also had plenty of PLAY the past few weeks!!

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photo by Lem One

The best party I went to lately was this amazing Burning-Man-themed bicycle pub crawl organized by one of my neighbors, called Blinking Man. Twice a year, about 300-400 wackos in costumes ride bikes covered in blinking lights all over downtown Vegas, stopping at four or five bars along the way for drinks and fun. This one group carts around a full DJ setup, and we basically have raves in all the parking lots we stop at along the way –

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guess which one is my roommate?

– it’s a RIOT! I went with some of my neighbors and friends, and even my roommate made an appearance, Rollerblading around half-naked in an Indian headdress and a G-string. NICE! All in all I was out til about 2am, pedaling furiously about the streets of downtown Vegas, dancing and drinking and getting merry like Christmas. NO FUCKING WONDER I’M TIRED — that was my day off!!!

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rockabilly bitches

Then another night, I went over to the annual Viva Las Vegas rockabilly festival at the Orleans Hotel. I used to go over there every year to scope out all the crazy hardcore rockabilly kids from L.A. and all over the world, but I hadn’t been for a couple years, since it kinda gets old after awhile. But this year, I went with my friend the Baroness, and it was pretty cool! We sneaked into one of the lounges and partied late into the night to the rabble-rousing strains of a fabulous rockin’ Western Swing band — good times! The only bummer was, I had to drive…so I couldn’t get royally wasted, like the Baroness, who ended up baby-talking to two cops like the shameless hussy that she is!!!

Now, after all that city dwelling, you know I had to

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get out into the desert and have some fun in the fresh air and sunshine, too!! One night, some hippie pals and I kayaked out on the Colorado River and had a bonfire on one of the beaches to watch the Blood Moon eclipse. Remember that? When the moon turned all orange and weird that one night? It was fabulous!! We had a big ol’ fire, and listened to Rush on my friend’s boom box, smoking some reefer and partying like it was 1981. Good fucking times!!!

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The only downside was, the eclipse didn’t even start until like 11pm, and it dragged on until like 2am….and we couldn’t leave until the whole eclipse was over, since there wasn’t enough ambient light out to kayak by until the moon came back!! But let me tell you, when the moon finally did come back out, it was fantastic: gliding down the silent river in the dark of night, with just the gentle splashing of the kayak paddles in the moonlit water. Magical!!! I didn’t end up getting to bed til like 5am, but…hey, YOLO, man!!!

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view from the top of Mt. Potosi

Now finally, the most traumatic adventure I had lately was this overnight campout I did on the top of Mount Potosi, with my ol’ buddy Alex. You remember Alex — the guy I went on that bickering snowbound campout in Mammoth Lakes with? He and I don’t really get along too well, but for some reason I thought it would be fun to hike up to the top of Mt. Potosi with him — it’s been on my bucket list for eons, and he brought it up so I agreed to go, and camp out overnight at the top, overlooking the lights of Vegas.

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hiking up the LONG, STEEP 3.5-mile road to the summit

Also, there’s the wreckage of this historical plane crash up there — back in the ’40s, the actress Carole Lombard died in a fiery crash on one of the mountain slopes, and to this day no one has ever recovered her wedding ring. She was married to the actor Clark Gable at the time, but she heard a rumor he was messing around with up-and-coming-starlet Lana Turner, so despite the advice of the air traffic controller, she insisted on flying back to L.A. that night to keep tabs on him — in the middle of a terrible storm!! The plane ended up crashing and everyone aboard died, and Clark Gable spent three days at the nearby Pioneer Saloon in Goodsprings, waiting for word from the search party…but it was of no use. The area where the plan crashed is super rugged, and they had a hard time getting up there to look for survivors, even if there were any. Anyhoo, like I said the wreckage is still up there, and Carole Lombard’s wedding ring is supposedly up there somewhere, too…just begging to be found by an intrepid Hussy!!!

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slogging uphill

So when my buddy Alex invited me to go, I was stoked…despite the fact that our Arizona hotsprings adventure ended badly. I packed up my tent and sleeping bag and stuff, and rigged up a backpack to carry it all, then headed out to pick up Alex at his parents’ house. The trouble started there: he wanted to bring a pair of bolt-cutters, so we could cut the lock on the gate at the bottom of the road and drive up to the top of the mountain. He kept telling me it was too hard to hike the whole way — like, it was straight vertical uphill, harder than the Grand Canyon!

However, I insisted that I would not be party to his cutting a lock, and that we would hike the whole way like real men. So already, he was peeved with me. He kept arguing with me that “no one has the right” to put up a lock, that “no one can own land,” etc. etc. etc. (He’s obsessed with that whole bullshit Cliven Bundy debacle up in Mesquite…you know, the redneck rancher who’s refusing to pay his grazing fees?)

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our campsite on the summit

Still, we didn’t bicker too much on the way up. He kept saying things to goad me, but I was pretty relaxed and let it all slide — he kept mocking my makeshift backpack, and questioning the legitimacy of my work as a model, etc. etc. etc. Some people are just like that, and if you want to hang with them, you have to deal with it. Anyway, we both made it to the top of the mountain a little after dark, and it was actually really cool — we set up camp, had a big bonfire, and sat there looking out over the lights of Vegas. That is an AMAZINGLY beautiful spot to camp — what a view!

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campfire and the lights of Vegas

Alex had forgotten to bring much food, but he refused my offer to share my falafel, so he sat there while I ate, and he drank his only beer and I drank some wine. He kept bitching at me for not bringing mushrooms — he’d asked me to via text message the day before, and secretly I had brought some, but decided it was a bad idea to eat them up there with him, so kept mum. As it was, we ended up having a pretty nice, peaceful night with little arguing and some pretty good conversation. I smoked him out, although he did make fun of me for being cheap with my weed, and not changing the bowl out after every hit — that’s the kind of person he is. drove us out there, offered to share my food, shared my weed — and all he does is bitch me out for being miserly and not bringing mushrooms. You just can’t win with some people.

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morning coffee

Anyway, he fell asleep by the fire, so I shoveled dirt on it and went to bed myself. It was really windy up there, so I didn’t get much sleep, with my tent flapping around and stuff — but I was super stoked to get up the next morning and hike down to that plane crash site! So in the morning, Alex made coffee and eggs (I’ll give him credit for that, he shared his breakfast with me but still refused to share my Clif bars with me, even though I had an extra one for him — he’s so weird like that) and then we packed up camp and headed back down the mountain.

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signing the trail register at the summit

The plane crash site is off the side of the mountain near the top, down a really rugged slope on a totally unmarked trail. Alex’s idea was to hike down to the crash site, then continue hiking overland to the bottom of the mountain and back out to the road that way. Well, I was uncomfortable hiking on that steep slope with all that gear strapped to my back — I felt top-heavy, and preferred to leave my gear up at the top, hiking down a different way to the crash site, then back up to get my gear and back down the way we’d come up yesterday. Sure it was a longer route, but it seemed easier to me.

Well, Alex just wouldn’t let up about how stupid it was, and how I “never” take his advice and how his way was so much easier. Despite his anger, he begrudgingly hiked back down the way I wanted to go, and we both left our packs at the top of the mountain, just off the trail, and started picking our way to the crash site. The whole time, Alex is reminding me how stupid my idea is, and how this way is just as hard as his way, and I should have listened to him. Jeez!!! After about an hour, we lost sight of each other — the terrain out there is SUPER rugged, as mentioned, and it’s easy to get lost.

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I picked my way along for about another hour or so, but I wasn’t really dressed for it (I had on shorts) and it was REALLY windy, and I couldn’t find the plane wreckage anywhere…so I finally gave up and hiked back up the mountain to where we’d left our packs, thinking I’d wait for him there. I sat around for a bit, but saw/heard no trace of him…which kinda got me worried. I called his name a few times, no answer. So I decided to hike back up to the spot where he’d originally wanted to hike down to the crash site — it was a better overlook of the crash site, so maybe I’d see him there. I left a note on his pack saying I’d be right back, then hiked back up to the first spot — no sign of Alex!

So I hiked back down to where we’d left our packs, thinking he’d probably be there waiting for me — still nothing! Only now, my sleeping bag was missing!!! Our backpacks were there, but my sleeping bag was gone. I figured he’d hidden it somewhere nearby, and was sitting there watching me — so I looked around, but no sign of Alex or my bag. My next thought was that the wind had blown it down the mountainside — but I looked around pretty thoroughly, and saw no trace of it. I mean, a bright blue bag would stand out pretty well on a scrubby hillside, no? But I couldn’t see it anywhere!!!

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my long-lost sleeping bag. RIP :(

So now, I started to get a little weirded out. I figured a person didn’t take it, since a) there were no people up there, and b) there was much more valuable equipment in Alex’s pack. So did an animal drag it off?? I had no idea, and it was so windy and weird up there, with the ghost of Carole Lombard keening in the pines, that I kinda got a little creeped out. I sat there for another hour waiting for a sign from Alex, until about 3pm, but it was fucking cold and windy and shitty, so finally I gave up and decided to wait for him in my truck at the bottom of the mountain. I left another note on his pack saying I’d wait for him in the truck til 7pm, then hiked all the way back down to the bottom, about 3 miles.

When I got to my truck it was about 5pm, and I called my mom to see what she thought I should do. There were only about two hours of daylight left, and part of me was afraid something had happened to Alex up there, and I should try to find him before dark. But ANOTHER part of me knew that he is totally ornery and independent, and for all I know had hiked down all the way to the bottom, leaving his pack up at the top to pick up the next day, on his dirt bike. For all I knew, he was already at the Saloon, waiting for me. I wasn’t sure what to do!

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view from the top — you can see Vegas, Pahrump and Sandy Valley

Alex had left his cell phone in my truck, so I took the liberty of calling his dad and asking him what he thought. His dad didn’t seem too worried — apparently Alex disappears all the time like this. He said I should wait til 7, and then call him if I still hadn’t found him. But then somehow his mom found out, and she called me, all worried, saying that she was sending his dad out there right now to look for him. I mean, the terrain up there was so rugged that there was nothing either one of us could really have done, anyway…but it seemed like we had to do something! At this point, I hadn’t seen Alex in five hours…kind of weird for someone you are supposedly hiking with!

Anyway, I drove around the base of the mountains looking for signs of Alex, but most of the roads were either gated off or two gnarly for my little 2wd truck to handle. I went into town and checked the saloon, but no one had seen him there, either. Finally, I headed back to the place where I’d parked the truck overnight, down by where he’d wanted to cut the lock — and there he was, waiting for me! Apparently he’d hiked to the crash site and hung around for a couple hours waiting for me, and when I didn’t show up, he figured I’d just hiked out and followed me back. D’OH!!!!!!

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oh well. Photo by Jorge Lara for

Now I felt like a total ass for having called his parents — and when he found out I’d called them, he flipped out! “DON’T YOU KNOW I’VE HIKED ALL OVER THE WESTERN U.S., CANADA AND MEXICO?! I CAN SURVIVE ANYTHING OUT IN THESE WOODS!” He made me feel like a total puss for having worried, so I bawled him out in the car and told him I never wanted to see him again. I drove him back to his parents’ house, dropped him off, and that was it. Two days later he moved to Colorado for the summer, to work at some high-class golf resort out there…and I haven’t seen him since.

Honestly, it’s for the best. There are some people who just don’t get along, and he and I are two of them!! But now I’m really wondering…..was I a total idiot to have worried so much about him up there on that mountain? In retrospect, it seems I should have just sat in my car and waited til he showed up, and not worried so much.

Dangit!!! I need to be less of a worrier…….and more of a WARRIOR!!!




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Rummelsnuff’s “Salutare” Video, Ft. Wonderhussy!

Remember how last month, I was hanging out with Käpt’n Rummelsnuff and his First Mate Christian at their desert compound in Wonder Valley?? And remember how they filmed a music video for their new single, “Salutare,” with me and my sis and background dancers??

HERE IT IS!!! Enjoy this glimpse into the fabulous life at the Cat Ranch in Wonder Valley…

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Bedeviled by Snow, and Kayaking With the Baroness

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pic by Dano Gruen

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

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the open road!

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

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

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the alabama hills

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


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Alex and me

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

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


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Snow-covered Mt. Whitney in the background

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

DSC 9285 300x200 Bedeviled by Snow, and Kayaking With the BaronessAfter unpacking our gear, Alex rode his dirt bike off to town while I stayed behind and set up my tent and built a fire, like a good squaw. When he got back, I ate a pot cookie and got baked by the fire, and had a pretty good time. There’s little in this world I enjoy more than a campfire in the desert…ya know? The night was fairly warm, even with the snow-capped mountains in the background, and everything was completely amazing.

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

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the Mobius Arch in the alabama hills

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

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an alpine lake near Mammoth

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

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at Mammoth ski resort

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

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

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the deadly hot creek

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

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Fuck this cold shit!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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the pool by day (none of my night photos came out)

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

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

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damn snow!!

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

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

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

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I am NOT a morning person!

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

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winter fucking wonderland

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


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this poor mango was a metaphor for my own misery

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

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hanging out with Kevin in the hot springs

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

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

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the Boonies indeed!

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

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Overview of Fish Lake Hot Spring

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

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the soaking tub at Fish Lake

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

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

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where to next??

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

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emergency gas from Walt

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

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bullshitting in the Gold Point Saloon

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

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

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

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April in Vegas!

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

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a bristlecone pine

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

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

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the top

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

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

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fuck this!!!

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

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traversing the mountain

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

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identity concealed to protect the innocent

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

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

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the mighty Colorado

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

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

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

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The Baroness

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

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

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what a Baroness wears to kayak

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

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launching below the Hoover Dam

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

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

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The Baroness toted her fair share of gear down

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

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the happy lesbos

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

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

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just before I capsized

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

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

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

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in a cave

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

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climbing up to the sauna cave

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

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another cave

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

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

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the Baroness at Goldstrike

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

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the Baroness vs. Wonderhussy. Looks like I’m going to have to up my game!

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

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our campsite

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

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

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climbing the ladder

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

023 225x300 Bedeviled by Snow, and Kayaking With the BaronessAstonishingly, we all made it up the ladder without mishap and enjoyed a long, surreal soak in the beautiful springs. Last year when we did this, we brought all these colored lanterns and took really cool art nude photos — the springs are in a really steep slot canyon, almost like a cave, and the lighting and reflections were really cool. This time though, we just chilled out and soaked. And when we’d had enough, we headed back down to the fire!

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

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morning on AZ hot springs beach

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

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our posse

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

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

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mmm…crowconut lattes

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

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back on the river

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

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

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El Pulpo

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

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

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sooo exhausting!

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

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

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willow beach at last (taken last year, when it was sunny)

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

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

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Still, that being said…I can’t wait to do it again!!!! icon smile Bedeviled by Snow, and Kayaking With the Baroness

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Villa Sinvergüenza

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my house

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Post-Apocalyptic Wonders of the Salton Sea (and Disneyland on Shrooms)

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With Kapt’n Rummelsnuff

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

Untitled2 263x300 The Post Apocalyptic Wonders of the Salton Sea (and Disneyland on Shrooms)To celebrate her newfound freedom, I invited her to join me on an adventure into one of my favorite corners of America…the farthest southeastern reaches of California, not far from the Mexican border. If you’ve never been there, it’s better than Disneyland — and much cheaper! And being as the desert out there is chock-a-block with off-the-grid eccentrics, artists and weirdos, it’s a GREAT place for a corporate detox! You’ll never catch anyone in those parts uttering bullshit platitudes about thinking outside the box — out there, folks are too busy THRIVING outside the motherfucking box! Fuck the box, maaaaan!!!

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Kapt’n Rummelsnuff and First Mate Christian…together they perform as Rummelsnuff

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

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

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Camping at the Ranch

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

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Brunch at The Palms

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

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The Palms…best dusty little bar this side of Mos Eisley

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

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Production meeting

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

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Most homoerotic of the MANY barbershops in Twentynine Palms

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

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working out

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

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At the Ranch

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

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photo by Dano Gruen (he told me to look bitchy)

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

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Bye, guys! Til next year!

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

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

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ruins on the shore of the Salton Sea

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

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the “sandy” beach at the Salton Sea

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

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

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You dirty hippies get off my RV park!

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

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the spotless bathrooms at FOY

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

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FOY pool area

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

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

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the entrance to Salvation Mtn

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

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Christer Mad Libs


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

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Looking down from the top of Salvation Mountain. The surrounding desert is full of gypsies and eccentrics camping out for free

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

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

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Slab City compound

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

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Wandering around Slab City

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

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Onstage at the Range

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

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In the Library

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


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The coolest camp at Slab City (excepting East Jesus)

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

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East Jesus art installation

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


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

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Backstage at East Jesus

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

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the time machine at East Jesus!!!

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

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chandelier made of duck decoys

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

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the lush hidden oasis of East Jesus

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

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more random East Jesus art


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


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in the mudhole (drunk hippies not pictured)

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

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one of the many Border Patrol checkpoints along the road, trying to keep out those damn Mexicans

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

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artists sneak out to the shores to do weird shit with the abandoned junk

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

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welcome to what?!?!

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

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market in the food desert

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

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man down!

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

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lonely road signpost on CA-62

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

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

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

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another lonely road

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

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backstage bratwurst

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

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Rummelsnuff in action (endearing Goth fans not pictured)

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

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

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bag o’goodies

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

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

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alas, It’s A Small World (the only ride I REALLY wanted to go on) was closed that day

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

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

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shrooms in spaaaaace

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

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passed out from too much “fun”

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

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dead end road at the Salton Sea

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

Like East Jesus!





Posted in Uncategorized | 14 Comments

Calling All Caftans!

caftan6 240x300 Calling All Caftans!When not posing nude, my #1 favorite thing to wear is a caftan! You know, those long, flowy, mostly garishly-patterened robes like Mrs. Roper used to wear on Three’s Company? Well guess what: Mrs. Roper is my style icon, and I’m totally KOOKY FOR KAFTANS!

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

caftan2 248x300 Calling All Caftans!So I’m posting this desperate cry: CALLING ALL CAFTANS!!! If you happen to have any old 1960s or 1970s caftans, muumuus, housedresses or robes of any sort lying around…holla at me! The more garish/hideous, the better — you know me!

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my #1 all-time favorite caftan, purchased for 25cents over 15 years ago!!

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Working as a Background Extra in a Porn Movie (!!!)

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Wasting away in Margaritaville

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

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

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

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A stripped-down portrait taken by the FABULOUS Elizabeth Wolynski

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

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

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

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

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

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I’m ready for my close-up

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

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

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

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Actual sample page of the script

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

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

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

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on set…note old-timey micofiche and “No Fucking” sign in the background

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

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bathroom at the porn studio (!!!!)

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

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

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pic by Brazzers

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

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

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this lifesized cutout of the Queen must have been there to help the male talent from coming too soon!

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

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

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pic courtesy Brazzers

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

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

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

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pic by Brazzers

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

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

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All the day’s shenanigans were inexplicably watched over by the cheerful visage of Eleanor Roosevelt

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

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





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