Month: August 2011

All About Burning Man

I haven’t really been up to much the past few days — just getting ready for Burning Man. I had my truck checked, my trailer checked, I packed up all my wigs and costumes, and I went to buy groceries –which normally I don’t, since I eat all my meals for free in the employee dining room at work. Normally my fridge contains little more than vodka and eyeliner pencils (to keep them from melting). But I had to go out and buy trail mix and beef jerky and all kinds of other nonperishable foods to nosh up on the Playa.

I’m leaving tomorrow morning, and from Vegas it’s a long, lonely 9-hour drive up thru the state of Nevada — i.e. the middle of Nowhere. Seriously, aside from a few trucker-friendly brothels and a mining town or two, there ain’t much to look at — although the route does pass through Hawthorne, NV… aka The Most Patriotic City in America. Everything in this dusty little town is painted red, white & blue, and the surrounding desert is peppered with munition storage bunkers (apparently they keep a bunch o’ammunition out there, in keeping with their patriotic motto).

Thankfully, my sister is flying down here from San Fran to make the drive with me, so at least I won’t have to go it alone. She has driven up with me the past two times I went, as well — it’s sort of a ritual. Once we get up near Fernley, NV our plan is to rendezvous with her husband and his friend, who are driving their RV from the Bay Area, and we’ll drive the rest of the way together. My sis married into this kooky clan of Israelis, and it’s always a party with those people — last year, her hubby insisted on hanging an Israeli flag up in our camp, so that his countrymen would find us and share their drugs with us (Israelis are known to have the best party drugs). In fact, we were originally gonna camp with a bunch of Israelis from the Bay Area, but it turned out that those Israelis were “shimonim,” aka no-goodniks…so we camped on our own.

Anyhoo, once I get out to Burning Man, the cell reception/WiFi is practically nonexistent, so I won’t be able to update til I get back around Sept. 6 or so. So I thought I would leave you with one last blog alllllll about Burning Man and why I go.

People have been inviting me to Burning Man for at least 10 years, but I never went because it seemed too dirty — plus in those days I rolled around in a pink 1986 Lincoln TownCar, which was hardly playa-worthy. But a few years ago, my sis had something of a quarter-life crisis, divorced her policeman hubby of 10 years, and basically went buck wild. She decided we should go to Burning Man, so in 2009 we made our first trip.

I bought a pop-up camper for us to stay in the first year, but it ended up blowing over and being completely destroyed at another party I went to later in the year (these desert winds don’t fuck around!). So I got another one, and now I make sure to stake it down properly! I like pop-ups because they’re lightweight, easy to tow…and cheap — my current rig was only $500, and when opened up it’s pretty nice inside. My dream one day is to get one of those fiberglass Casita trailers, because while I dig my pop-up, it does take 15 minutes to set up…and sometimes you just wanna park and crawl directly in bed. And one of my long-held desires is to travel around the USA like a gypsy..and for that, a Casita is what I need.

The first year I went to Burning Man, I was actually sorely disappointed — I expected a life-changing experience with a crowd of scientists, artists, free-thinkers and difference-makers. Come to find out, for many (if not most) people Burning Man is just about sex, drugs and alcohol…and the chance to ogle half-naked chicks. YAWN!

But in among all the lecherous swingers, drunk frat boys and bimbo party girls, there are actually a lot of cool people…and a lot of really cool art. So even though my sis and I spent much of our first Burn sitting around grousing like Statler and Waldorf (those two grouchy old men from the Muppet Show)…we had enough fun that we decided to return in 2010.

2009 was cool because it was the first year the population actually shrunk — normally, the number of attendees grows each year, but due to the recession, only the real hardcore Burners made it out. 2010 was busier…and you could really tell by the amount of MOOP on the ground (that’s Burner-speak for “Matter Out Of Place,” i.e. litter…Burning Man is a “Leave No Trace” event where you’re supposed to pick up every last speck of litter). This year, 2011, is the first year the event actually SOLD OUT — so I project a record amount of  MOOP (my sis and I are what you might call MOOP Nazis, and have been known to travel around with a plastic bag picking up litter).

Anyhoo, back to the why. Why spend $1000 every year (that’s about what it costs in food, ticket, gas and missed work) to go camp out in the middle of a hot, dry dusty desert with no running water and only the foulest of Porta-Potties to pee and poop in? Well…it’s FUN! Just look at my photos if you don’t believe me — it’s like a big playground where booze, drugs, nudity and radical self-expression are ENCOURAGED, not frowned upon, as in the default world. Need I really explain more?!

For those who don’t know, Burning Man is basically a week-long party in the remotest desert about 2 hours north of Reno…in the middle of NOWHERE. There is no running water, no electricity, no toilets…nothing by a flat dry lake bed. But thousands of people (50,000 this year) come out and turn it into this amazing crazy temporary settlement called Black Rock City. All the staff does is set up the Man (to be burned at the end of the week), a central meeting place (Center Camp, a huge tent where you can buy coffee and hang out)(the only things you can buy at Burning Man are coffee and ice…other than that commerce is strictly prohibited), a temple (which they also burn at the end of the week) and the street signs — everything else is created by the participants. People come up weeks in advance to start setting up their artwork and interactive displays, and some of it is on a HUGE scale. Meanwhile, everyone brings generators and propane and stuff so that at night, the desert lights up brighter than the Vegas Strip!!! Seriously!

One of my favorite things about camping there is the hardcore mentality — as mentioned it is a Leave No Trace event, so you can’t even spit out the water you use to brush your teeth unless you do it into a jug, and tote it back out with you. You bring in all your water, and tote out whatever “gray” water you end up with. Meanwhile, unless you’re one of those pansies with an RV, you clean up using baby wipes and washcloths — which works so well for me that people are always commenting on my amazing cleanliness. Hours are wasted on elaborate solar-shower setups at many camps, but I don’t see the need for that nonsense.

One of my other favorite parts about Burning Man is that it’s better than any fat camp you could ever go to! Between the dancing, drumming, walking, hula hooping and bike riding (you have to ride a bike everywhere to get around), it’s a non-stop workout. Plus, all you’re eating is trail mix and jerky…so it’s a recipe for fitness!

Anyhoo, pictures do the best job of explaining all this, so check these out…and think of me next week, when you’re sitting at your boring-ass desk doing your boring-ass work. I’ll be running around, naked in the sunshine, doing what I do best: drinking, smoking and cursing! Woooooo Hoooooooooo! Peace out, friends!

 

Last year it rained, and these double rainbows appeared in the sky…causing many a high hippie to wander around exclaiming “What does it meeeeeeeeeeeean???”

 

 

 

Fun with mirrors

 

 

 

 

 

It’s all about the costumes for me and my sis!

 

 

 

 

This awesome tube of revolving lights…you get inside, your friends spin the lights, and it’s a TRIP!

 

 

 

 

Inside the light tube

 

 

 

 

 

This mirrored box that you get in, and they jiggle it around (it’s hanging from bungee cords) while you freak out inside. FUN!

 

 

 

 

One night we were wandering around the deep (outer) playa (the wide, flat expanse beyond the camping area)…and we stumbled onto this ad-hoc Italian restaurant some people had set up! They had tables with checkered tablecloths, red roses for the ladies, a violin player and lots of delicious piping-hot pasta, which they were cooking on a ginormous camp stove they’d hauled out there. Plus, a maitre’d exhorting you to “Mangia, mangia!” FABULOUS!

These weird spinning chairs, tilted at an angle, that were suuuuuuuuper fun to twirl around in, when in a state of altered consciousness!

 

 

 

Riding a “bull” some redneck Burners from Idaho had set up!

 

 

 

 

This one tent serves up free grilled cheese sandwiches at midnight. YUM!

 

 

 

 

Laying in the dust, looking at spinning lights. Whee!

 

 

 

 

This ADORABLE little man who pops up at every drum circle and does this bizarre little elfin dance, with a blissed-out smile on his face. I’ve seen him both years, and I hope to see him again — he’s a good omen!

 

 

 

This SUPER AWESOME man named Dr. Rosen we met up there one year…he claimed to be a pediatric neurologist in the straight world, and he was SOOOOO COOL! (He’s the one in the pink furry hat.) He invited us to a Jewish wedding the following day at sundown, but alas we were too hungover to make it 🙁 I spent many hours trying to look him up online to no avail…wherever you are, Dr. Rosen…you rock!!!

The temple. People write messages and post photos of lost loved ones all week, and then they burn it on Sunday night. Very emotional! I’ll be putting up a note to my dad, who committed suicide this past April!

 

 

 

Walking a tightrope while drunk and wearing platform wedges!! Another thing I LOVE about Burning Man is that you sign away all your rights to sue when you buy your ticket…so there are all kinds of crazy, dangerous towers to climb and games to play. Yay!!

 

 

 

 

Riding a giant San Fran city bus some nutty hippies had tricked out and driven up there…no cars are allowed on the playa except for “art cars,” which are only allowed to go 5mph. Some people get REALLY crazy with their art cars!

 

 

 

 

Riding in another art car, this one designed as a rocket ship!

 

 

 

 

Some super-cool science nerds had rigged up a display to demonstrate the power of one joule. You grab the fork and spoon, and you’re jolted with one joule.

 

 

 

The man-made shit is all well and good….but it’s the desert itself that puts on the best show!! Sunsets are BEAUTIFUL out there!

 

So, now you see why I enjoy Burning Man. I don’t go up there to have random sex or prove a point…I just go for fun. And funnnnn it is!

 

See you in a week!

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Scandalous Whores, Name That Tune and NYC

I just got back from a day or two in New York, where I was doing some last-minute research for this awesome mobile phone app I’m developing with my friend J.R. I came up with the idea for the app years ago, but it took me this long to find someone interested in helping me bring it to market. JR is just the kind of eccentric nut for the project, so he helped me form an LLC and get the ball rolling on the R&D – part of which involved us going to New York City and stumbling around Manhattan like a couple of half-baked idiot tourists. Country comes to town! We spent all day yesterday going from one tourist hotspot to another, boozing and taking notes, and I sprinkled a few Wonderhussy stickers around town for good measure. And, just to make sure those East-Coasters knew what hit them, I made sure to shake things up a little with a good-old-fashioned earthquake. OK, I didn’t cause the quake…but I definitely enjoyed hearing the locals freak out; I’m from California, and have been through a real quake or two. That was nothing!

But anyway, J.R. is lucky I’m even talking to him, after what he did to me last week back in Vegas! Let me tell you about it.

I spent most of the week attending to business with JR – we had to open a business account for our LLC (I’m the President, he’s the Secretary, LOL), and then we went out to celebrate our partnership and the one-year anniversary of our meeting each other (I met him at a Bob Dylan concert, where I was attempting to take souvenir photos of a roomful of grouchy old hippies). As mentioned, JR has an eye for the ladies…and when we first met, he was interested in becoming my sugar daddy. But I prefer to remain just good friends with him – I’m not into having a sugar daddy these days, and it’s a real bummer, because J.R. would be a great one!

But our friendship was sorely tested when he revealed to me the truth of what happened when we went to dinner with those skanks last Monday night. To recap: J.R., who is constitutionally unable to pass by a slutty bimbo without chatting her up and tipping her $100, had befriended a pretty blonde bartender down at the NASCAR race in Daytona named Bobbi Jo. He brought Bobbi Jo to Vegas so she could visit her ex-Hooters-coworker, a well-known local Playboy Playmate/party girl/hot mess named Skanki Sue, and all four of us ended up going out to dinner at an extremely pretentious restaurant at the Cosmopolitan.

After dinner, drinks and gambling, the plan was to go over to some doucher nightclub where Skanki Sue’s famous friend Lulu Hefbanger was hosting some party. Lulu Hefbanger is a former Playmate and reality TV star – in fact, she currently has her own show on E!, and none other than Skanki Sue herself has a supporting role on the show.

 

I thought it would be fun to go over and party with Lulu, but as the hour grew later and the vibes I got from Skanki and Bobbi Jo got chillier and finally became downright hostile, I decided to bail early and just go home to bed. And it’s a good thing I did! JR later told me that while we were all sitting at the blackjack table, Skanki and Bobbi went to the bathroom together…and then when Bobbi Jo came back, she whispered in his ear that they wanted him to come party with them, but that first he would have to get rid of me – because “[Skanki] hates the bitch!”

Well, that was no real surprise – all through dinner I had been trying to make polite conversation, but after I brought up Skanki’s hair extensions (not on purpose, I swear) you could tell she didn’t like me, and did her damnedest to exclude me from the conversation. All through dinner, Bobbi Jo and her sat giggling and whispering and flirting with JR, while I just sat there getting sloshed and depressed as JR catered to their every whim (he spent $1100 on champagne alone trying to impress these brainless whores).

Well, JR was really in a bind – he’s always going on about how I’m his best friend in the whole wide world, and I know him better than anyone (many’s the time I’ve sat and listened to his litany of problems for hours on end, and remember, I tied off the skin tag on his asscrack…so I guess I’ve earned that title) – but on the other hand, an incorrigible flirt and ladies’ man like him could hardly turn down the opportunity to party with the legendary Lulu Hefbanger! Luckily for him, I didn’t test his mettle by trying to come along – I bowed out on my own, without even knowing I wasn’t welcome. It would have been interesting to see JR handle the situation if I had wanted to come along!

As it happened, he shoved a bunch of casino chips at me out of guilt and put me in a cab home…then turned around and booked a hot pink stretch Hummer limo to take his bitchy new friends out on the town. First they headed over to one of the big strip clubs in town, where Skanki Sue got (more) sloshed and started yelling “I WANT DRUGS! I WANT DRUGS!” until she got tired of the dancers hogging all the attention away from her and her fish-lipped, wall-eyed antics. Then they piled back in the Hummer and went over to a certain super-mega-ultra-douchebag-filled nightclub where Lulu Hefbanger and her retinue of sycophants and douchebags were partying onstage in a sort of royal VIP area, and thanks to Skanki’s influence they were able to get in and drink and party with the in crowd (these girls remind me of the movie Heathers…or Mean Girls. Or Jizz-Faced Bukkake Whores VII, for that matter). JR had a fine time partying late into the night with those idiots, and all he had to show for it were some bruises on his arms and chest where they bit him in the taxi on the ride home. Those girls were animals! 

Then all the next day – and the rest of the week, in fact – they kept texting and sexting him with obscene photos and videos of them partying naked in their suite at the Cosmopolitan. Skanki had on a strap-on, and stuck something up her ass in one of the videos (he showed me, but I couldn’t quite make it out), and then when the poor room service attendant came to bring them more alcohol, she threatened to throw a vase off the balcony unless he shotgunned a beer…which he did, with a sort of defeated air of humiliation (and that’s why it sucks to work in the service industry). I’m here to tell you, that woman is a hot mess. I guarantee she’ll be dead by 40…she even confided to J.R. that she can’t stop “shitting and puking” due to an unfortunate laxative addiction. Wow!

Anyway, the next morning JR felt terrible about what had happened, and confessed everything to me later that night – in addition to “hating” me, Skanki also apparently kept making fun of my poufy hair behind my back. (Side note: what is it with people and my hair?! I swear, I’ll be walking down the street and random strangers will yell at me: “The ‘80s called! They want their hair back!!” Why so angry, assholes? If I want to wear my hair big and puffy, I don’t see the harm in it…you don’t see me walking down the street yelling at strangers “The trailer park called and they want their cellulite back!” Get a life, assholes!!) Anyway, J.R. didn’t defend me…he just kept his mouth shut and went along with those crazy bitches. It’s a sad day when even my “good friend” sells me down the river just for the chance to swill overpriced vodka in the company of a fat-assed bleached-blonde whose only claim to fame is sucking off an 80-year-old pornographer. Oh, well!

To make up for his Judas turn, J.R. took me down to the Imperial Palace to see “Name That Tune” a couple days later. A tranny friend of mine had tipped me off to the fact that they had just started hosting a live version of the old game show in the showroom over there, and for the price of a ticket you get the chance to play…and potentially win $10,000! J.R. and I are karaoke FIENDS, so I figured between the two of us, someone would win some cash. To that end, J.R. got us tickets right down front, and I wore an extra-obnoxious outfit to make sure the producers spotted me and picked me to play.  I also made sure to swig a Mai Tai or two, just to get the old cerebrospinal fluids flowing freely.

Sure enough, my plan worked like a charm! The way the show works is, they pick 5 groups of ten people out of the audience, and the two winners from each group go on to play each other in Round 2. The hard part is getting them to call your name up in the first place, which thankfully they did for me in the second group. I won my heat easily, and then faced off in Round Two against a bunch of hardcore nerdy music fanboys, who were desperate to win the cash. But I showed them how it’s really done, and smoked them all in about 2 seconds. Then it was on to Round Three — the final five contestants. Whoever won this round was going to the final, and have the chance to win the $10,000 grand prize…so the competition was intense.

Well, I smoked everyone in that round, too (I do have extensive gameshow experience, having been on Jeopardy!, Who Wants to be a Millionaire? and American Idol). By now, J.R. was dying laughing, hooting and hollering in the audience. He had played in one of the earlier heats, but had lost out to some loser fanboy, and the gameshow host (who was totally amused by us) asked him “Don’t you ever beat her?” to which J.R., in his inimitable Southern style, drawled “Hell yeah, I beat ‘er all the time… at home!” At that, the mic was taken away from him and he was quickly ushered to his seat.

So now it was just me onstage with the hosts, Zowie Bowie and Marley Taylor, and the pressure was really on. I had 60 seconds to correctly identify 15 songs, and if successful, there was a glass box full of $10,000 cash waiting for me. I knocked out the first two songs in 5 seconds, but the third one threw me for a loop — it had one of those sappy, cheesy ballad-type intros…but I wasn’t quite sure which sappy, cheesy ballad it was. I made the mistake of glancing out into the audience, where I noted that all the fanny-packers were flapping their granny-wings and mouthing “Wind Beneath My Wiiiiiings!!”

Now, I had already gotten a similar question wrong one time at Pub Quiz, so I knew how treacherous these schmaltzy ballad intros can be — they all sound alike. It might just as well have been “From A Distance” or “To All the Girls I’ve Loved Before” — they’re virtually identical.

But time was ticking  away on the oversized novelty stopwatch onstage, so I knew I better answer quick. I had one “pass” at my disposal, and also one “Ask the Audience…” so I decided that since the audience were all yelling the same thing, I might as well make it official and ask them.

The host passed the mic to several fanny-packing baby-boomers, and they all swore up and down it was “Wind Beneath My Wings.” So, despite having heavy misgivings (I did toil away taking souvenir photos at the Bette Midler show for 2 years, so I know something from that miserable yenta’s schlock)…I went along with the audience.

WRONG!

I KNEW IT! Lesson learned: never trust a room full of drunken fanny-packing Baby Boomers. D’oh!! Because of their faulty memories, I let an acrylic case full of $10,000 in cold, hard cash slip through my fingers. Waah-waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah 🙁

Oh, well — at least I got out my frustration by flipping off the entire showroom: “Thanks for nothing, guys!” I sneered, waving my middle finger at the indignant, be-visored piles of intoxicated, quivering flesh staring up at me in shock and horror. Serves them right!! The song turned out to be some kinda of yee-haw schmaltz-fest by Wynonna Judd — which J.R. definitely should have known, being as he’s from Nashville and obsessed with country music and all. But whatevs!

It took me a good 20 minutes to get over coming that close to winning $10,000…but I did, telling myself that it was more about the fun and spectacle than about the money. Which it really is…in a way. But in another, more realistic way…it would have been sweet to win $10,000 cash. That’s a lot of shoes!

Anyhoo, I still had fun, and I wholeheartedly endorse going to see “Name That Tune,” weekdays at 3pm in the Imperial Palace showroom. If you’re lucky, my tranny friend will be working that day, and she’ll come over and take your souvenir photo! But even if that doesn’t happen…there’s still a lot of fun to be had at the I.P. Aside from their excellent Mai Tais, they also have a fabulous “Dealertainer” pit, where you can play blackjack as dealt by “Marilyn Monroe,” “Elvis” or even my good friend Chris, aka “Alice Cooper.” I love that guy — he’s a hoot!!

Anyway,  that was my week. How was yours?!

Horses and Whores

Well, the Midsummer Night’s Dream party at the Palms turned out to be a pretty big MEH. I guess once you’ve been to Burning Man, nothing can compare…although I must say they did a great job with the decorations, costumed stiltwalkers and bodypainted hussies wandering around the Palms pool under a full moon. But aside from all that…it was basically just another night at a Vegas club full of douchebags and whores in slutty costumes — myself included.

I wasted soooo much time and energy trying to come up with a badass costume — I cut the fuck out of my thumb making that mask the night before, and I wasted hours running around town to costume shops and dollar stores. And all so I could molested by a girl on ecstasy (see below) and endure the come-ons of countless douchebags?! Oh, well. At least I know now that I didn’t miss much last year, when I was in jail for DUI during the event (see my review of the Clark County Detention Center here).

But despite the disheartening inanity of the actual party, I ended up having a faaaaantastic time anyway, because of the awesome friends I met up with there — an entertainment journalist friend and one of his photographer colleagues from the local paper. They are both witty, intelligent and FUN…so the night was not a total wash! We partied with a well-known local gossip columnist and his wife, and ended up having a pretty good time.

My journalist friend had to leave early, to go over to another nightclub to interview a certain member of an annoying Christian boy band that gets the tween set all hot and bothered — we’ll call him Bo Bonas. He invited us to come along with him and watch, but first I had to figure out a way to make my extremely slutty “costume” into suitable club attire. I couldn’t just walk into this upscale nightclub dressed like a slutty evil fairy, ya know. Especially with wholesome little Bo Bonas there and all — I wouldn’t want him becoming an atheist on MY account!

Thankfully, I always roll around town with a few extras in an overnight bag in my truck, so I was able to cobble together a semi-decent outfit out of my work uniform shirt and a scarf wrapped around my ass. Classy!

The interview ended up being a bust — my friend just asked Bo a few Qs out on the red carpet in front of the club, and nothing exciting transpired. AFTER the fact, my friend asked me why I didn’t try to molest Bo and hump his leg or something! Well, gee — I was trying to be professional and not get in the way of your job! If I’d have known it was socially acceptable to molest young religious boys, I would have jumped him in two seconds — he was kinda hot, like a little Mormon Elvis. Oh, well.

After that we went into the nightclub in question — Haze, at Aria — for around 3 minutes before bailing on it. There is absolutely NOTHING to recommend this nightclub over others in Vegas. NOTHING! I found it completely uninteresting, visually, musically and crowd-wise. If I have to go to a nightclub, at least let it be someplace fun-ish and different, like XS, which is outdoor, or TAO, which is decorated cool and has half-naked models in bathtubs and stuff. Haze has absolutely N.O.T.H.I.N.G. to set it apart from the crowd. It was dark, dreary and depressing. My advice: SKIP IT!

After we bailed on Haze, we went next door to the good old Cosmopolitan, where you can always have a good time. My friend was hungry, so first we headed up to the much-overhyped “secret” pizza place on the 3rd floor, “hidden” down a hallway and only noticeable if you happen to see the huge mass of trendy hipster douchebags spilling out. Secret, my ass! You can read my review of this pizza place here — all I’ll say now is that the pizza was OK (pretty good, actually) but the wine was GREAT! Not that it was that high-quality, but it was only $6 for a ginormous plastic cup-full. Nice! I fueled myself for another 3 hours of partying off just that one cup — we headed downstairs to the ever-fabulous Bond lounge, where we danced and carried on with a bevy of pimps from Scottsdale, until they shut the place down at 4am. Then it was back out on the streets for me 🙁

 So that was my Saturday night. I spent all day Sunday recuperating on the sofa with my all-American hero friend, but then Monday rolled around and it was time to party again. My day started early with a photo shoot out in Pahrump, a sort of cow-town about an hour northwest of Vegas — it’s mostly famous for being the home of several legal brothels, but it’s also home to this fabulous little barrel-racing 18-year-old cowgirl named Michelle who wants to get into modeling, so a mutual friend (a vegan hippie biker chick I met through my friend Muscles Manischewitz) introduced us on Facebook.

I had been wanting to do a nude photo shoot on a horse for a loooong time (Lady Godiva — hello!), but didn’t know anyone with horses. Well, this little barrel racer was more than happy to lend me a couple of her horses in exchange for me bringing one of my photographer friends out there to shoot a few pics of her for her nascent portfolio. We shot some glamour-type shots for her, then she loaded up two of her gentlest horses and we cruised out to these awesome little sand dunes right behind the Chicken Ranch brothel. It was faaaaaaaaaantastic! The horses were very mild-tempered, and I was able to roll around naked on their backs with no fuss. I’m not sure the pix came out very good, though, because I wasn’t in the mood — I had a case of the uglies that day; I was really tired and my face was all puffy. Plus, it was hot as hell and really windy, and I got sand and horsehair in every crevice. BUT…having said all that, it was a fantastically fun experience, and I made a really cool new friend out of it. Any photographers reading this, Michelle Reese is a fantastic model and she needs more TF photos…check her out on Model Mayhem!

I did feel like a bit of a city slicker out there — I was sitting on one of the horses, and Michelle told me to ride it down the hill. “How do I get it to go?” I asked, like a total dumbass. Meanwhile, she was backing up her trailer like a pro — it takes me at least 20 minutes to back my pop-up camper into my freaking driveway, and here’s this 18-year-old backing up a trailer full of horses on a sand dune. Fuck!

But hell, I am a city slicker…and I had to get back to the city stat, in time for dinner with my friend J.R. (the wealthy oilman from Tennessee I told you about). He was in town for the week with one of his NASCAR honeys — a bartender he met at the race in Daytona, one of those beautiful Southern blonde belles you see in the movies. One of her good friends happens to be a local party whore/Playboy Playmate of no little local renown, who is also supposedly good buddies with Holly Madison…so we were all supposed to go out together.

I washed the sand and horsehair out of my ass just in time for J.R. to come pick me up in his limo, and then we all went over to the Cosmopolitan, where he had gotten a room for the girls. We picked up the NASCAR honey — we’ll call her Bobbi Jo — and her skank-bag Playmate friend, who we’ll call Skanki Sue, and then we all headed downstairs for dinner at an unbearably pretentious restaurant that shall remain unnamed (you can read my review of it here). I have never been party to such an obscene display of soullessness as I was at that dinner, let me tell you.

A word about my friend J.R.: he’s a genuinely nice man, goodhearted to a fault, Christian and polite and hardworking. His Achilles heel, however, is slutty whores — he can’t pass one by without giving her a wink and a $100 tip. Hmm, maybe that’s why he’s friends with me! Anyhoo, I’ve seen him suckered by many a pretty girl with malicious intent -he’s been known to fly all kinds of skanks out to Vegas, all expenses paid, and this one mega-whore who works at a local cigar shop once talked him into buying a $40,000 lighter (it is gold, and encrusted in diamonds). I think he actually enjoys being taken advantage of, and it is to his eternal consternation that I refuse to be party to this type of behavior. We’re just friends!

Anyhoo, he speaks very highly of Bobbi Jo (the NASCAR bartender), so I gave her a chance, though I had severe reservations. I didn’t get to talk to her much at dinner, so I will politely refrain from judging her based on her appearance, clothing and demeanor. Skanki Sue, on the other hand…WOW! That girl is a HOT FUCKING MESS!

Let me reiterate that this is a legit Playboy Playmate, very well known in Vegas…so I expected somewhat more. I mean, Playboy is the gold standard, right? Even MY photos don’t meet their standards!! (Yes, I was drinking wine one night and submitted some pics out of drunken curiosity.) So any gash good enough for Playboy has got to be attached to a classy, wholesome young lady, right? Not in this case! Aside from her hair extensions, acne, wall-eyed stare and gaping swollen lips (I think she was wearing lip-plumper with bee venom in it…whatever the case, she looked like a monkfish), her personality was insufferably atrocious! Now, I have an extremely high tolerance for idiots, and I will gladly suffer a fool if it makes for interesting conversation, or a good blog entry. But this woman was simply soul-searingly inane and utterly devoid of a single redeeming characteristic!

In a bizarre sort of half-brained, dead-eyed drawl, she droned on and on throughout dinner about all the MDMA she drank the day before, and how she’d gotten kicked out of every nightclub in Vegas, and how she’d gone to dinner with this person and that person and partied with so-and-so and douche-and-douche, blah blah blah. Meanwhile, she kept demanding more champagne — she asked for “Veuve” (she’s on a first-name basis, don’t you know), but to impress the girls, J.R. ordered Dom Perignon — so much so that the tab ended up being $1100 for 24 oysters, two cheeseburgers and enough booze to put out the last flickering embers in the smoldering wreckage of this whore’s soul! It was astonishing.

J.R. was very impressed with the two of them (or with the idea of being seen with the two of them), so he kept ordering more champagne and laughing at their asinine stories. Meanwhile, I sat in the corner, getting genteelly sloshed and taking notes on my BlackBerry…not fully unamused, but not really having fun, either! Mostly because you could tell the other two chicks didn’t like me, and kept ignoring me and excluding me from their conversation. Whatevs, bitches! Here’s the kind of poseurs they were: I ordered a cheeseburger, but they had soup and some kind of weird fishy thing (probably trying to stay thin, the desperate bitches). But when they saw me devouring my burger, they sort of picked listlessly as the fishy nastiness on their plate (they shared an entree) and finally sent it back for being too fishy — and ordered a burger! Hahahahahahahaha! I’m sooooo glad I’m not that kind of a desperate man-pleasing dick-sucking ass-kissing lip-plumping MDMA-drinking brainless party whore!

Finally, after Skanki’s liver reached saturation point, J.R. paid the tab and then took us all back over to Caesars Palace, where he gambles. He bankrolled the girls and they all played blackjack for awhile, until I got tired and took my leave around 1am. After I left, I guess they really did go over to some nightclub and party with Holly Madison. It would have been interesting to stick around for that, but as I said I got the distinct vibe that the girls didn’t much care for me, so I just took a cab home and went to bed. I spoke to J.R. the morning after, and he apologized profusely…and agreed with me that Skanki Sue was horrible. But he insists that Bobbi Jo is actually really nice — so we’ll see; I guess I’ll give her another chance.

Now meanwhile, all this is going on and some random pervert photographer I shot with a few times is in town, blowing up my phone wanting to shoot. This guy runs what he calls a “damsel in distress” website, which is basically just videos of hot chicks tied up, gagged and struggling to get free. SICK, right? What kind of rapist/serial killer/pervert gets off on watching that?!

I have shot with him in the past out of sheer financial desperation (I’m one to talk about desperate, money-grubbing skanks), but it was miserable — he always stays at the Palace Station (a real dump, the one where O.J. Simpson was arrested breaking into one of the rooms a few years back), and he ties you up really tightly in these complicated Japanese bondage knots that hurt really badly. Plus, he wears sweatpants when he shoots, and I’m always afraid to look too closely and see if he’s sporting wood — yuck! But the worst part is that he plays the part of the aggressor in the videos — one time he was Little Timmy and I was the Babysitter, and he tied me up and gagged me and teased me in an extremely annoying nasal voice for around 20 minutes, while exhorting me to squirm around more like I was trying to escape. TORTURE! I actually started crying once while we shot, though I hid it from the camera.

Despite all that, I shot with him about 3 or 4 times — he keeps offering me more money to do it, so it’s hard to say no. But this time, I did — I’m not that desperate for cash! I mean, I went to college, for chrissakes — surely I can find a better way to pay the bills. Hmmmm…

 

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Wrestling Flashbacks

Finally, all my friends left town…so now I can finally concentrate on getting ready for Burning Man. Well, almost — first I have this little hurdle called the Midsummer Night’s Dream party to overcome.

Every year, the Palms hotel here in Vegas hosts a lingerie/masquerade ball in conjunction with Playboy magazine, with scantily-clad partygoers dressed as nymphs, goddesses and fairies. I was all geared up to attend last year’s party, but I ended up getting a DUI the night before, and sitting in jail for 20 hours. I kept looking at the clock going, “OK, if they let me out now, I still have enough time to go home, get showered and change into my costume.” “OK, if they let me out now, I still have time to go home and change real quick.” “OK, if they let me out NOW, I can still make the tail end of the party.” Finally, this one prostitute in the holding tank with me said, “Giiiiiiiiiiiirl, it already 9 o’clock. You ain’t goin’ to no party.”

She was right — I missed the whole damn thing 🙁 But I did have my own adventures in the holding tank of the Clark County Jail…which included getting a lap dance from a 40-something Asian stripper with a lobster-claw hand (she was telling me I should be a stripper, and was demonstrating  how easy it was). Anyhoo, I’ll tell you all about that some other time.

So this year, I am hell-bent on making it to this Midsummer Night’s Dream party. The theme this year is pixies & fairies (LAME, I know), so I thought I might rig up some kind of evil Black-Swan-type fairy costume, just to set myself apart from the hordes of cute pink girlie fairies likely to be in attendance. I started to make my own wings out of hula hoops and electrical tape…and they were actually coming out OK, but I ran out of time and ended up just buying a cheesy pair from my #1 favorite store of all time, Halloween Mart. Now I gotta work on the rest of the outfit, and I only have about 24 hours to do it. Better get cracking!

Anyway, before I go let me tell you about the rest of my week. My gay British actor/singer/dancer friend was in town, so I spent most of my time hanging with him. He was in Vegas with a bunch of English friends who were staying in the legendary Rainman Suite at Caesars Palace, so he wanted me to come up and party in the room with them. It was pretty impressive, in an over-the-top 1980s kinda way…but to be honest I’ve already partied in that room, as well as in most of the other sick, over-the-top suites in Vegas. I used to date a casino host, and we would hang out in all the fancy rooms in town with various high-roller clients of his — sometimes as guests, and sometimes more as hired help (one time we had to go into this NFL player’s room and cover the bed with rose petals so that he could surprise his girlfriend…and the gross part was, they had already used the bed. The sheets were all rumpled, and there was a jizz-mopper towel crumpled up on the bedside table, which I threw at my boyfriend, telling him to collect the DNA so he could clone the guy and make more high-roller clients for himself. He was NOT amused).

Most of the Brits checked out on Monday morning, so my gay friend came over and spent his last night in Vegas at my place. To entertain him, I took him over to one of the douchey pool “dayclubs” in town, where we met up with another close friend who writes a popular entertainment column for the local paper. This guy is suuuuuuuuuper cool, and he brought along another friend who is a dwarf/little person (not sure what he prefers to be called). Now, that guy was interesting! I spent quite a bit of time in the pool with him, and he was full of good stories — he used to be the #1 midget porn actor (he once did a video called “Two-and-a-Half Tons of Fun,” where he ate pizza off the tits of two obese actresses), but now he’s moved on to being a corporate mascot for one of the major hotel chains here in Vegas. Most days you’ll find him dressed as a leprechaun, handing out coupons in front of this one Irish-pub-themed dive hotel…but for the last few months, he had another sweet gig playing Baby Carlos from The Hangover in this sort of scavenger hunt they had going. Some bimbo ended up winning $80,000 by finding Baby Carlos — why was I not informed of this awesome scavenger hunt?!

Anyway, it was all well and good for the winner…but my friend ended up with a severe case of diaper rash. But that’s one of the occupational hazards of gig work, right? We actually bonded a little bit over this, since I’ve done plenty of shitty gigs in my day. We’re both making a living exploiting our physical characteristics…and neither one of us is too proud to do weird shit. This guy is really cool! He also has a tattoo of his deceased father on his back — and he had his dad’s ashes sprinkled in the tattoo ink! Crazy!

What was even crazier was the stupid regulations at the pool where we were hanging out. This was the same place where the guy told me I had to put on my top to go in the water, in case I inadvertently lactated in the water. I’m pretty sure he was kidding, but they really are serious about making you wear a top in the water — according to them, they have a permit for topless sunbathing, but that means sunbathing only — no swimming or dancing or even walking around topless. FUCK THAT! I can think of at least TWO other topless pools in town who don’t adhere to such asinine restrictions…WTF?!

Worse, our alco-babe (bikini waitress) was telling us how she has 10,000 followers on Twitter (10,000!!!!!), and she offered to take a photo with me and re-tweet it to all her followers, so that some of them would jump on my bandwagon (I only have around 150 measly Twitter followers). So we posed for the pic at left, and my newspaper columnist friend Tweeted it…and then 15 minutes later the alcobabe made him take it down!!! She said she would get in trouble at work for doing it. REALLY?! You work at a supposedly topless pool! What’s the big deal?! I’m telling you, I’ve had it with that lame-ass pool.

So anyhoo, I had a fun day hanging out with my friends, but then it was back to reality. The rest of the week was all about gym, work and crafts…and one more visit to that creepy chiropractor I’ve been seeing for insomnia. I honestly don’t think his bizarre treatments are helping me — he does all this WEIRD stuff like put a finger on my temple, then tell me to resist him as he pushes on my leg with his other hand. By touching different parts of my skull and then forcing my leg inward, I guess he can somehow tell what’s going on with my cerebro-spinal fluid…but it’s BIZARRE! Being that he’s 75 years old and slightly creepy, it reminds me QUITE A BIT of the time I wrestled an old English pervert for money. Let me tell you about it!

I shoot a lot of fetish videos for this female bodybuilder website (there’s a whole niche of guys who get off on big, powerful giantesses). For some reason, they like to use me in clips alongside the lady bodybuilders, even though I’m only 5’3″ — maybe as a comparison thing, I don’t know. I am fairly muscular though, so they film videos of me and the lady bodybuilders flexing and measuring each other’s biceps and whatnot. They also shoot us carrying each other – sometimes the giantesses cradle me in their arms like a baby, and carry me around…and sometimes I turn the tables and carry THEM around! I’m pretty strong, especially my lower body, and they all really get off watching me lift and carry and squat these 6-foot-tall, 200-pound women. It’s a riot!

I’ve met a lot of beautiful body builders and fitness models at these shoots, and some of them are super cool. I did a wrestling clip with this one chick, Megan Avalon, who taught me some basic holds and moves, and told me all about the money that was to be made in doing private wrestling sessions. Come to find out, guys will pay big bucks to wrestle with a strong woman in the privacy of their hotel room…and Megan was sure she could refer me to some clients, if I was interested.

Now, one of Megan’s clients, a skinny little old mathematician with whom she’d wrestled on several occasions, happened to be in town that week. Come to find out, a parade of fans, weirdos and hangers-on follow the bodybuilding circuit from city to city… and since there was a bodybuilding championship in town that weekend, they were all in Vegas. It was like a traveling circus; in addition to the bodybuilding beauties themselves, there’s also a number of industry hangers-on and parasites: bodybuilding magazine photographers, vitamin and supplement vendors, tanning and makeup artists… and fans. The little mathematician was one such fan, and based on Megan’s recommendation he hired me for a one-hour “strength challenge session.” I was kinda skeeved out at the prospect of going to some random man’s room to wrestle…but then thought why the hell not? I’ve done worse things in Vegas hotel rooms than wrestle strange old men for money – who hasn’t?!

So I got dressed in a sexy workout ensemble and made my way over to the mathematician’s room in a certain down-market motel across the street from one of the mega-resorts. I felt more than a little like a prostitute as I knocked at the door of his second-floor room, but I reassured myself with the thought that surely no hooker worth her salt shows up for a call in a sports bra and running shorts.  At least the chances of my being profiled by vice were slim!

The mathematician opened the door, revealing himself to be a scrawny little Englishman somewhere in his 60s — a nutty professor-type with frizzy, wispy gray hair, wire-rimmed spectacles, overpowering garlic breath and a diminutive frame that couldn’t have weighed more than 130 pounds soaking wet. Sort of a Stephen Hawking-meets-garden-gnome-type… piece of cake, I thought to myself. Until he shook my hand! He was apparently one of those wiry little fuckers who prides themselves on being stronger than they look – he caught my hand in a death-grip and welcomed me into the room with an inscrutable smile: “You must be Brandi. I’ve been told you’re quite strong for your size!”

“Uh… I do what I can!” I replied, keeping my own friendly, girlish grin plastered firmly in place as he attempted to twist my arm out of its socket, gamely giving back what I could out of a sense of obligation to give him his money’s worth. “I’ve run the Vegas Marathon, I climbed the stairs to the top of the Stratosphere in less than 12 minutes, and I lift weights regularly.” (All true – I ran the marathon in 4:44, and came in 1st among females in my age group at the Stratosphere race.)

“Is that so? Well, we’ll see, won’t we?” He let up on his death-grip, and I went inside and set my hot-pink workout bag down in the corner. A stack of money was piled neatly on the table in preparation for my arrival, so at least there was to be no fuss over the issue of payment. I pulled my hair up into a no-nonsense ponytail and turned to face my opponent, and find out what exactly a “strength challenge session” entailed.

“As you know I’m a mathematician,” he began in his crisp British accent, taking up a notepad and pen. “Thus I am very interested in the relationship between height, weight and strength.  I’ve found some very tall girls to have less ability than girls your size, and likewise some very heavy girls haven’t the strength of girls half their weight. It’s all about body-fat percentage, isn’t it? Now, what is your height?”

He logged my stats meticulously into his notepad, and guessed my body fat to be around 15%, which sounded pretty good to me! Then he placed the bedspread on the floor and proposed an arm-wrestling match. We both hunkered down and lay facing each other in an awkward, garlic-infused tête-à-tête, and after schooling me on strategy and body-position, he proceeded to beat me mercilessly with both right arm and left arm. TWICE! That little old fucker was definitely stronger than he looked! I actually started to get a little pissed off towards the end, and vowed that I would not let this wizened wise-ass get the best of me.

Having been bested at arm wrestling, I was now to be tested on lower body strength. We sat facing each other in chairs, and took turns squeezing the other’s knees between our own, trying to keep them together for 20 seconds. I managed to keep mine apart, but just barely – and again, he beat me handily, forcing his apart something like 6 inches. “Well, looks like you’ve been beaten again, haven’t you?” he noted smugly. “Now we’ll try some of my equipment.” (Now do you see why my chiropractor reminds me of this??)

From a battered old gym bag he produced an assortment of weird isometric exercise devices, and I gave each my best attempt, giggling gamely as I failed miserably at all of them. Honestly, I hadn’t been expecting this kind of fitness test – I was thinking this “strength challenge” business was just going to be more fantasy fluff, like the wrestling videos had been.  But this little old man was harder-core than my 8th-grade P.E. teacher! He really put me through my paces – in addition to using all his weird equipment, he had me wrestle him, scissor him, piggy-back him while doing squats, and then lift and cradle-carry him, like a baby, as he timed me on his stop watch to see how long I could hold him in my arms. As all this progressed, the one thing that kept running through my head was that this was HANDS-DOWN the weirdest, most BIZARRE thing I’ve ever done in a lifetime full of weird, bizarre adventures. And that’s saying quite a bit!

As I held his pale, scrawny body in my arms, like a little grey-haired, garlic-breathing baby, I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror – and it was all I could do not to burst out laughing. What an utterly random sight we made! I wondered if, had Vice come crashing through the door at that particular moment, there was anything I was doing that could get me in trouble. I didn’t think so, but the pile of money waiting patiently on the table by the door made the whole thing seem more than a little illicit. Plus the fact that I was wearing a sports bra and booty shorts, cradling a shirtless old man with a stopwatch in my arms – would any vice cop really believe it was all harmless good fun??? Chalk this one up under the “Strange but True” category, my friends! Not once did that little old English mathematician make any kind of untoward advance, nor did he do anything to make me uncomfortable (other than fill my nostrils with his foul breath).

At the end of the hour, he asked if I wouldn’t mind posing for a souvenir photo for his collection, which I gladly did – and then he gave me a quick look through the other photos he had stored on his camera, of the other women with whom he’d also had sessions while in Vegas for the bodybuilding competition. Without exception, the rest of the women were HUGE – stereotypical steroidal beefcake beauties with massive arms, thick necks and copiously-applied self-tanner. Just so I knew what good company I was in, he confided that one of the women had 18-inch biceps! As he put it, “That’s the size of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s biceps when he competed in the early 1970s!”

Showing me these photos, he told me not to feel bad at failing so miserably at the strength challenge session – he’d been able to beat almost all the other women, too. So I shouldn’t worry! But meanwhile, all I was really worried about was being busted by vice – about halfway through our session, he’d offered me a bonus if I would wrestle him topless, since he “loved” natural breasts. I hadn’t seen the harm in it and had complied…but honestly, he kept the curtains open the entire hour, so anyone walking by could have seen me grappling with him on the bed, clad in nothing but booty shorts…and it would have looked very suspicious!

Again, I have to wonder at where the line is drawn when it comes to defining prostitution – like with the guy at the foot party, who got himself off while my feet were on his face, or the guy whose nuts I kicked mercilessly for five minutes.  The mathematician didn’t jerk off while I was in the room…but after I left, who the hell knows what happened?!

Anyhoo, I never did wrestle any more guys — it was just to creepy, even for me! But you can see why my chiropractor experience was giving me flashbacks. Only this time, I had to pay him for the privilege of massaging, beating, twisting, cracking and palpating me. Hmmmmmmmmmmm! It just doesn’t seem right!

Anyway, I was in a pretty foul mood much of the week — I was stressed out because of all the visitors I had, and a bunch of other petty stuff piling up. Then I went out for a Sunday drive in the mountains with my all-American hero friend, and he started telling me all these stories about when he was deployed to Afghanistan back in 2002, right after 9/11. Back then there was no established military base, so they had to live in tents, with no showers or flush toilets, eating MREs and wallowing in the heat and dust. It actually sounded a lot like Burning Man! Especially this one time, when they went over to the international camp where all the German, Turkish and Polish forces were hanging out. Each nation had its own little bar setup, and he went around drinking the various crazy concoctions they came up with, including this one drink the Germans called Paratrooper Juice, which was just grain alcohol with a glow-stick in it. Now, how Burning Man is that?!!!

After our drive, we went over to his house and looked at all his photos from his time over there…and it was SO INTERESTING! I looooooooooove looking at photos — I read a lot of news and stuff, but I really like seeing what I’m reading about. And after seeing all that, I pretty lame bitching about my own stupid “problems…” so I cheered up. This guy always has that effect on me — lately I’ve been pissy and stressed out and high-strung, but he has a calming effect on me. I told him he’s like one of those goats they put in the stall with a racehorse, to keep it calm before a race…I hope he wasn’t offended!

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The Traveling Nude Model, the Pregnant Arkansawyer, the Fabulous Gay Houseguest and Michael Mondavi

This week, I had friends descend on me from all corners of the globe. You know how it is — when you live in Vegas, everyone wants a piece of you when they’re in town. Especially when you have a name like Wonderhussy.

First off, my pregnant girlfriend from Arkansas was in town for a trade show. We’ll call her Tina — we used to be best friends back in 8th grade, when her family moved to California for a couple years. When I met her, I was a misguided little dweeb in a New Kids on the Block t-shirt and hot pink Wet-n-Wild lipstick — I was just trying to fit in, ya know? Meanwhile, she was like this bad-ass rocker chick who wore Slayer t-shirts and ripped jeans with stuff like “DEATH ANGEL” and “METAL CHURCH” written on them. It was all a front, because she really only ever listened to pussy shit like Poison and Motley Crue…but still. She got me into hair metal and shoplifting — we used to go to K-mart and steal heavy metal cassettes and hot pink Wet-n-Wild lipstick, until one day her and this other chick we used to hang out with got busted in the act, and the other chick ratted me out, too. After that, my mom wouldn’t let me hang out with them anymore, so we kinda drifted apart. I went on to college, and she ended up moving back to Arkansas, where she now works for a company that sells stun guns, bear repellent, tasers and all other kinds of crazy self-defense crap.

The company is owned by a nutty redneck who has the distinction of having filed more patents than any other man in Arkansas history — a smart and savvy man who hires all these hot chicks to sell his products. They all come out to Vegas a few times a year for trade shows, and it’s like the redneck Charlie’s Angels. Yeeeeeee haw! Git ‘R’ DONE!

 

Anyway, Tina’s a haaaaaaaaaard partying woman, even being 7 months pregnant — she still wanted to go out and pound O’Doul’s til all hours of the night! I always hang out with her when she’s in town, so we made plans to go to dinner one night. But meanwhile, I had another friend in town — this traveling nude model I met on a photo shoot last year. This little bitch is amazing — only 21 years old, but a true bohemian, with a huge, gnarly ’70s bush and an open-minded attitude. She travels around the U.S. staying in hostels and in her car, modeling here and there to pay her way around. How fucking fun does THAT sound?! I wish I was doing it!

Anyhoo, she wanted to meet up, too, so I had to come up with a spot that would please both a traveling nudist and a pregnant Christian Republican from Arkansas. Hmmmm! We ended up at Bar + Bistro in the Arts District of downtown Vegas, which turned out to be a very cool place full of art and artsy people — and the food was great! Our waiter was super cool, too, and ended up joining us for drinks after dinner. He really hit it off with the nude model chick, so much so that we ran into them two nights later at Planet Hollywood, of all places — the redneck Charlie’s Angels’ boss is a high roller there, so I met them after work for some free cocktails in the high limit room. After her boss left, we went out into the casino for more drinks (O’Doul’s for Tina, of course) and ran into the nude model and the waiter. Smaaaaaaall world!

While at Planet Hollywood (a casino I loathe and normally avoid at all costs), I noticed that I happen to have the exact same outfit that the go-go dancers wear (Planet Ho has taken the “party pit” idea to the extreme, and features hot babes gyrating on pedestals throughout the entire casino). Now, I am the WORLD’S WORST DANCER…so how funny would it be if I pranked Planet Ho — just showed up in a go-go outfit, got up on a pedestal, and just spazzed the fuck out? Like danced really, really badly…and then vomited on my boots or something?! I’ll need to work up some balls first…but I think it would be awesome!

Anyhoo, the nude model and the pregnant Arkansawyer weren’t the only two friends I had in town — I also had a gay actor/singer/dancer friend from London stay with me at my house. This was totally random — I met this guy one night while taking photos at a Lionel Richie concert (of all things), and we sort of hit it off and became Facebook friends. Now he was coming back to Vegas for a birthday party, so I met up with him and some of his fantastic gay friends for drinks one night after work. They were all suuuuuper fabulous, and all very good-looking and buff — so much so that these middle-aged women came up to us and asked if they were in a show! I told them they should have lied and said yes, they were Chippendales…but alas, they were much too modest.

Anyhoo, my London friend stayed the night at my house, Villa Sinvergüenza, and like all other visitors to my fabulous estate he was bowled over by its beauty and uniqueness. He brought me these fabulous GaGa Spice sunglasses as a housewarming gift, and in the morning, we Skyped with his mum and brother in England. Gooooood times!

So with all these fucking people in town wanting a piece of me, I barely had time to turn around…let alone start preparing for Burning Man, which is what I really need to do! I have a hula hoop that needs decorating, a fur coat that needs dyeing, playlists that need arranging — and on top of all that, I need to rig up some kind of cool fairy costume for the Playboy Midsummer Night’s Eve party next weekend at the Palms. With all that going on, you’d think I would have set aside some time to get ‘er done. Well, I did…but then more fabulous adventures got in the way!!

I had set aside Friday night to be my crafting night, when I made the mistake of going on Facebook and seeing the status update of a food critic friend, who needed a last-minute date for dinner that night at Aureole (a fabulously swanky gourmet restaurant at Mandalay Bay). Now, even tho I had a MILLION things to do…I have this unfortunate inability to say “No” to anything…so before I knew what I was doing, I had replied to his status update and was on my way to Mandalay.

Now, this guy is a food & wine critic for a bunch of different websites and publications, and I’ve accompanied him to a few fabulous dinners in the past — he doesn’t like to go alone, so he always invites some chippy or another along…and it’s great fun! I loooooove going out to free dinners at fancy restaurants, especially when it’s with a food critic who warrants all manner of insane ass-kissing from the staff. I’ve had some amazing dinners with him! And this one was no exception.

I thought we were just having a regular dinner at Aureole, but it turned out to be this suuuuper swanky wine-tasting event for a bunch of wealthy, pretentious oenophiles — Michael Mondavi was even there (and boy, did he get his ass kissed). My food critic friend had told me to wear a dress, but I didn’t feel like going balls-out so I just threw on this $7 number I picked up at Fallas Paredes (a cheap-ass Mexican clothes store I simply adore). Since I didn’t bother with bra or panties, the total cost of my outfit was $9 (I had two flowers in my hair from the Dollar Store) — and then I spent the evening drinking ridiculously expensive wine in the company of meticulously dressed, upscale winos. This from someone who recently abandoned Charles Shaw, aka Two Buck Chuck, because Trader Joe’s starting selling an even cheaper wine called Vola (my new BFF). What can I say?!

The wines were paired with all this crazy food like jellied oysters, frogs’ legs, sweetbreads and morels… totally pretentious. Worse, it was a white wine tasting — and I abhor white wine. But I’m here to tell you — I sure gained an appreciation for it at that dinner! Nothing will get you to guzzle spirits faster than being stuck at a table full of soused baby-boomers spouting nonsense about “character,” “nose,” “bouquet” and “body.” After developing an appreciation for Chablis, Chardonnay and Mâconnais, I ended up having a fine time listening to the drunken chit-chat of my tablemates. This one couple in particular was fantastic: some kind of nouveau-riche poseurs from Laguna Beach, and the German husband had lost his glasses and thus had to wear his prescription sunglasses at dinner. Meawhile, the loosie-goosie wife got progressively soused and started talking about the “acrylic alphabet” (we were wondering what the word for “cock-a-doodle-doo” is in Russian). Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaabulous!

So I basically pissed away the entire night, and consequently my Burning Man list is piled up and threatening to overtake me. No wonder I can’t sleep!!

Now, speaking of THAT…I know I said I wasn’t going to talk about it anymore, but I simply have to tell you about the latest crazy miracle cure I tried in my quest to finally get a good night’s sleep again. One of my readers, a chiropractor from Wisconsin, thoughtfully emailed me to say that he had successfully treated people for insomnia using chiropractic techniques…and that maybe I should consider seeing a local chiropractor. This genteel reader even went so far as to research local doctors for me, and recommended this one old kook who has been practicing in Vegas for 40 YEARS!! I went to see him, and he busted out all these crazy, kooky tools that looked like something out of Frankenstein’s Laboratory — first he attacked me with what looked like a hybrid ray gun/staple gun, which he used to thwack my backbone and neck; next he laid me on a weird sort of vibrating, oscillating table that turned me upside down; then he rolled a little metal pizza-cutter wheelie thing down my arms; then he applied little 24K gold-tipped stickers to my calves, to stimulate my meridians; and then he applied some kind of weird ultrasound massage, with copious amounts of warm goo.

WEIRD! And, alas, ineffective thus far…although I agreed to come back once a week for the next few weeks because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Seriously — I’m already out another $200+, but I agreed to come back out of politeness. Am I sucker, or WHAT?! I’m just desperate to sleep, is all…

Then I discovered this new sleep software, and shelled out another $70 to download it. It’s basically tracks of isochronic tones that you listen to before bed and while sleeping, and they supposedly train your brain waves to go into deeper, Delta wave sleep. The guy behind all this is this freaky French Canadian with a bizarre accent that gives me bad flashbacks to my photo job at the Sally Dingdong show (which attracts nothing but gimps and Québécois), but I’m giving it a shot anyway. So every afternoon I have to go lie down in my closet for 20 minutes and listen to this “Insomnia Buster” track…and then later I go back again and lie down and do ANOTHER 20 minutes of these lame relaxation exercises prescribed by my therapist. Do I LOOK like a girl who has 40 minutes to spare laying down in my closet every day?!?!?!?!!!!!! Fuck! Not only am I going broke trying to find a cure, but it’s eating up my social life!

Speaking of my closet, check out this awesome shot taken by Michael Maze during our photo shoot last week. I saw this photo of Elton John in his closet back in the day (when he was still in the closet)…and with the help of Maze, I re-created it, Wonderhussy-style! I counted something like 112 pairs of shoes and 1,112 costumes…which means I definitely have a problem. And it’s getting worse — the other night on my way home from dinner with the nude model and the pregnant Arkansawyer, at 1am, I spotted a fabulous new boutique on Las Vegas Blvd. down by the Talk of the Town strip club, and screeched to a halt to investigate. Alex Presley’s Unique Boutique is run by Leroy Lopez, the “Gay Elvis,” and offers all manner of insanely fabulous furnishings, decor and clothing — I walked out with nothing less than a Wonder Woman costume, which I’ve been wanting for ages…and which he gave me a very good deal on! Check this place out!

So anyhoo, between combating insomnia, mingling with Mondavi and partying with an assortment of international friends, I also squeezed in a gig as Secret Agent Hotpants up at the Red Rock Resort pool (a bunch of awesome computer hackers had hired us; there’s some big hacker convention in town right now!!) and an audition for the newest “What Happens in Vegas, STAYS in Vegas” commercial (a total waste of time, because every hot bitch in Vegas was there…but the new script is very clever and I figured I might as well try out!).

And, I also found time to go over and chill with my all-American hero friend at his house, where we just relaxed and watched a movie. While there, his little French Bulldog was all excited, running around and jumping up on my legs and basically just going ape-shit, as dogs do. To quiet her down, my friend got down and put her in a chokehold — basically holding her neck down on the floor so that she couldn’t move, while sternly admonishing her to “STOP.” And that’s when it hit me — I NEED SOMEONE TO DO THIS TO ME!!!! Otherwise, I’ll never stop running around and overextending myself at all these crazy social engagements….and I will never be able to sleep. I NEED A DOG WHISPERER! Or better yet…a Wonderhussy Whisperer!

If you’re qualified, hit me up — and make it quick! Burning Man is in 22 days, and I’ve already agreed to do a nude photoshoot on a horse at a ranch in Pahrump, AND to make a quick trip to New York City in the meantime. Someone stop me, before I hurt myself!!!

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A Whore in Public and a Lady in the Bedroom

Haven’t updated in awhile, because unfortunately… I haven’t had any inordinately titillating experiences lately! No sex seminars, no ballsack-kicking foot fetish photo shoots. It’s been a dry week in Vegas!

On the plus side, this down time allowed me to FINALLY finish writing my fuckin’ memoirs. You’ll recall that a friend challenged me to a literary duel, wherein we both had to finish a rough draft of our books by July 31, upon penalty of attending church for 8 weeks. Well, it took 80,000 words, but I finally got the fucker down….On the Road-style, where I basically just sat down and banged it all out in a continuous stream of word-vomit. I did organize the stream somewhat into ten easy chapters:

1. How I abandoned my boring corporate life in Silicon Valley, bought a pink 1986 Lincoln TownCar named Chairwoman of the Board, and moved to fabulous Las Vegas

2. Tales from the basement of various Strip hotels, where I have labored as a souvenir photographer for 10 years, and stories about the creepy meth-headed subterranean photo lab employees

3. My short-lived career as a light-up-yo-yo-wielding cigarette girl working graveyard shift at the Flamingo…talk about freaks

4. My bumbling attempts at having a sugar daddy — including the gross reality of what it’s like to have sex with a rich old man! Girls — it’s not worth it!!                                                                                                                                                                                                              5.  My years spent as the girlfriend of                                                                                              a casino host, and the obscene amount of                                                                                        food, booze and extras we mooched off all                                                                                        the high-rollers he hosted

6. My adventures as a convention booth babe, promo model, movie extra, scavenger hunt actress and game show contestant

7. My ill-advised purchase of a super-badass old house in Vegas, and the creepy one-legged, toothless hillbilly pornographer roommates I’ve had to suffer in order to keep it

8. My shameless adventures as a nude model, and all the creepy/perverted/weird old fuckers I’ve shot with

9. My shameless adventures as a fetish model, and the straaaaaaaange things I’ve been paid to do

10. My ill-fated exploits as an adult nightlife reporter

Anyhoo, if you’re interested in reading it, I’ll happily send you the Word doc so you can critique it for yourself.

So I got all that shit done just in time to get back to the business at hand: partying and having more adventures! I did a photo shoot with one of my fave photogs, Michael Maze, on Monday night. Now, this was the day after my shoot with Shutterbug Studio, so I had already blown my creative wad on that, so to speak — I used up all my costume ideas. But I really wanted to shoot with Maze, because he’s been having a terrible month — he just suffered a personal tragedy with the untimely death of his young daughter in a boating accident, and he wanted to shoot to keep his mind off the pain.

So I went to the dollar store and looked around for inspiration…and came up with some badass ideas! He hasn’t gotten most of the photos back to me yet, but I’ve included a couple in this blog. The top one came about when I was looking through the bag of wigs I just bought for Burning Man, and my eyes lit on the green one, which was the same shade as a bottle of Palmolive dish soap. I instantly had a vision of me, naked in my kitchen sink full of soap suds, wearing nothing but the green wig, bright yellow gloves and hot pink lipstick…pouring radioactive green Palmolive all over myself. Good, clean fun!

The second one is me goofing around in my hippie mom’s old Gunne Sax wedding dress. I’d been wanting to do a Gibson Girl hairdo, so I rigged that up with pipe cleaners and Aqua Net, and dragged in this old-timey phone my ex-boyfriend got me at a Goodwill store in Portland, OR.

Speaking of Gibson Girls, this meddlesome old yenta I work with at the photo lab, who’s been a souvenir photographer since the days of the Elvis Presley show (!!! I don’t know how she’s done it that long; I’d have gone insane looooong ago) is always giving me advice: romantic, financial, photographic, etc. She means well and I really like her, so I always listen to her advice with at least half an ear. Well, when I mentioned my Gibson Girl photos, she got all riled up and told me that if I’d only be a Gibson Girl in public and a “femme fatale” (her words) in the bedroom, I could have ANYTHING I WANT!

Hmmmm. I thought about that for a good, long while (at least 20 seconds), and realized she’s right — I have it all back-asswards. The saying is that you’re supposed to be a lady in public, and a whore in the bedroom — well, I’m the exact opposite! I run around cursing and blaspheming in the nude…but when it comes to the sack, I’m fairly vanilla. No anal sex, no BDSM, no role play for me. I’m not saying I only enjoy missionary position sex  through a hole in a sheet….but my sexual habits are way more boring than you would expect.

That’s not to say I’m totally square — I have jerked off a boyfriend or two in the darkness of an adult movie theater, with panting old men looking on in the gloom. And I enjoy hanging out at sex clubs — but more for the people watching; I’ve never actually had sex in public. But I have had my share of outdoor sex, car sex, road head and once I even did it on a log by a river, deep in the Venezuelan jungle. So at least I’m trying!

So anyway, back to my week. After finishing my book, I got back into the mix and started hustling again. My odd gig of the week was as a sort of Roman slave girl at a certain fabulous Strip hotel that was hosting a baccarat tournament, and needed two babes to stand out front and greet the players — mostly grumpy Chinese and lascivious Latin Americans. I’ve done this gig several times before, and while the work itself is somewhat boring, I loooooooooove the costume, and I love posing for photos with tourists all the livelong day. One of my girlhood ambitions was to play Snow White at Disneyland…but unfortunately, due to my foul mouth I never was able to score that sweet gig. So I have to settle for this.

My favorite part about the gig is going into the costume room to get dressed. It is FABULOUS! Keep in mind, this hotel has been around since 1966, and some of the costumes have been in use for 30 years or more. In addition to slave girls, they also have an Emperor and a Queen who stroll around the casino, posing for photos in the company of a beefcake Centurion (they used to have two Centurions, until the economy tanked and the budget was cut). The Queen’s costumes are BAD-ASSSSSS, in particular the headdresses, which are fabulous (if not  historically accurate ) Bob Mackie-eque concoctions of sequins and feathers — but alas, the height requirement to play the Queen is 5’7″ and I’m only 5″3″ 🙁

But the slave girl costumes are great, too, and everything is very well taken care of by this little old Mexican lady who is like the Costume Priestess — she spends her days laundering panties, mending hemlines and re-attaching golden rick-rack. She also helps the characters get dressed, kind of like an old-time handmaiden. Really cool!

One time, I was in there getting dressed in my slave girl ensemble, when the guy who was playing the Emperor called out from the men’s dressing room next door: “Handmaiden! Come help your Emperor put on his cape!” His tone of voice was overly imperious for an unemployed actor earning $20/hour as a fake emperor at a casino, but I forgave him — when you’re wearing a fabulous costume like that, it’s easy to forget that you’re really a broke hack subsisting on Top Ramen and whatever slop is on offer in the Employee Dining Room.

Anyway, the other chick  I was working with was super cool, a dancer who just moved here from L.A. and was looking for ways to earn a quick buck. She’s been working as a go-go dancer in one of the lower-end party pits in town, but had the brilliant idea of rigging up some slutty biker bitch outfits and heading out to Sturgis (the huge biker fest in South Dakota next week) to earn tips posing for photos with drunken bikers. I’ve worked biker events before, so I know there’s a TON of cash to be made off those generous drunks! She invited me to come along, but alas I have this dumb thing called a photo job, and I can’t just take off. The mannequin waits for no one…

The only other thing I did this week was attend a Yelp! party. Due to my witty and fabulous Yelp reviews, they recently elevated me to Elite status…which means I get invited to all their free food & booze parties. This one was at the Hard Rock Cafe on the Strip, and had an 80s rockstar theme — so I broke out my leopard-print spandex pants and headed over for a night of fun with my All-American hero friend.

This was actually the second 80s-rockstar-themed party I was invited to this week — the night before, I was invited to an event at the Riviera hosted by a guy who used to read my old blog back in the day. He found me on Facebook, and now we’re friends again. His name is Bong Jovi and he’s a real hoot…but alas, I was too tired to attend his party, and instead just met up with him for drinks one night in the fabulous Spiegelworld Beer Garden out front of Caesars Palace (my favorite summertime place to hang out).

Now speaking of being tired, I quit that bogus sleep restriction diet because it wasn’t helping the insomnia and was just making me miserable. So now I’m back to not sleeping well, but I have a new strategy for dealing with it — pretending it doesn’t exist! I won’t be bitching about it on here anymore, except to say that one of my readers, who is a chiropractor, advised me that it could be caused by a spinal misalignment…and recommended a local chiropractor for me to visit. So I’m going there right after I finish writing this, just to see if it helps. Another $100 down the drain, I’m sure…but I’m one of those poor desperate suckers who will try anything!

 

 

 

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