Strange Goings-On at Hooters

Wow, what a week.

Not much really happened, but it was still a doozy. Work was slow, which made me antsy, which made me apply for all kindsa crazy Craigslist nonsense that I shouldn’t have bothered with…but it’s toooo laaaaate nooooow…..once I say I’ll do something, I’ll DO IT, by Jove! I’m not a flake!

The big hubbub around town concerns the latest haunted house attraction, known as Eli Roth’s Goretorium. Now, Vegas is famous for capitalizing on every holiday known to man (I’m sure someone’s already working on Viva El Eid®), and Halloween is no exception. Every year, the venerable Circus Circus turns its entire Adventuredome theme park into the Fright Dome haunted house…so it was only a matter of time before someone took the concept uptown.

Enter Eli Roth, director of horror film classics “Hostel” and “Hostel II…” but probably most notably recognizable as the Bear Jew from “Inglorious Basterds.” Roth had the semi-ingenious idea of opening a year-round haunt on the Vegas Strip — something to get that coveted 18-35 Hot Topic dollar, complete with a wedding chapel and lounge. He hired a bunch of local nightclub-industry douchebags to run the place, then set his sights on a late-September opening…just in time to capitalize on Halloween (which, due to its symbiotic relationship with slutty costumes, has pretty much become Vegas’s signature holiday).

I’ve never been a huge fan of horror movies (although I’d like to BE in one…I’ve long fancied myself a scream queen, albeit a flat-chested one)…but I thought this might be an interesting attraction. A bunch of my Burning Man friends got jobs there, so I figured it was worth a look-see when they announced they were having an invite-only VIP grand opening party with free drinks. (Honestly, I couldn’t have cared less about the haunted house. It was the DRINKS!)

The reception went from 9-11, and I had to work til 10 that night… but having been assured that it would be worth stopping by at, I raced over there the minute I got off work. And I was immediately confronted with a HUUUUUGE line….a line that wasn’t moving AT. ALL.

Now, I *HATE* lines. Whenever I see a bunch of people standing in line to get an iPhone or to get into a nightclub or something, I am immediately reminded of the late, great Sex Pistols’ song “EMI:” “Blind acceptance is a sign…of STUPID FOOLS WHO STAND IN LINE!” Anything that has a bunch of dumbasses in line for it is usually a COMPLETE waste of time (viz. Disneyland rides, iPhones, Justin Bieber tickets). Everyone knows that the REALLY cool stuff is the stuff that NO ONE GIVES A FUCK ABOUT…the stuff that sits in the 25cent bin at Savers, unwanted and unloved. 9 times out of 10, that stuff is the SHIZ.

But, as mentioned, I have a bunch of friends who are working there, and I kinda wanted to support them in their new endeavor. Plus, I had a couple friends in line already, and it was fun to chat and catch up with them while we waited. Unfortunately, the line barely moved for the 75 minutes or so that I stood there. Meanwhile, some asswad busker in a kilt was braying on a bagpipe about 15 feet away, and it was starting to eat away at my fillings. I had a LOT of shit to do…why was I standing here? But every time I thought to bail, my friends convinced me that “the line is moving now! We’ll be inside any minute!”

Yeah, no. After over an hour, a bouncer-type douchenozzle came out and informed the line that the place was closed. That was it — no apology or sugar-coat, just GET OUT OF HERE. He had that arrogant douchebag nightclub bouncer mentality about him that just rubbed me the wrong way — I mean, there’s a POLITE way to say this shit! It’s not like we were doing anything wrong — we had all RSVP’d and been “specially invited” to this dumbass opening. Now I feel stupid for believing the invitation! And I don’t like feeling stupid!

I was pretty much over it already — one qvetchy Tweet, and I had it out of my system. But when I got home, the negative Facebooking began: apparently, there was a sizeable group of Goretorium employees who had quit in protest of unfair working conditions. Now, I don’t know any of these people personally, so I can only report on what they’ve written: according to these aggrieved ex-employees, they were hired as gory actors and promised “good pay;” pay that they would be “happy with.” They all quit their day jobs, began slaving away at the Goretorium…and then the sword dropped: they would only be making $8.25/hour (minimum wage). Gasp!!!

The protest group is led by one Don Henrie, a/k/a the Vampire Don…I don’t know him, but he is apparently a dedicated real-life vampire: he is a sanguinarian (i.e. drinks blood), avoids daylight (due to a propensity for sun poisoning), and sleeps in a coffin (it helps alleviate his fibromyalgia symptoms). (All this from Wikipedia.) I guess he was hired at the Goretorium as an actor, and promised “good money…” but then found out after it was too late that the “good money” was minimum wage. He says he quit a better-paying job for this b.s., and he’s mad as hell! He has a sizeable cadre of followers — fellow ex-employees who are also pissed off, plus a random assortment of fans and friends. They are one and all hell-bent on bringing the Goretorium down — with social media campaigns and live protests (in costume) in front of the Goretorium, in the middle of the Vegas Strip.

All this over a freaking haunted house!

Out of spite, I was inclined to side with Don Henrie and his peeps…but, honestly: would you EVER take a job (much less quit an already established job) for a new one without knowing EXACTLY what the pay is? I know I wouldn’t! No matter how fun a gig it is, I need to know the bottom line first, yo! (Again, I don’t know the whole story here…so if you have a rebuttal, please post in the comments! I’m genuinely curious!)

Aaaaaaaaaaaanyway, everyone in town is all abuzz with pro- and anti-Goretorium sentiment. I got caught in the middle — half my friends work there (it seems like half of Vegas was hired to work this thing — but then at $8.25/hour, I guess they can afford a bunch of actors…being that the ticket price is $40, and they also sell merch & have a bar)…but now I also somehow fell in with the anti-Goretorium crowd, and am getting all THEIR wacky postings, too!

I had pretty much decided to wash my hands of all of it (remember, I hate haunted houses anyway)…when one of the anti-Goretorium peeps posted a photo of a leaked flyer that was given to employees, urging them to pimp out the company on social media. This handout advises that if you want a bonus (it couldn’t be a very big bonus, seeing as they pay minimum wage), you are expected/required to do a bunch of crazy social media crap, including make a Facebook page for your Goretorium character, have at least 100 friends on it, post on it at least 3x per week, plus have a Twitter page, plus vote for Goretorium in all the local “best-of” polls, PLUS find six different locations that will let you drop off Goretorium flyers every 2 weeks. It sounds exhausting!!!

But the worst part of it was, they ALSO expect you to write good Goretorium reviews on Yelp. If you don’t already have a Yelp! account, you are supposed to create one — then write two good reviews of other businesses first, so that you don’t get flagged or filtered when you post your glowing review of Goretorium (Yelp! has a decent algorhythm for filtering out fake reviews written by people with no previous Yelp! presence, and Goretorium management cannily figured out a way to circumvent this).

Apparently, this is standard operating procedure for many Vegas Strip nightclubs — and other businesses in general. How sad! I *love* Yelp — I use it ALL the time to find mechanics, restaurants, contractors, etc. I am such a prolific Yelper, in fact, that they gave me Elite status, and now I get free schwag every now and again (see below). But I take my Yelping very seriously, and would NEVER write a fake review — even though you’d be ASTONISHED at how many times I’ve been asked to. NOTE to business owners: I AM NOT writing a fake good review for your business — unless I’ve already been there, and liked it! Fuck off!!!

Anyhoo, seeing this bullshit in black-and-white really got my goat…so now I’m back in the anti-Goretorium fray. How sad is it to coerce your minimum-wage staff to write good reviews for you, so they can win a paltry bonus? Answer: pretty sad.

But, with that being said….I am officially withdrawing from the Goretorium fray. You’ll never hear the word escape my lips again…nor will I type the letters again. I have too much lamer stuff to focus on than worry about a $40 haunted house!

The main thing I had to focus on was my shitty birthday. As previously mentioned, I’ve never been one to really celebrate it, but this year was exceptionally shitty. It was all mostly the fault of this kooky Lebanese whackjob I met the other night when I was taking souvenir photos — he came up to me as I was selling my photos at the end of the night, and struck up a conversation. Since he was nice enough, and ESPECIALLY since he resembled a Greek/Lebanese Rod Stewart, I agreed to meet him for a drink after work. We went to a lounge and chatted for an hour or two, but he got too attached, and tried to kiss me, so I broke it off. But he seemed so lonely and miserable that for some reason I agreed to meet up with him when I was next available…which happened to be Saturday night, after work on my birthday. I had no plans anyway, so I agreed to meet him for another drink at 10pm in front of the theater. I gave him my card so he could text me, but he demurred, saying “No, I’ll just meet you at 10pm in front of the theater.”

Well, that was Wednesday. By the time Saturday rolled around, I was pretty depressed, and the LAST thing I felt like doing was hang out with a strange Englishman (he was Lebanese/Greek by birth, but lives in London) who would doubtless just try to get his hand down my pants. But he never did call or text me, and I didn’t have his info, so I had no way of contacting him to cancel.

Say what you will about me…I am NOT A FLAKE! Even though I was severely depressed, AND it was my birthday, I *STILL* dragged my ass up to the theater at 10pm, secretly hoping he wouldn’t be there, so I could just go home and celebrate my b-day with my friends Chuck and Mary Jane. I just couldn’t make myself stand the poor guy up — I just felt sorry for him. I’m a nice person, what can I say?

Well, thankfully that asshole blew me off (he must have figured since I wouldn’t even KISS him, I would hardly let him jab a finger or worse into my hoo-ha)…so I did end up going home to see my TRUE friends (sad as that may be). And when midnight rolled around, I sighed with relief: pressure over! Another lame-ass b-day averted.

Now, that’s not to say I didn’t have ANY fun this past week! Another friend took me to an excellent vegan dinner at the Wynn — in case you did’t know, Steve Wynn is a hardcore vegan, and all his restaurant menus offer vegan dishes…so my friend took me to one for appetizers, and another for more apps and entrees. It was DELICIOUS! That reminds me, I need to Yelp about that… their vegan food is truly exceptional. You would never know you weren’t eating meat…some of it is very clever.

But all my vegan eating was ruined by my choice of beverage: Campari, a most UN-vegan drink! The red dye in Campari comes from the shells of a South American beetle — gross but true; look it up. It’s called “carmine,” or “cochineal extract.” (Actually, Campari stopped using carmine in 2004 or so, and replaced it with fake red dye…but you can still get the real Campari in Brazil, and they say it tastes MUCH better. Anyone who wants to send me a bottle of Brazilian Campari, feel free!!!) So anyhoo, my drink was technically still vegan, after all.

I couldn’t stay out too late, because I had a fully-booked schedule the next day. At noon, I did a shoot for a nudist website here at my house — the webmaster videotaped me painting nude (I painted a weeping unicorn, of course), exercising to Jane Fonda videos nude (LOL!) and then playing Strip Trivia (he had me wear the same outfit I wore when I was on Jeopardy! in 2003, which came off piece-by-piece as he asked me questions from a Trivial Pursuit game). When my nudie shoot was over, I headed straight over to the Hooters Hotel (LOL), where a photographer had hired me for a quickie one-hour photo shoot in his room.

I was a little sketched out by this second shoot, since the guy didn’t want me to bring anything and said he already had a Hooters outfit for me (??!)…but it turned out GREAT! Come to find out, the guy runs a pantyhose fetish website, and has a special predilection for those industrial-strength orange/brown Hooters hose that they wear…so he basically just had me put on one of his MANY Hooters costumes (he had them in every size), then photographed me lolling around on the bed in various states of undress. Fun!

While there, I had a few flashbacks to my own days as a Hooters girl in 2006. STOP LAUGHING — they really hired me! Apparently, they hire based on personality and not tit-size, as the giant-fake-titted girlfriend I went with did not get hired, and I did. Yay! Alas, I only lasted about 2 weeks, for two reasons: one, the money SUCKED BALLS for the amount of work (hustling wings and greasy-ass food all day for a $3 tip here, a $2 tip there…no thanx). And TWO, they won’t let you wear your hair up — you have to leave it hanging loose (hello…health code???), so that it absorbs all the grease and nastiness. Washing my hair is a long fucking process — I’m not trying to do that EVERY DAY! So I quit. But I really just did it to see if they’d hire me — and to take photos in the costume. Mission accomplished! (But remind me to tell you about it some day…it’s a GREAT story!!)

Just as I was feeling kinda gross and low-class for doing a photo shoot at Hooters (not my first, incidentally…I’ve shot in most of the hotel rooms in Vegas) — another photographer hired me for a super-classy shoot in a VIP suite at the Encore hotel. This guy was very polite and very classy, and gave me a sizeable tip “for parking” (uhh, parking is free in Vegas….but I guess I shouldn’t let that get out) but ironically, the Hooters shoot paid more! Although the Encore guy let me go early, which meant minute-for-minute, I made more at Encore. But who’s counting?!

The worst thing was, the night before the Encore shoot I went to a buffet and PIGGED THE FUCK OUT! Now, you tell me — who the hell goes to a buffet the night before a nude photo shoot? I don’t normally — but it was exceptional circumstances. One of my many part-time gigs is writing show reviews for a local tourist website, and this time they sent me to see “The Rat Pack is Back,” a Rat Pack impersonator/memory lane nostalgia-fest at the Rio. The jackass who was supposed to go with me flaked, so I went alone — figuring it would be easier that way, anyway. I mean, I only make $25 per review, so I like to just go, get the fuck out, & bang out the review.If I bring a date, then I gotta hang out and schmooze and bullshit over drinks…all of which brings my hourly rate down to G________ level (I TOLD you I wouldn’t say that word again!!!).

But what I didn’t realize was that this show (which was awesome, incidentally — read my Yelp review here) also came with free buffet passes! Now, I’ve never been one to shy away from free food…but going to a buffet alone? DEPRESSING! Still, I made myself sack up & do it anyway — in the interest of being frugal (plus, it was the Rio…and their buffet is pretty good). I got in line, endured the jokes and come-ons of all the mooks in line who wanted me to eat with them, inhaled 3 plates of food and then got the fuck out of there!!!!! Then, thanks to all those sit-ups I’ve been doing for the last 9 years, my ab muscles held it all in place the next afternoon at the photo shoot. WINNING!!!

Shockingly, that was not the only buffet I went to this week, either! I also got an invitation from Yelp! to attend the grand opening of the new Bacchanal Buffet at Caesars Palace — which was *A*W*E*S*O*M*E*!!! I mean, REALLY high class. Amazing food, amazing accoutrements, amazing decor, amazing service. That place is tits for sure! Again, I inhaled about 3 plates of food…but this time I had a girlfriend with me, and we walked around the Forum Shops awhile to burn a few calories afterward. AND I had no nudie shoots the following day, so I was able to just let it all hang out.

Now speaking of shoots, I also did a REALLY fun one with one of my favorite photographers, Michael Maze. I had been wanting to do a Marie Antoinette themed-pic for a loooong time, but never had the right props or background for it. FORTUITOUSLY, on the last day of Burning Man, I found this AWESOME-SAUCE chair on the playa that some jackass had left behind…so I hauled it home, and $10 worth of spray paint later, it was an awesome throne fit for a Queen!

So I invited Maze and his girlfriend over, and we had a fabulous photo shoot party. Alas, he hasn’t finished editing any of the REALLY good ones yet…I mean, I specially made a fancy piece of cake and went to town on it in a very special way — but here are a couple. I especially like the ironing board one — it’s an idea I’ve had for a long time, since I’m flat as the proverbial ironing board. Miss Fawn Dew did an EXCELLENT job channeling a trailer-park Jerry Springer housewife in it, don’t you think???

Meanwhile, all this shit was going on and I was STILL really depressed. I think it was the fact that my birthday falls on the autumnal equinox — so just as I am getting older, the leaves are all turning brown & falling off, reminding me of my mortality. That, and I guess I’m still kinda bummed about Captain Crunch…whatever! There’s only one thing to do when I’m feeling blue — head straight down to Bell, Book & Candle, a local Magick Shoppe that sells spells, potions and candles. The great big shaggy bear of a wizard who works there always fixes me up a nice candle in a jar, with oils and herbs and glitter sprinkled atop it, and then I go home and burn it for 7 days and my blues ALWAYS go away. I’m not superstitious or even spiritual…I just like rituals. And I like the great, big shaggy bear wizard…who is ALWAYS barefoot, and whose shoppe is full of the most interesting jars of herbs and spices with hand-written labels reading “Witches’ Bane,” “Baby’s Bloode” and “Wolf Nipple Chippes,” etc. I swear, that shop has to have been open for at LEAST 100 years…I’m sure it predates even the Old Mormon Fort here. Now that I think about it, I should Yelp it! It’s AWESOME! If you’ve never been, and you need a spell or a tarot reading….head over! It’s on East Charleston, near 15th St. Fabulous place.

After that, my neighbor took me out to Ellis Island for steaks. Ellis Island is a local dive that’s been around FOREVER, and they’re mostly known for their karaoke. I used to hang out there back in the day when I worked at the MGM (in 2001-ish) because they used to let casino employees drink FOR FREE (!!!!! Can you imagine!!!! I can’t believe I didn’t get a DUI until 2010.) Then for awhile, there was talk of imploding poor old Ellis Island for another douchey high-rise condo tower — which thankfully, a little something called the Recession put the kibosh to! So Ellis Island still squats in squalor, in the shadow of the Strip (it’s on Koval Lane, for all you non-locals…check it out!).

Either way, I’m here to tell you that they have an AMAZING steak special — around $8 or so for a big-ass (8 oz or so) filet, with salad, green beans and a baked potato. PLUS a beer is included…but I hate beer, so I had a glass of wine (which cost extra). I thought the $7.77 steak special at Mr. Lucky’s in the Hard Rock was good (and it really is)…but if you like beer, Ellis Island is the better deal. (If you like fake tits and poseurs, then Hard Rock is the better deal for you.)

After that, I felt a LOT better — plus, I embarked on a new project, which has served to take my mind off my malaise: I am tired of trying to cram all my clothes and costumes into my shitty-ass 1943-era closet, and have finally decided to turn my guest bedroom into a dressing room!!!! Like one of those old-school Hollywood starlet ones, with a lighted vanity and all! Alas, I am perpetually broke, so I’m trying to do it on the cheap — I bought a vanity on craigslist, and am gonna try and attach strip lighting to this mirror I bought at Savers. Next I need to rig up clothes rods and shelves, and before you know it I will have a FABULOUS dressing room, fit for a diva. Anyone have any tips or advice, please let me know…I *SUCK* at carpentry!

So now I feel better. I did manage to have a few hi-jinks these past several days, including this fantastic bike parade they had as part of Interbike, the bicycle industry trade show at the Sands Expo. It was sort of like Critical Tits at Burning Man…only we all wore clothes, and rode down Las Vegas Blvd. to downtown Vegas, where there was an afterparty at the Downtown Cocktail Room (a slightly pretentious bar that I am ambivalent about). The party was pretty good, and I met some cool bikers — plus they were silkscreening this cool old-time steampunk-y bike logo onto koozies as souvenir giveaways. I don’t use koozies (remember, I hate beer), but I REALLY wanted something silkscreened!!! I remember at Burning Man, one of my campmates made a silkscreen logo of the Roller Disco and was making shirts for people, but I hadn’t brought anything that would hold a silkscreen design. I’m still pissed about that — so this time, I vowed NOT to miss out, NO MATTER WHAT! But my shirt was black, and I had nothing else to put the logo on….except my underwear!! I was wearing a pair of those ugly-ass 100% cotton briefs my gynecologist had recommended I wear, to prevent yeast infections, so I stepped out into the alley behind the Downtown Cocktail Room, slipped off my shorts and panties, and just as the bouncer was screaming at me “HEY! HEY! HEYYYY!!!!” I whipped my pants back on and had them silkscreen my panties!! They came out GREAT!!!! Although, I’m not sure if they are gynecologist-approved any more :/

In other news, speaking of my friend Mary Jane, my medical marijuana prescription is about to expire in November…so now I get a letter from the Department of Health & Human Services advising that I have the PRIVILEGE of renewing for another year… for the LOW, LOW price of $150 — PLUS the cost of another doctor’s note ($80), PLUS notarizing two documents ($10). So basically, if I want to take my medicine — and it was VOTED by the citizens of Nevada to be recognized as LEGAL MEDICINE — I have to cough up $240!!! WTF! Is there any other medication that one has to pay $240 just to get a LICENSE for — and then PAY FOR, on top of it??? It’s bullshit! Imagine if you had to pay $200/year to be allowed to take penicillin — or Prednisone — or Viagra??? I hate that this is such a bullshit gray area — either it’s LEGAL, or it’s NOT…make up your fuckin’ minds, assholes. (Once Pfizer figures out a way to patent THC, it’ll be legal all right…mark my words. Fuckers.) But as a friend said, what we marijuana users really need are some EFFECTIVE LOBBYISTS! I hate the idea of lobbyists, but I guess that’s what it takes to get shit done in the U.S.A…eh?? So, I guess I should start some kind of fundraiser, so we can afford to hire some annoying asshole to go to Washington and toss congressmens’ salads or whatever, to get ’em to legalize it. Arrrrgh!

Oh P.S., if you’ve ever wondered how to clean a bong….here’s a tutorial I made one recent afternoon:


Speaking of funds, another friend (the same one who took me out for vegan food at the Wynn) recently hired me to do some word processing for him. I’ve never done any remote office work like this before, but have found it to be enjoyable and easy — so if you have any typing, editing or other office work that I can do from my home office, let me know! For a small additional stipend, I’ll even do it naked! As you may have noticed reading this blog, I have impeccable attention to details and excellent spelling and grammar…so keep me in mind. Just saying!

Finally, one of my photographer friends made this calendar of my nudie photos…if you’re interested in ordering one, here’s the link!

Now I gotta get to bed — it’s late, and I have a party to attend in the morning. Sayonara, friends!

Incoming search terms:

  • nude winghouse girls
  • blacklight imaging
  • wonderhussy hooters girl

I lack gravitas…but I make up for it with shenanigans

I’m barely back from the artsy-farsty lovey-dovey hippiefest of Burning Man, and the seedy Vegas underworld has gotten her claws into me already. I can’t be in this town two minutes without an Irish transsexual inviting me to a bondage fest at a local titty bar, or a polyamorous fetishmeister hiring me to pop balloons with my ass. As one of my readers suggested I use for a motto…                                                                         WONDERHUSSY: MY WEEK BEATS YOUR YEAR!

Actually, it all started very unglamorously with my being unceremoniously DUMPED by my erstwhile boyfriend, Captain Crunch. You may have noticed that I haven’t written anything about him for quite some time — though we were still “dating” up through last Saturday, he generally preferred to spend time with his mountain bike, and I guess I was busy with my….well, you know the kind of shit I do. Between that and the fact that we live 30 minutes across town from each other, and rarely had the same nights off…it was a weird relationship all along. Honestly though, I had noticed that he seemed MUCH less interested in me for the past few months…so I guess he just got tired of my shtick, and moved on.

I was slightly miffed that HE was the one to break up with ME, however: I’m the one who does the dumping around here, ya heard?!  Truth be known, I knew it was over at least a month ago, when I made my ill-fated trip to San Francisco for that modeling seminar — he didn’t seem to miss me at all, and was standoffish on the phone. I should have sacked up and called him out on it, but I’m a total passive puss, so I just let it slide, with my usual laissez-faire attitude: let’s just wait and see what happens. Well, I guess I found out what happens!! When I got back from California, we had ONE night off in common before I left for Burning Man (and he left for a 2-week mountain biking odyssey) (I told you he was obsessed with his mountain bike). He was supposed to come over to my house on that one night, but at the last minute he called to say he had a lot of homework, and could I just go over to his house instead? Well, I wasn’t feeling well anyway, and didn’t really feel like driving across town to sit around his house watching him do homework (he’s working on his master’s degree from one of those bullshit online diploma mills, so he can get a promotion in the Chair Force)…so I demurred, saying, “Well, I guess we’ll just see each other when we get back from our respective trips.”

So when I got back from Burning Man, we chatted on the phone and made sort of vague plans to get together…and then 20 minutes later he texted me that he just wasn’t feeling it anymore, and how did I feel? I said I felt he wasn’t interested in me anymore, and had felt that way for some time. He was very apologetic and polite about it, saying he felt he’d done me a disservice (he’s very well-spoken)…but honestly, it was no suprise — and truthfully not even much of a disappointment. An ego blow, maybe…but it wasn’t really meant to be, if I’m completely honest with myself. He is a very cool guy and was totally supportive of my lifestyle…but he was bound to get tired of it, sooner or later. They all do!

Anyhoo, my new policy is: NO MORE AIR FORCE DUDES!!! As you may recall, the last guy I dated, Sgt. Peanut, was also a drone pilot…and look how that ended!!! I think I need to date a musician or an artist of some sort — someone who GETS me! But either way, HEAR YE, HEAR YE: CALL OFF YOUR DOGS, I AM NOT READY TO START DATING AGAIN YET! So back the fuck off, boys…I need some me time!

So, aaaaaaaaaaanyhoo, I had just gotten dumped by Cap’n Crunch, but I had little time to cry because I was booked to appear in this fetish fashion show at the Hustler Club, which was having a Fetish Masquerade Ball featuring all the local BDSM aficionados. Me and a few other chicks modeled latexwear from this amazing local German fetish shop, The Black Door, and there were live beatings, spankings and performances by the Genitorturers and the Swing Shift Side Show.

You may remember the Genitorturers from their ’90s Goth heyday — well, I’m here to tell you that they have fallen on positively Spinal Tap-esque times of late. The evening started with a big snafu over the dressing room situation — so as not to be in the way of the REAL working strippers at the Hustler Club, we had been given the men’s dressing room to use as our staging area. Halfway into our latex-lacing, in come the Genitorturers, whose frontwoman, a washed-up hag with bleached blond hair and bad tattoos, starts throwing a hissy fit about how that was “THEIR” dressing room. Ooh, my bad! They moved us down the hall into the manager’s office, so that Gen (as the lead singer calls herself) could strap her fat ass into her corset, boots and wig out of sight of the prying eyes of us lowly models.

Anyhoo, washed-up hag or no, I have to give credit where credit’s due: she is an AMAZING performer, and a great frontwoman. She really rocked the Hustler Club; those perverts never knew what hit ’em! But even better were the ever-popular Swing Shift SideShow, a local band of tattooed, pierced freaks who perform a sort of twisted mutilation act where they stick corkscrews in their noses and shoot darts out their vaginas, etc. I’ve seen them several times, and they are AMAZING! Li’l Miss Firefly, the midget in the troupe, did a striptease on a pile of broken glass and then swallowed a balloon that was as long as her entire body (!!!)… all of which was very hard for poor Gen of the Genitorturers to live up to, despite the fact that she was desperately flailing a fiberoptic whip around while grinding a chainsaw against her codpiece, sending sparks all over the strip club. Sorry Gen, a glass-trampling midget beats your tired old shtick every time!

As all of this mayhem was going down I was busy being chatted up by the owner of a local uber-kinky swingers’ club. You want to talk about CHARACTERS?? This guy is a character: long blonde curly mullet, deeply tanned leathery complexion, bodybuilder’s physique, and super-earnest manner. He was telling me about his legal woes, and the trials and tribulations of running a sex club empire (he also runs a legendary club in San Francisco)… and as all this was going on, my transsexual friend was being flogged onstage by none other than his lawyer — a huge, bald beast of a man who also happens to be an avid member of the SCA (Society for Creative Anachronism…aka those guys who dress up in chain mail and joust in the park) . WOW!

That night really blew my mind, and pretty well put any and all thoughts of Captain Crunch on the back burner. A huge thank you to my fetish friends for helping me through this difficult time. Yay!!!

After that, I got right back into the swing of things, hustling as hard as ever to make up for my income-less time at Burning Man. I did a desert photo shoot with a very sweet (and accomplished) photographer from Biloxi, Miss. one day…then another day I did a shoot for a FANTASTIC new foot fetish product that is going to take the industry by STORM!!! I’m telling you, the guy who invented this thing is a GENIUS. He asked me not to blog about it yet, but I’m DYING to spill the deets — it was THAT cool. And by cool I mean “gross,” “funny,” and “amusing.” Although if you have a foot fetish…you’ll really dig it. Trust me. (I’ll post details as soon as I get the green light from the inventor — stay tuned.)

Then I did the aforementioned balloon-popping videos for this awesome site, Come to find out, balloon fetishists like to see women popping balloons in three different ways: by sitting on them, by stomping on them, and by blowing them up until they burst. That last one was the toughest — hard to keep an alluring expression with the impending threat of exploding latex in your face! But I thoroughly enjoyed the stomp-to-pop clips…and especially the sit-to-pop; I just looooooooove busting stuff with my fat ass! Plus, the guy who runs the site is super cool and very simpatico; we hit it off really well, and I look forward to working with him much more in the future!

Another gig I did for cash was check out this local tourist attraction/class called Stripper 101, at Planet Hollywood. I work for a show-review website that sends me out and about to random shows and attractions so I can write blurbs for their website…but I had long been curious to try out this class for myself, anyway. Stripping seems like the easy answer to my money troubles, only I’m a terrible dancer, and have a hard time being “sexy…” which is what stripping is all about. I thought that maybe by taking this class, I’d pick up a few tricks and get the confidence I need to make the leap into pole-dancing for a living. WRONG!

If Stripper 101 taught me anything, it’s that I would FAIL MISERABLY as a stripper. Not only do I lack the athleticism to strip, but I also lack the gravitas. Yes, I said “gravitas” and “strip” in the same sentence — to be a good stripper, you have to be sultry and sexy and serious about it — not goofy and flippant, like me. That’s why I like doing fetish videos — I can maintain a certain level of gravitas for brief periods — say, 3 minutes; long enough to film a balloon-popping clip, ya know?! If I break character, it’s not so bad; after all, who wouldn’t make a goofy face sitting on balloons til they pop?!! But a six-hour shift in a strip club??? NOT SO MUCH!! I could hardly keep a straight face through the 60 minute class…I felt like a royal idiot swinging spastically around the practice pole. Then we were supposed to give a lap dance to this empty chair…and that was even WORSE! The instructor showed us a routine, and at one point we were supposed to motorboat the guy — now, you tell ME how someone with itty bitty titties like mine is supposed to motorboat ANYONE! It was actually kind of humiliating!

Anyway, you can read my Yelp review on the class here…basically, to sum it up, I felt it was a silly class with little real value; just a bunch of fat Filipinas (bachelorette party) giggling non-stop at the instructor’s coy references to our “cookies” (vaginas). Boring…but very Vegas. This is what chicks from the Midwest come to Vegas to do: learn ho tricks so that they can be ho-ey like the hos on TV. Fun!

Speaking of hos on TV, I myself was a ho on the radio this week! I was cruising around town one afternoon when I got a call from one of the hosts on the local NPR station, a guy who does a show about local and State issues. Usually it’s important stuff like public schools and gaming control board issues…but in the interest of goosing ratings, he was doing a show about local dominatrices and fetish models, and wanted to know if I’d be comfortable talking about my work on the air. Does a bear shit in the woods?!

I referred him to a couple of local dommes, Lady IceQueen and Onya Cox, and we all three ended up going down to the local NPR station for the interview. Shockingly, I had already been to this station before — as a volunteer, LOL, answering phones during one of their pledge drives!!! (Yes, I am a HUUUGE NPR fan, and a current supporter, LMFAO! It takes me a loooong-ass time to put on my makeup, so I listen to NPR to pass the time while I’m drawing on my eyebrows and shit — every day. Some day maybe Terry Gross will interview me on “Fresh Air…” but for now, I had to settle for appearing on “State of Nevada.” Gotta start somewhere!)

Aaaaaanyhoo, Lady IceQueen, Onya Cox and I blathered on for 45 minutes about what we do and why we do it. The other two claimed that domming wasn’t just a job for them, but who they were; I was the lone dissenter, who admitted to doing it solely for the money. I have my doubts about their claims…I mean, if their slaves weren’t paying them, or giving them any sort of tributes (Lady IceQueen had a very nice new Hummer bought for her by one of her slaves)…would they really still do it?

Then the discussion got into feminism; the other two claimed no interest in it, instead preferring to be “pampered,” having doors opened for them and the like. I tried to mount a half-baked defense of my actions, saying that I do consider myself a feminist, but realize that by filming these videos, I’m still playing into a male fantasy and being paid by men in the end…so even though I may be stomping on a guy’s nuts or spitting on his face, he’s still ultimately in control. The other two admitted no such thing — they are in control at all times, FYI. Even when the guy is paying them to castrate him (as Onya Cox claims to have been beseeched to do)…they are the boss, end of story.

Either way, it was an interesting discussion, and you can listen to it here. I wish there had been a live video feed, so you could have seen the three of us in there — it was a riot! The guests before us were stuffed shirts from the local hospital board, and when they got up to leave and saw us coming, you never saw anyone blush so hard. HA! Lady IceQueen was her usual blinged-out, tatted-up, pierced self (she’s the only person I know who has been on Jerry Springer, LOL!)…and Onya Cox was all rockabillied out in her usual sassy style, wearing a cute white dress with a matching fanny pack around her waist. Fabulous!!! I had sort of dressed down in a baseball cap and gym clothes…I mean, WTF! It’s radio!!!

Anyway, the interview went OK, except at one point the engineer came in and bitched us out for using bad language — apparently it was a live show, and he used up all his bleeps when Lady IceQueen said “shit” by mistake, and I made reference to fans “jerking off.” Oy, VEY!! Get over it. After that, we were all very careful to censor our speech and only talk nice, using ladylike language. LOL! I got the hell out of there as soon as we were done — me and Onya Cox went to Denny’s for breakfast, and then I went home to do some yardwork, and to finish cleaning up my shit from Burning Man, which I still hadn’t done.

And then, later that night, I finally returned to work at my souvenir photography job. I hadn’t worked any shifts in like a month, since there hadn’t been a show — but now, since it was Mexican Independence Day week, this certain Latin Lothario who comes in every year was doing a run of shows. This guy, we’ll call him……oh hell, it was Luis Miguel; anyway, Luis Miguel comes to town every year at this time to do a run of shows, and I just looooooooooove working it. He attracts a crowd of the most bedazzled, blinged-out, made-up, expensive-dress-wearing, tits-spilliing-out-the-front, ass-busting-out-the-back filthy rich Mexican women you’ve ever seen. Working his show is like being on the set of a telenovela — gorgeous women everywhere, none with less than 10 pounds of makeup caked on their faces. It’s astonishing — and usually pretty good money, although this year sucked a little more than usual, due to who knows what. I worked three nights of that, and it was insanity — those people drink and party like there’s no tomorrow. You could just tell that most of the men in there had blood on their hands, but all they did was guzzle Chivas and pat their heavily-made-up women on the asses and mill around in the casino after the show singing “Cielito Lindo” over and over and over. Ay, yi, yi, yiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii………………..

So, that was pretty much my week. In between all that madness I made time for a few other little shenanigans…nude sunbathing at an eccentric friend’s pool, meeting up with a reader after work for a photo op…but most of the time I sat around thinking of my impending birthday, which is coming up on Sept. 22. Another year older, arrrrrgh. People keep asking me where the party’s at, but astonishingly…for as big a party girl as I am, I have never had a birthday party in my entire life! Not even when I was a little kid! Crazy, but true…I guess I prefer crashing other people’s parties. O.P.P….wasn’t that a song?! Watch out….yours might be next!





Incoming search terms:

  • onya cox nude
  • sarah strange nude

Burning Man, Maaaaaaaan…


Well, I'm back from Burning Man…and sick as FUCK!


The playa definitely took its toll on me — it was an exceptionally dusty year, and I got a bad case of playa lung, as they call it. Burning Man is held on a giant dry lake bed covered in alkali dust, which becomes more and more churned up as the week goes on. Every gust of wind sends giant clouds of fine white dust into the air, sometimes so huge that they obscure the entire sky and limit visibility to less than 5 feet! These whiteouts can last for hours, and we had a few pretty nasty ones this year. Because I'm so vain, I pooh-poohed a real dust mask in favor of a stylish pink bandanna which did very little to filter out the dust. So, I’m blaming my malaise on playa lung…though dancing non-stop for 13 days in little more than panties and a pink bandanna might have had something to do with it, too.


Yes, thirteen days straight!!! I had an early arrival pass, so I could go up before the event actually started to help my friend assemble his art car. As mentioned in my last blog, I thought it would be super cool to go up early, and party with all the other in-crowd cool kids — and I was really excited. What I didn't realize is that it's actually ALL WORK, NO PARTIES!!! Seriously!! 


Prep-wise, I was already under a lot of stress from just getting back from my California trip, so I did an exceptionally shitty job packing. I remembered to bring a ton of wacky panties and a bunch of shiny spandex pants and sparkly bras, but somehow neglected to bring real clothes, like shirts. D'oh!! As a result, I ended up being mostly naked all week. Incidentally, here's my packing list


So anyhoo, I left Vegas Wednesday morning the 22nd, and drove north up the center of Nevada for about 10 hours. Astonishingly, it rained almost the entire way up — monsoonal downpours, no less! My dumb ass didn't cover my truck bed with a tarp, so all my shit got wet, but it was no big deal as the rain dried up after about 6 hours, and my stuff was dry as a bone by the time I rolled onto the Black Rock Desert playa. Because it was so early in the week, I was able to roll right in, pick up my ticket at Will Call (remember, the dumbass USPS

lost it??), and cruise right into camp with very little waiting. Schweet! 


Now, this year I was camping with a whole new crew of people — the Black Rock Roller Disco, mostly comprised of a group of hardcore skaters from San Francisco. Usually, I camp out in the "suburbs" of Black Rock City (what they call Burning Man once it's all set up and gridded out into streets) with my family and a few friends, but this year my people bailed, so I took up my friend C's offer to camp with the Roller Disco. I didn’t know any of them, but quickly came to discover that they are A.W.E.S.O.M.E! 


First off, everyone's always saying how Burning Man is nothing but a bunch of crazy white people — which is actually pretty much true, for the most part. But not at the Roller Disco – that camp is like Sesame Street!! All races, all ages, all types. Most of them know each other from this Sunday afternoon skating party they do in Golden Gate Park — I'm telling you, these people are HARDCORE skaters. Every one of them had some story to tell about being hit by a car, bus, motorcycle or Sherman tank…but they all keep on skatin’ anyway! This one guy named Jesus (so named because he looks just like our Lord and Savior) even had these off-road inline skates with ginormous wheels that allowed him to skate around ON THE PLAYA! Crazy!


The core contingent of the group was the Long Riders, a group of mostly black guys who wear extravagantly fashioned outfits with long fur coats at night. As they say, "Anyone can BE a Long Rider…but it's not FOR everyone!" Either way, the Long Riders don’t fuck around, and were in fact used as security during the annual Critical Tits bike parade (more on which later). Hey, someone needs to keep an eye on those fucking hippies!


Aside from the Long Riders, the camp also included a VERY diverse group of extremely fun people. I LOVED camping with them, and the Burning Man brass love them, too — I think they won Best Theme Camp of the Year or something, and they're a perennial favorite on the playa, usually scoring premium real estate right up front and center in the middle of all the action. This year, they were at 7:30 and the Esplanade — which basically means right in the middle of downtown Black Rock City. I was afraid it would be really loud camping up there in the middle of all the action (as mentioned, I usually camp back in the burbs), but I set up my camper in the back corner of our area, surrounded by RVs, and it was very chill! The white noise of the RV generators blocked out all the madness and dubstep, and I was able to sleep really well!


Anyhoo, I can see why the Roller Disco wins all those awards — they work their ASSES off setting that shit up! They basically assemble an ENTIRE roller rink in the middle of the desert every year, and then clean it all up to the last drop, even sifting the dust through screens to make sure they get every last bit of glitter. Amazing! As a new camp member, I felt I had to prove myself not to be just a useless Sparkle Pony (what they call cute chicks at Burning Man who spend all day getting dressed and don't do anything to help out). So I busted my ass helping them set stuff up, including sorting through bag after bag of mis-matched rollerskates and inline skates, pairing them up like a giant game of Memory. They get all their skates from old roller rinks and whatnot, so some of them are very vintage – my faves were this pair of white leather roller-sneakers with “AC/DC Rulez” and “SCORPS” written on them in marker. I can only imagine the magically mulleted prince of suburbia who wore those back in the day!


I busted my ass even more helping my friend out with his art car, the Soul Train. Remember, this was the reason I came up early — to help assemble this beast. I had seen it in passing before, but never really noticed it until now — IT IS AMAZING! The guy who built it, my friend C., is a mechanical GENIUS. A puppeteer by trade, who builds his own life-sized puppets, he somehow figured out how to make a locomotive out of an old Dodge truck chassis, rigging it up so that even the nose of the train twitches back and forth like the cartoon train on the actual Soul Train TV show. Then he added a caboose, so that up to 20 or 30 people can ride along and dance! It was INCREDIBLE, and an incredible amount of effort to put it together.


All this early-arrival-working shit made me realize HOW MUCH WORK people put into this party — for FREE! People are up there a MONTH in advance, building shit, so that when the masses arrive they can party and enjoy it for a mere six days. It's amazing — and exhausting! I have always come up on the regular opening day in the past, so when I get there everything's all set up and ready to go, like, "Wheeee!" Now, I know the truth….and I'll never look at Burning

Man the same way again. It makes me tired even thinking about it!


Anyhoo, after busting my ass for 2 days straight, the party finally started Friday night, when the Roller Disco officially opened for a pre-event staff party. After that, it was ON! For the next ten days or so, I basically partied NON STOP. No fuckin' wonder I'm sick!! I spent Saturday night cruising around in a friend's art car looking at all the crazy art installations, including this amazing piece crafted by earnest German art students from 250,000 zip ties!! LOL!!! Leave it to the earnest Germans to make something like that. It was amazing!


The only bummer was that the police presence was VERY heavy this year — sheriffs' deputies and BLM officers cruised the playa CONSTANTLY, on the lookout for illegal activity. Of course, the fucking farce is that 9 out of 10 people up there (myself included) were BAKED OUT OF 

THEIR BRAINS!!!!! It was like the Keystone Kops — what was the fuckin' point??? I'll tell you what the point was — one afternoon, I was cruising along on my bike, topless as always (I spent most of the week clad only in a sort of loincloth) and this one sheriff's truck flagged me over. They had a huge roll of gold Sheriffs' star-shaped stickers, and they gave me two stickers to wear as pasties!! They even punched out the center of the stars so my dugs could poke through, LOL! MOREOVER, the one deputy APPLIED the stickers himself! So… thaaaaaat's why there was so much 5-0 up there!!


Aside from being manhandled by the man, I also spent many an hour cruising around the playa on various friends' art cars. Some friends from Portland had built a giant, 2-story-tall chair on wheels, with propane poufers on top that shot flames into the sky. Then there were these guys I met at my very first Burning Man — I was high as a kite, wandering around the desert, and ran into these guys from Ojai, CA on their car called the Emergence. We kept in touch over the years, and I met up with them again this year for some good times. 


But the best time I had was with my friend Bam Bam, on his glow-in-the-dark fur-covered 2-story golf cart. We rode around a few times together, since he was camped right down the street at the Party Naked Tiki Bar camp. One afternoon I was hanging out at the Tiki Bar, which is basically a bunch of nudists who encourage chicks (and guys, but mostly chicks) to get naked by offering to get them "lei'd" (har har). If you take off your clothes, they give you a commemorative tiki plaque on a flower lei. Now, as mentioned I was basically naked all week, but for whatever reason I was wearing a bikini top this afternoon, with a sort of sequin-spangled apron hiding my junk. Not like you can't see my tits and twat on 100 websites any day of the week — these people wanted me to GET NAKED then and there! One kind of creepy old guy in a trucker hat and aviators kept telling me how "dark pubic hair is the ultimate turn on," and “lemme see your bush!!” That kind of thing.


Meanwhile, my campmate Don and I were having a debate as to who sang that old '60s song "Red Rubber Ball" (due to the dust storms, the sun looked like a red ball in the late afternoon, and I started singing that song). We asked everyone we came across, but people kept guessing dumb shit like Bobby Vee. I figured with all the old fuckers hanging out at Party Naked, SOMEone would know – but Bobby Vee came up again, and I knew it wasn't Bobby Vee. Finally, someone told me to ask Bam Bam, since he was/is the drummer for the Strawberry Alarm Clock (who knew?!!) and would surely know the answer. Well, we went out and found Bam Bam, and started the debate again. Someone said Bobby Vee again, which started them off on a tangent about Bobby Vee: "Say, did you know Bobby Vee still performs? Yeah, Bobby Vee does shows with his sons now! Bobby Vee and Sons!" Finally I'd had ENOUGH!!! "Listen, guys," I butted in — "I don't know anything about BOBBY Vee…..but I know his brother, HARRY Vee!!!!!" I lifted my spangled apron and flashed my bush — too bad that creepy old fucker in the trucker hat wasn't there to see it!!!! For that extreme witticism, I earned a Party Naked Tiki Lei — without having to get fully nude!!! Hahahahahaha — I love using my wit to game the system!! Oh, and P.S. — Bam Bam came thru; "Red Rubber Ball" is by the Cyrkle. 


Now, astonishingly, all of this happened under the influence of nothing more than good old-fashioned alky-hol. I didn't break out my good stuff til Monday night! The Soul Train was finally ready to go out on its maiden voyage, so I put on a badass disco outfit, complete with afro wig, spandex pants and fiberoptic glowing flowers, and ate some mushrooms. But no sooner had I choked them down then who should appear but my ex-boyfriend, a tattoo artist from Portland, OR whom I hadn't seen in over 2 years!!! I went and hung out with him and his campmates for awhile, but I wasn't myself (obvsly) and I felt bad for acting weird, so I departed early and headed out on the Soul Train for one of the most AMAZING JOURNEYS of my LIFE!


I didn't realize this, but when C. fires up the Soul Train, it's a HUGE EVENT. First of all, he's perched way up atop the locomotive in the driver's seat in a feathered pimp hat and a fur coat, and then he turns on the billion-watt sound system and cranks up the Soul Train theme song: "ALL ABOARD!! THE SOOOOOOOOUL TRAIN!" Then the ass-shaking, booty-grooving beat starts — "Get on- get on- get on, get on board!" and then the train starts moving, twitching its nose and generally causing a HUGE FUCKING STIR! Even in the middle of Burning Man, that fucking train attracts attention like nothing else — I guess because hearing music with WORDS is so unusual out there amidst all the dubstep and whatnot. Peoples' faces just light up and they break out into HUGE smiles when they see it — it's truly magical (not to be corny…maybe it was the mushrooms). Sure enough, folks came running from all directions to get on board the caboose, and I spent the next few hours cruising around the playa boogieing to the amazing music on C's playlist with this awesome, UBER-nerdy Jewish record-store-type guy from L.A. who kept going ON and ON about how "amazing" “that cat" (meaning my friend C.) is and how he LOVES the Soul Train. Fabulous!!  

But the MOST fabulous part was when C. stopped the Train out on the playa for a dance party. We all tumbled out and were dancing like frenzied mad people in the middle of the desert in the middle of the night, when all of a sudden the music shut off, and C. leaped atop the locomotive, high above the crowd, and began UBER-DRAMATICALLY lip-syncing an acapella version of the lyrics to Rhythm Controll's "Our House." Basically, it sounds like a preacher giving a fire-and-brimstone sermon about OUR HOUSE (meaning house music)… and between the 1,000,000-watt sound system and C's white silk singlet, wildly-gesticulating, dark chocolate musculature and super-intense eyeballs boring holes in the drug-addled brains of all in attendance………IT WAS ELECTRIFYING! I guess I can't really describe it…you had to be there. It was INTENSE!



After riding the Soul Train and dancing for around 17 hours, my campmate T. and I met up with another friend of mine, Tanayaa, and we wandered around dancing for another 17 hours or so. We hit up the Opulent Temple, which is basically just a big outdoor nightclub where e-tards to spin poi and dance their asses off  — BO-ring! A super amazing art car called the Disco Fish was parked nearby, so I climbed aboard that and made friends with the crew, who let me up on the roof with the DJ. I was having a great conversation with one of the guys about his work for an NGO in South Sudan, when all of a sudden there was a huge drug bust at Opulent Temple!!


Out of nowhere, about 5 or 6 Sheriff's trucks came RACING up from all points on the playa, lights flashing madly (despite all the other neon and flashy shit up there, police lights somehow stand out in a soberingly bright way) and officers came RUNNING out into the crowd — I mean, sprinting! I guess some poor sap had been set up in a sting (there were a LOT of undercover cops there dressed like "hippies," LOL), and now the po-po were out in full 

force to grind the fucker into the ground. But the BEST part was that they had a poor German Shepherd drug-sniffing dog with them!!!! Now I ask you — what is ONE POOR GERMAN SHEPHERD to do in a crowd of 5,000 high people, all of whom have Ecstasy, Molly, acid, shrooms, weed and Dog knows what else crammed into every fucking orifice on their bodies?!? It reminded me of the part in "Up in Smoke" where the German Shepherd dies flat on its back because Cheech & Chong's van is made entirely of marijuana — it was just too much drugs for the poor dog to handle!!! Talk about animal abuse — does PETA know about this????!!!!


Anyway, all that excitement put me out of commission for at least 10 hours, so the next day I took ‘er easy, heading to one of my favorite chill spots on the playa – Center Camp, a huge sort of circus tent in the center of everything that’s like a communal gathering spot for sleepy hippies and assorted other weirdos. I picked up a copy of the BRC Weekly (Burning Man has its own alt-weekly, haha, as well as a daily paper), in which I had written an article about the Perverts of the Playa (read it here). I sat there with this South African guy, who shared his coffee with me (no wonder I got sick; everyone up there’s always offering you a sip of this or that from their personal germ-encrusted mug, and it feels rude to decline) and watched these two chicks reading my article. Fortunately, they were laughing and reading parts aloud, so I guess they enjoyed my unabashed haterism!

After that I cruised over to this camp that was having a Miracle Fruit tasting. Miracle Fruit is some berry that grows in the Amazon and deadens your sense of sour, so that you can eat lemons and stuff and it tastes like candy – I’d read about it years before, and had been curious to try it. Well, like everything else at that goddamn hippiefest, I’m sad to report that it was over-hyped: they passed out little pellets of concentrated Fruit, then passed around lemons and Sriracha and vinegar and shit, which sort of tasted sweet…I guess. What really ruined it for me was, before they passed out the Fruit, we were all sort of dancing in the baking heat, and this one Asian chick was eating room-temperature clam chowder out of a can, offering spoonsful to passers-by. GROSSSSSSS! After that shocking visual, nothing would have tasted good.


To make matters worse, no sooner had I left the party when some random half-asser rolled up and asked if I’d like to be body painted. Now, I’m camping in the middle of a fuckin’ dry lake bed for 13 days with no shower and no running water – do I really want to be covered in colored grease?? Not so much!! But again, it seemed rude to refuse, so I reluctantly followed him back to his camp, meekly insisting that he only do my boobs. Well, of course he went buck wild and covered me from chin to navel in greasy-ass oil crayon (not even real body paint!!!), and his damn signature covered half my abdomen! WORSE, he added a bunch of acrylic body gems that were sure to fall off and litter the desert within 10 minutes. I couldn’t WAIT to get back to my camp and scrub that shit off, but wouldn’t you know it, first I had to get high with his campmate, who tried to molest me and ended up rolling over my sunglasses with his chair and breaking them!!! ARRRGH! I wrapped some electrical tape around them and got the fuck out of there, straight back to my trailer where I used about 100 baby wipes to get clean.

Fortunately, there wasn’t much time to grouse about it because one of my campmates had invited me to a Little Black Dress Party at Spanky’s Wine Bar. My campmate had brought a big bass drum, like in a marching band, and in fact had joined up with the Burning Band (a full-on marching band up there) and they were going to play at the party. I looooove drums, so I whipped together a black dress out of a scarf and headed over, making sure to bring my maraca with me. You may recall that I bought a single maraca at a thrift store in Utah a couple months back…well, I put that little fucker to GOOD use last week!! I shook that sonovabitch so much for around 4 days straight that I got a blister! I was able to join the marching band as they marched out of Spanky’s Wine Bar and down the Esplanade, playing all manner of old-time marching-band music , all the way to Center Camp!


The best part was when we passed the Lamplighters. Black Rock City has all these wooden lampposts lining the streets, and at dusk they hang oil lamps up there to sort of help you find your way around. The Lamplighters are this group of drama-club-types who wear all-white robes and plod around very seriously in formation, lighting the lamps in a ritualistic way. Well, here came our raucous marching band into their midst, trumpets blaring and tubas groaning, effectively putting the kibosh to their self-important posturing. HA!!!!! (I told you, I’m a hater!)


Aaaaanyhoo, after all THAT I really had a bad case of maraca finger, so I pretty much laid low until the following night, when the Soul Train went out again for another desert dancing odyssey. Again, we stopped way out on the deep playa, and our colorful cast of weirdos came tumbling out as Fatboy Slim’s “Rockafeller Skank” came blaring over the sound system. We broke it DOWN! It was every kookier than the actual video for “Rockafeller Skank,” I tell ya – between me in my golden spandex, and my friend Guy in his yellow polyester disco suit, C. in his white silken singlet, the Long Riders in their furs, and this AMAZING mustachioed Rockwell look-alike named Red E. Licious (so called because he loooves red, preferably sequined red)….it was a really freaky scene!!!


Then, out of the mists of the night, my sister showed up! She had just driven in from San Fran, fresh off a flight from Israel, of all places, so for the rest of the week it got even more intense! It’s all a blur…I remember running around in the rain, under a full moon, wearing little more than a fur jacket and my “READY FOR ANYTHING” panties, with a bellyful of shrooms… Jeez, no WONDER I’m sick!

Friday morning I woke up REALLY sick, so I decided to lay low and rest up for the big Saturday night jamboree, when they burn the actual Man. I took vitamin C and ate chicken soup and gargled with oregano oil that I’d gotten from that nutty workout kook who rides his bike atop those shipping containers at the side of the freeway across from Palace Station…and I REALLY should have stayed in bed, but how could I when it was the day of the Critical Tits parade?! Instead, I suited up in my bandanna and panties and joined the parade, which was something like 5000 women riding their bikes in solidarity while dirty old men took photos.


The parade ended way out in the deep playa, where the Soul Train blasted feel-good party jams, and these redneck Burners served margaritas off a chainsaw – they somehow mounted a blender to a chainsaw motor, so that when they cranked the ‘saw, it blended the delicious ‘ritas. AMAZING! I drank about 50 margaritas and danced my ass off AGAIN, even busting out my maraca and exacerbating my blister some more. I couldn’t help it – I had the spirit in me!!!




About halfway through the party, a HUUUUGE whiteout dust storm blew in, which made everything even cooler! Imagine dancing half-naked with 1000 other people in the middle of a white cloud with only 15 feet visibility…it was like partying at the apocalypse! After about 15 hours, my sis and I rode our bikes back to camp through the worst whiteout ever! At times you could only see 5 feet ahead. In those kinds of conditions, you’re supposed to hunker down and wait it out…but I was so sick and so tired that I just wanted to go to bed….so somehow we made it back.


So after that I rested up for the big Burn night, which of course was as anticlimactic as ever. They burned the Man, everyone danced and screamed and got drunk and high, and then glowing embers blew all over the crowd of flammable high-ass dumb fucks, who welcomed the flaming debris like it was manna from heaven. MEH! I felt like the meme of that unimpressed gymnast… it was kinda boring!!! I must have depleted my serotonin levels too much, because my shrooms didn’t do much for me the 3rd time I ate them (even though I was careful to wait a day or two in between doses)…so after that I gave up. I tried to run around one last night having fun, but I was just too tired, and I guess frankly over it.


Over it or no, we still had all our clean-up to do – and as mentioned, the Black Rock Roller Disco doesn’t fuck around with MOOP (what they call litter at Burning Man – it stands for Matter Out Of Place). So I spent all day Sunday in the broiling heat bent over picking up feathers and sequins and beer cans and whatnot, while my nose ran constantly and I burned up my nostrils blowing it with baby wipes. WORSE, my damn-ass period started that day!! The good people of the Disco Fish car had given me a little disco ball on a keychain, which I’d intended to attach to my tampon string and keep on a-partyin’….but I was too sick to even feel up to it L Instead, I cleaned myself up as best as possible and put on my ceremonial robes, and cruised out with the rest of my campmates to watch the Sunday night Temple burn


If you’ve never been to Burning Man, they have two major burns: Saturday night is the Man, which is a big Vegas-style frat party…and then Sunday night, they burn this huge, elaborate wooden temple they construct every year. Throughout the week, people go in and write messages and post photos of lost loved ones on the temple walls, so when it burns, it’s a pretty somber affair. Well, apparently not everyone in the crowd got the memo, as there was some hooting and hollering going on that was NOT cool, maaaan. All those peaceable hippies in the crowd got real riled up, and almost came to blows over “appropriate” temple-burn conduct…which I secretly found hilarious. First they were pissed because some guy down front had his New Zealand flag hoisted up, blocking the view from those in the back. Next it was some people who “had” to stand up (and block the view) because they had “back issues.” The bickering was HIGH-LARIOUS!

But best of all was when the temple burning was underway, and the sniffle-filled silence (people always weep at that burn) was interrupted by some jackass blaring “Free Bird.” OMG! You’d think someone had pranced out in a Hitler tutu and taken a shit on the Dalai Lama!!! SACRIGLEGE!!!!!! The crowd, which just seconds before had been quietly ruminating and weeping about their dead dogs and whatnot, became incensed and began to scream “SHUT THAT OFF!!!!!!” That’s the problem with radical self-expression – not everyone LIKES your brand of expression! But, come to find out, the offenders were members of the Burning Man inner circle – DPW workers paying tribute to a recently fallen comrade who inexplicably loved the song “Free Bird…” so they were quickly forgiven by the slavishly devoted cultmembers – I mean masses. Whew!

After the burn, I spent a few hours wandering the desert with Jesus (my campmate…I didn’t eat THAT many shrooms!) before hitting the hay so that I could get up and do it allll over again. I was super-sick again on Monday, hacking up all kinds of nastiness in my trailer and doubtless grossing out all my campmates, but I got up and helped disassemble the Soul Train for its long voyage south, back to Vegas. I spent all day on that, then finally crawled into bed at 9:30pm (!!!!) and PASSED THE FUCK OUT! Burning Man destroyed me!!!


The following morning I got up, packed up my own camp, and headed back to Vegas around 10am. I was about 2 hours into the drive, in Fallon, NV, when I decided to drive home topless, and see if I could make it back to Vegas without getting a ticket. After all, as they say… “Burning Man isn’t just a week long…it’s a lifestyle, maaaaaan! Live it all year long!” I decided to put that to the test, and drove home shirtless.

You don’t really pass through too many towns on the way from Fallon to Vegas, but each time I did I freaked out. A sheriff followed me through Schurz, so I pussed out and put on my bikini top until he was distracted by a speeder. Then I put on my top to get gas in Hawthorne…and then one more time, when I got a flat tire outside Tonopah. I briefly considered changing my tire topless, but I kinda wanted to do it myself, to see if I could do it (it was just a trailer tire, not a truck one)…and I figured if I was topless, someone would stop. So, even though I was wearing a bikini top and pink short-shorts…no one stopped to help me, and I was able to do it myself. Yay!!


After that, I remained bare-chested all the way to my front door, at which time I suited up again, so as not to freak out my neighbors. But the following evening, my kooky roommate invited me to go running with him. About halfway into our 3-mile run, we got hot as fuck (it’s been really 

humid here lately), so he took off his shirt and ran shirtless. This really irked me – my tits were sweaty too, and I would have liked to take MY top off!! So, I did! Even though we were running down N. Las Vegas Blvd., I pulled my sports bra down and ran the rest of the way topless. And NO ONE really noticed!!! I even went through the “bad” part of East Charleston, and ran past several derelicts, with no problems.  I think my chest is THAT FLAT, people! Or, it could have been the fact that my roommate was with me – he’s a bodybuilder (with long, blond hair and bigger tits than mine, incidentally)…so maybe people were afraid and/or confused by us. Either way, we made it home A-OK!



So, now I’m suffering the after-effects of my 13 days of hedonism. Cleanup was a bitch, lemme tell ya – I’m STILL hacking up playa phlegm, despite going for a shvitz at my gym’s steam room and using my Neti Pot a bajillion times. The worst was dumping out my greywater – Burning Man is a Leave No Trace event, so you’re not even allowed to spit out your toothpaste water onto the playa. Instead, you save up all your greywater and dump it at home. Well, I had a 5-gallon jug full of dust, sweat, toothpaste and wine dregs…an unspeakably foul brew that I probably should have saved for some future nefarious purpose, but I dumped it down my drain. And, that was that. Good riddance, Burning Man, maaaaaan….until next year! 



*a note on photos: if interested, here’s a link to my Facebook album of BM 2012 pics. Of course, they are G-rated, as Facebook won’t allow anything racier…but to be honest, people, I hate to shatter your dreams but I did not spend the week fucking random hippies and spreading my twat in the name of art on top of a giant flaming octopus. To me, Burning Man is one of the LEAST SEXY places on Earth – nothing but drunk, high goofballs coated in a fine sheen of sweat, playa dust and bacon grease. BLECCCH! I’ve never had sex up there, and I doubt I ever will!!!


Incoming search terms:

  • burning man photos nsfw
  • burning man nude women
  • burning man naked women
  • burning man topless
  • burning man pictures nsfw
  • nude women at burning man
  • nude women burning man
  • nude at burning man
  • burning man nudes tumblr
  • burning man girls tumblr