Category: fetish modeling

I’ve Tried Logic, Reason and Elbow Grease, to No Avail

I am fucked. Fucked. FUCKED!

http://youtu.be/QpLMep6zmXk

If you’ve been reading this tripe for any length of time, you’ll know that the past 3 years of my life have been consumed with my effort to work out a mortgage deal with my lender. I simply cannot afford my $2300 monthly payments, and I’m tired of sucking dick just trying to make ends meet.

According to the media, there are tons of government aid programs out there to help idiots like me. Over the last 3 years, I HAVE TRIED THEM ALL.

THEY. DO. NOT. WORK.

The simple truth is, the banks DON’T WANT TO HELP PEOPLE! They make more money in government bailouts by foreclosing, than by actually working with home”owners,” so they have zero incentive.

Like a total fucking patsy, I followed the carrot they dangled in front of me for the last three years: “If you just fax us this, that and the other, we’ll give you a loan modification!” I faxed, scanned, emailed and called for YEARS, and spent countless hours (and thousands of dollars I could ill afford), bawling in frustration and banging my head against the wall. I never gave up, though, because I though it was a war of attrition that could ultimately be won by the strongest man (me, dammit).

In Nevada, the State mandates that lenders meet with troubled homeowners for a “mediation hearing.” I went to such a hearing with a representative from my lender — which, to my surprise, isn’t Chase after all. It’s something/somebody called Seterus, Inc.

I got my fucking mortgage from Washington Mutual. Chase bought them out, but then sold all their bum loans to LBPS (Lender Business Process Servers)…who in turn sold the loans to Seterus, Inc. So my loan has changed hands so many times, I bet they don’t even have the original documents.

I (stupidly) didn’t challenge them on that at my mediation hearing, because I’m tired of dragging this out. I’m finished with stalling tactics — I WANT RESOLUTION! IF ONE MORE PERSON SENDS ME AN EMAIL TELLING ME ABOUT HOW THEIR “FRIENDS LIVED FOR FREE WITHOUT PAYING A DIME FOR YEARS,” I’m gonna SCREAM!!!!!

I’VE ALREADY LIVED FOR “FREE” AS LONG AS THEY’LL LET ME!

I missed about 12 payments back in 2009/10 (just to get their attention; they wouldn’t answer my calls for the 12 preceding months, when I was still scrounging around sucking dick to make the payments. I got tired of sucking dick, the money dried up, and NOW those fuckers answered me. They gave me a trial loan modification, which if I made 4 payments on time, they would make it permanent.

Yes! Awesome!

SIKE! I made my four payments ON TIME, but they dragged ass for TWELVE MONTHS with no answer. In the meantime, I kept paying to show “good faith…” but apparently, it was a stupid fucking move to make, because all those “trial” payments weren’t enough for Chase/Seterus/WhoeverTheFuck…and EACH and EVERY SINGLE $1200 payment I made counted for NOTHING. Because they were modified to $1200 (instead of my original $2300), EACH PAYMENT COUNTED AS A DEFAULTED PAYMENT!

Because of this, by the time I got my mediation hearing, I was already pretty far along in the foreclosure process (much to my surprise — I’d been paying TWELVE HUNDRED DOLLARS A MONTH TO THESE BLOODSUCKING ASSHOLES! Didn’t feel like I was defaulting, to me!). At my mediation, I offered to just give them the house back in exchange for being released from my debt (what’s called a Deed in Lieu of Foreclosure). My lender’s representative said Sorry, we don’t take Deeds in Lieu.

OK, so will you at least write down my principal to the fair market value? I bought the house for $380,000 and have only paid down $111 in principal — out of $125,000 in payments!!!!!!!!! And now it’s only worth $100,000.

No. “I’m sorry, we don’t write down principals.”

FUCK! So what do you WANT me to do?!?!

My choices were to a) let ’em foreclose, or b) short sell the house (get whatever money  I can for it, and hope my lender accepts that instead of the full amount I owe them).

I was crying so hard I couldn’t decide what to do, so the fucking bitch representative from my lender marked it down as “client will foreclose.” BUT I NEVER SAID I WANTED TO FORECLOSE! I DIDN’T DECIDE YET!!!!!!

I ended up discussing with my attorney, and deciding to short sell. I had to hire ANOTHER attorney (more fucking money I don’t have), and this asshole warned me that because I was already so far along into the foreclosure process, he might not be able to push my short sale thru in time. He told me up front that it was a gamble — but I’d have to pay his retainer either way.

What the fuck would you do? I paid his fucking blood money, listed the property, and BUSTED MY ASS to sell it as fast as fucking possible. It was listed on a Wednesday, and by Monday I had EIGHT OFFERS. I submitted the best one — a CASH OFFER, WELL ABOVE the bank’s appraisal of $105,000 — during the last week of November.

I still haven’t heard back. I assumed my offer was sitting in a stack of papers on some asshole’s desk over at Seterus, waiting for him to get to it.

Meanwhile…….

Right after I posted my last blog, I went outside to run some errands, and found an auction notice posted on my door!

THESE FUCKING LEECHES ARE AUCTIONING MY HOUSE OUT FROM UNDER ME, EVEN WITH A SOLID ***CASH*** OFFER ON THEIR FUCKING DESK!

I’m not dumb — I know they get more bailout money from the fucking Feds if I foreclose, so it’s better off for them NOT to approve my short sale.

But it’s going to FUCK ME OVER.

If my house goes to auction, they can sell it out from under me (fine, whatever)…but then they can came after me and SUE ME BLIND for the $380,000 I owe them! My only recourse is to completely fuck my finances and credit by filing bankruptcy…which I don’t want to do, obviously.

I want them to APPROVE MY FUCKING SHORT SALE!

What’s frustrating is, I can’t do a GODDAMN THING ABOUT IT. I tried going to the Chase Homeownership Crisis Center, but this really smarmy young prick told me “We don’t own your loan anymore, nothing we can do.” He was a real asshole about it, too. FUCK YOU! I bawled my eyes out all the way down the hall to my car, not caring who the fuck saw me.

There has to be SOMEONE I can tell about this who can help me! My attorney says they are doing “everything they can” on their end, but to be honest I don’t want to rely on that. He already got his retainer; what the fuck does he care? The first fucking thing he said to me was “I told you this might happen!” just to cover his ass. Fuck you! Thanks for your support, asshole.

I figured there had to be SOMETHING I could do on my end, to make sure the auction is stopped before they have a chance to approve the short sale. I tried calling all those fake-ass “HOPE for Homeowner” hotlines the dumbass pussywhipped government set up…but they were WORSE than useless. One lady had no answers for me, the other said she couldn’t legally advise me because I already have counsel retained. NO ONE WANTS TO HELP.

Basically, my lawyer says I just have to sit around and wait until the auction date — which is right around the corner; Feb. 15th. *HOPEFULLY* they’ll halt the auction once they realize they have a better offer sitting on their desk, or even better just go ahead and approve the fucking short sale RIGHT NOW. But if they don’t….

I.

AM.

FUCKED.

If my house goes to the auction, I swear I am rounding up all my dirtiest, smelliest hippie friends from the #OccupyLasVegas encampment, and bringing them all to the auction with me: “HEY YOU FUCKERS! GO AHEAD AND BID ON THE MOUNTAIN VIEW PROPERTY — BUT IF YOU GET IT, YOU’RE GONNA HAVE TO DEAL WITH 500 HIPPIES CAMPING IN THE YARD! YOU’LL HAVE TO EVICT 500 PEOPLE…GOOOOOOOD LUCK WITH THAT, ASSHOLES!”

Yeah, I’m fucking pissed!

I’ve done everything I was supposed to for the last three years. I played by the rules, filed countless papers and faxed, scanned, emailed and called every time they said they needed updated stuff. And they’re still giving me a giant middle finger.

HOW CAN OUR GOVERNMENT STAND BY AND LET THIS HAPPEN?! GROW SOME FUCKING BALLS, PRESIDENT OBAMA! ***FORCE*** THE FUCKERS TO WORK WITH PEOPLE! YOU HAVE THE POWER!

I have zero power, and it’s extremely demoralizing.

All I really did this past week was sob. I am TERRIFIED. What the fuck am I supposed to do? I’VE DONE ALL I CAN! And it wasn’t enough.

Since logic and reason have failed thus far, I turned to the occult. I went to Bell, Book & Candle (Ye Olde Magick Shoppe, on East Charleston in Vegas) and bought a Jinx-breaker candle to break my string of bad luck. Nevermind the fact that I don’t believe in magic; I’m desperate! The big fat barefoot bearded wizard in there shuffled over to his shelf of herbs, sprinkled a bunch of happy oils and glitter on a jar candle, and charged me $8. I hope it works! He threw in a couple of magic beans for good luck…which if I’m REALLY lucky, will grow into a beanstalk leading up to Seterus’s offices, so I can climb up and finally find the RIGHT dick to suck.

THEN, in case the Goddess wasn’t listening, I went over to the other side of town and bought a little statue of Saint Joseph from a Christian bookstore (I thought I’d burst into flames walking in the door, when I heard the “Praise Him” music and saw the moon-faced Christer heifer behind the counter smile beatifically at me). Someone had told me that if you want to sell a house, you’re supposed to bury a statue of St. Joseph in the front yard, upside down facing the house out near the street. Nevermind the fact that I don’t believe in religion; I’m desperate! I went inside, for good measure, and donned my lucky Big Girl Panties, my favorite psychedelic caftan (the one I wore to my dad’s funeral last year) and my lucky pink cowgirl hat. Basically, it was everything I had that was meaningful to me…so I wore it like armor, brought my jinx-breaking candle out to the front yard, and buried St. Joseph in amongst the lantana in my front garden.

I HOPE IT WORKS.

I spent last night weeping in my truck in an empty parking lot, screaming in rage, beating on my windows, biting my steering wheel in sheer frustration. WHAT MORE CAN I DO??????

What really pisses me off is, it’s basically my own fault that I “waited too long” to decide to short sell. Remember, by the time I listed my house I was “so far along in the foreclosure process” that my lawyer couldn’t promise anything.

Well, THE ONLY REASON I WAS THAT FAR ALONG IS, YOU FUCKERS STRUNG ME ALONG WITH FALSE PROMISES OF A LOAN MODIFICATION!

Is that really MY fuckin’ fault?!?!?!?!?!? I WAS TRYING TO DO RIGHT! AND NOW I’M GETTING FUCKED!

I just can’t believe there is NO ONE IN THIS ENTIRE WORLD who can/will help me. NO ONE.

NO ONE.

NO ONE!

I’m utterly alone. WHERE ARE YOU, PRESIDENT OBAMA? Oh yeah that’s right, you’re busy sucking bank cock. They probably need another $8billion bailout.

WHO THE FUCK DO YOU REPRESENT, PRESIDENT OBAMA? ME?? OR THE BANKS?

I ACTUALLY VOTED FOR YOUR DUMB ASS! I bet none of those fat cats did. So, don’t you owe me ANYTHING?!?!?!?!?

FORCE THE BANKS TO WORK WITH PEOPLE! It’s the only way our economy will recover. No one’s gonna feel like spending money until their mortgages are refinanced so that their homes are no longer 300% underwater.

FORCE THEM!

FORCE THEM!

I swear, I never felt so hopeless as I did last night, bawling my eyes out in that supermarket parking lot. I actually wanted to be dead…which I feel awful saying, because my dad committed suicide last April and my family’s still pretty tore up about it. But it was  how I felt — I honestly didn’t even want to be alive anymore. I’m too tired!

This process has drained out all my enjoyment of life. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, all I can do is cry and worry and drink myself into a stupor every night just so I can doze off for a few hours, then get up and do it all over again. MY LIFE IS NO FUN ANYMORE.

Thank Dog, my camera job boss was cool and let me take a couple weeks off. (There’s no show anyway, but sometimes they make me go to other hotels and work lesser shows just because they can.) So I had plenty of time to sit around and weep.

I swear, my friends are probably sick to death of me and my whining. All I do is cry and stay home…people probably think I’m making it up, but I REALLY JUST DON’T FEEL LIKE PARTYING! The other day I went out and met a reader of this blog for drinks, and started crying all over the restaurant in front of him. It was *very* awkward. I got the fuck out of there as quick as I could, so I could go home and cry in private. I didn’t wanna cry TOO much, though, because I had a foot fetish photo shoot with Footmode.com the next day, and I didn’t want puffy, wrinkly eyes. But that shoot ended up cancelling anyway!!!! I got up the next morning, tried to de-puff my eyes with ice packs and

Preparation H (which really works, by the way), and then somehow drew makeup on around them……ALL FOR NOTHING. AFTER I already did all this, they guy calls and tells me sorry, the shoot is cancelled.

FUCK!

I **NEEDED** that money!

Oh well, I did a few other gigs this week (somehow, in between all the sobbing) so I’ll be OK. I did a photo shoot out at the J.W. Marriott in Summerlin, where the photographer wanted me to dress in a sexy Tomb Raider outfit. I put together a Tomb Raider ensemble out of odds-n-ends from my wardrobe, and it looked awesome…but asked me to take the pants off, anyway, as he was more interested in shooting up my crack into my vagina! He actually laid on the bed and had me straddle him, while he shot up my crack. I thought it would be all shadowy and artsy, but when he showed me the back of the camera, it was gross. All stubbly labia, way too clinical for my taste. To his credit, when I expressed dismay he vowed to darken the shadows and not publish them anywhere. But it was still kinda humiliating. (Although I don’t know why — I’m fine with my labia, and I shouldn’t really care if he photographs them or my knees or my shoulders. They’re all body parts, after all!)

When I got out of there, I went straight home to bed, to engage in my nightly ritual: medical marijuana, wine, and Words With Friends. That’s right people, my life has come to that. It’s all I do for fun anymore. LITERALLY.

Because of my insane stress levels, I had to go get more “medicine” at the dispensary (a dispensary is what they call the legal place for marijuana patients to get their “medicine.”) At one time, there were upwards of 70 dispensaries in town…but the stupid fucking Feds shut them all down for technicalities — see, according to the law, dispensaries are “nonprofit organizations” that are supposed to help medical marijuana patients for free. HAH! All the ones I’ve been to are complete and total FARCES. The staff is a bunch of dumb cocky stoners, and all they try to do is sell you the most expensive “top shelf” medicine — only they’re not allowed to say “sell” or “buy,” because it’s a NONPROFIT. So they’re very careful to say “donate” instead of “buy,” as in, “How much of a donation were you looking to make?” STUPID!

The place I go to now is one of the last ones left in town, and they’re VERY low profile. They don’t advertise anywhere, and there’s not even a sign on their door. I only found out about them thanks to a fellow medical marijuana patient and friend who is a celebrity impersonator at a local Strip hotel, and he brought me over and sort of “vouched” for me as a new patient. Even then, I had to wait two weeks for them to vet my application and approve me as a patient…but now I’m in, and can go “donate” for meds any time I want.

At first, I was totally impressed with this place because of its low profile — as mentioned, “other” dispensaries I’d been to were staffed by cocky stoners, but this place seemed legit. WRONG! I went in the other day, and the two guys in the back were high as kites…acting like IDIOTS. Come on, guys…can’t we be PROFESSIONAL for once in our lives?! They tried to “donate” me all kinds of super-expensive top-shelf crap, which I refused (I like ditchweed just fine, thanks)…but thank Dog they have these specials, like at Payless Shoes — only instead of BOGO (Buy One, Get One Free), they have DOGO (Donate One, Get One Free) (REALLY??!!). TOTALLY STUPID, but the product was OK. If you’re wondering, the “recommended donation” was $65 per 1/8th of an ounce…but since it was DOGO, I got a quarter for $65. Still pricey! I need to learn to grow my own, already.

Now, I am a TEXTBOOK MEDICAL MARIJUANA PATIENT, and I only use my medicine in bed, when I’m trying to sleep (can you blame me for having insomnia, at this point?!). But the rest of the day, when I’m driving around taking care of business (or trying to, anyway), I can’t be high. So I turn to my #2 pal, AlkyHol, which comes thru in a pinch. Alas, I got a DUI in 2010, and some asshole robbed my Breathalyzer from my truck the other week, so I can’t even really numb myself with THAT anymore 🙁

Still, one afternoon I was SO upset that I just couldn’t take it, and drove to the nearest grocery store to get a drink and some food. Unfortunately, it was one of those lame grocery stores that only sells beer & wine — I hate beer, and I don’t like drinking wine in the afternoon, so I was reduced to buying wine coolers and packaged sushi from the deli. HEARTBREAKING! I sat in my truck, crying and drinking this awful Bartles & Jaymes “margarita” and eating shitty Albertson’s sushi. It was a low point in my life…but I’m sure not the nadir. That’s yet to come, I’m sure.

Speaking of my truck, I’ve actually been spending a lot of time hanging out in there lately because I own it and no one is going to foreclose on it or take it away. I feel sort of safe there, which I don’t at home, since people are always driving past, checking out my house to see if they should bid on it at the auction. It’s like vultures circling my poor pathetic carcass! But ever since that fucking asshole broke into my truck the other week and stole all my stuff, I don’t feel safe there, either 🙁

Well, that’s about all. Now it’s time for me to eat a cookie, drink some wine and go to bed and play Words With Friends. In the morning, I’ll get up and face it alllll again. But with any luck…

…MAY TOMORROW BE THE DAY MY LENDER APPROVES MY SHORT SALE!

🙂 🙂 🙂 🙂 🙂 🙂 🙂 🙂

P.S. One more thing to add: I was out in suburbia shooting fetish videos, when I stopped at Albertson’s (grocery store) for a snack. I don’t have one of those discount cards they try and give you, so they can track your purchases while giving you two cents off this and that, but I remembered this cool trick I read on LifeHack or some place: if you don’t have a club card for a particular store, just give them your phone number. But not your REAL number, because if you don’t have a card, it won’t do you any good anyway. Give them the FAKE number “867-5309,” from the ’80s song “Jenny,” by Tommy Tutone. GUARANTEED someone will already have used it, so it’s in the system and you can use it to get the discount. I’m here to tell you — IT WORKS! Just add on whatever the local area code is, and you’re golden. Try it — you’ll see 🙂

The Goombah Squad and Lesbian Prom

 

The other night at work, as I photographed the 100,000th quivering Quebecois quaking with desire beside that godawful Sally Dingdong mannequin, I finally snapped. “THIS LEVEL OF HUBRIS CANNOT BE ALLOWED TO GO UNCHECKED!!!!” I screeched, wild-eyed and hanging on to sanity by the barest of threads. I grabbed my phone, called in my goombah squad and we took the fuckin’ thing out to the desert, where it will never traumatize another Vegas showgoer. You can thank me later!

After bashing in the mannequin’s face with a baseball bat and then unceremoniously burying it in a pit north of town, I ran off down the road with an American flag waving behind me: “FREE AT LAST! FREE AT LAST! THANK DOG ALMIGHTY, I HAVE FINALLY DRIVEN THE FRENCH FROM NEVADA!”

Then I woke up 🙁

Actually, I’ve  been TRYING to have wacky adventures lately, but it’s tough because I am also in the middle of a big ole fucked-up mess that I can’t talk about. Nothing life-threatening, but a mess nonetheless that’s been taking up pretty much every waking moment of my life since around Christmas. I left the lesbians in those hot springs and basically dove straight into a pit of shit, in which I’ve been struggling/wallowing/scuba diving for the last 4 weeks. If I could only TALK about it, I’d feel better…but this is one of those rare things in my life that must wait to be shared.

In the meantime, I just sorta hung around Vegas, photographing tourists at the show and doing odd modeling gigs on the side. I did a few scavenger hunts, and then a photographer friend of mine came to town and hired me for two days of shooting out in the desert. Always good times!

 

This photographer had a really cool idea for a sort of prom-night shoot out in the desert. He had me rent a tux for one of my model girlfriends and then we all drove out to a secret location and shot this sort of surreal sequence he’d dreamed up. The weather actually cooperated, so it was around 65 degrees and mostly sunny that day…a bonus for me, as he also shot some nudes of me, and it’s never fun to sit around naked outside when it’s cold!

I posted a fake lesbian-wedding announcement on my Facebook page, just to see how many I could fool…but the only comment I really got was, “Black dress! How edgy!” (Really……do you expect me to qualify for a WHITE one?! I’m so sooty with sin that black is the only color I could wear without the church being smitten by a wrath-infused lightning bolt thrown by the hand of Jebus.)

Anyhoo, we shot all afternoon and it was a great day. The photographer was a guy I shot with once back at that nude ghost town thing I did last July. At the time, I had gotten the impression that he and his wife (a fellow model) were swingers…but now I think they’re just cool people. I felt bad, because the poor guy had booked three or four other models for shoots while he was in town…and they ALL FLAKED!

I just don’t get it, girls — this is a really nice, classy guy who is willing to PAY YOU for modeling…and you flake?! Must be nice to have that kind of financial freedom. I hear this over and over from photographers — models are soooo flaky, that even with a paid assignment half the time they’re no-shows. WEIRD!

Not me. I’m a pro! Even though I woke up at 7AM (!!!that’s my only beef with this photog; he insisted on an 8:30am call time) the next morning to a blustery, rainy day with winds up to 60mph…I still plastered on makeup and readied myself for a FREEZING shoot up on Mount Charleston. Thankfully, the other model flaked (another one!), so the photog decided to bail on the mountain and just shoot arty stuff in his hotel room. Muuuuuuch easier!

Meanwhile, speaking of modeling, I got embroiled in a holy mess with one of my good photographer friends. This is the first guy I really shot with, and I was the first model HE had really shot with one-on-one , so we kinda bonded. I have modeled for him many, many times for FREE — we were both learning, you know? He very graciously gave me a Nikon D-80 for my time, which was really generous of him (at the time he was flying high financially…one of those guys who decides to become a photographer, then goes out and buys every piece of expensive gear he can find….in the intervening few years, he ended up filing BK and is basically destitute, to hear him talk). And he paid me twice for shoots (once up at Zion, when he literally threw the money at me across the table because he was grumpy that our shoot hadn’t gone well…he’s a grumpy kinda guy, but I learned to just kinda take it with a grain of salt, because otherwise he’s pretty cool).

Anyhoo, a lot of models around town (and photogs, too) can’t handle this guy’s personality, but I am a pretty passive person and can take quite a bit of verbal abuse. Besides, like I told you this guy can be suuuuper cool, and takes great photos, too. But he definitely has a chip on his shoulder when it comes to models — he’s been flaked on a time or ten, so it’s understandable to an extent. But one of his beefs is that models are the only ones benefiting from photography — we use the pics to get work at conventions and whatnot, but meanwhile the photogs hardly ever get ANY work. It’s true, too — there are something like 10 photographers to every person in Vegas, and you can’t expect there to be enough weddings and Valentine’s boudoir shoots for ALL of them to make a living.

My personal belief is that Model Mayhem (the site we all use, a photography networking site) is basically for amateurs. A photographer can find amateur models (like myself) on there, as opposed to going to an agency and hiring Gisele Bundchen for $30,000 a day. Meanwhile, a model can get good quality photos for free, by collaborating with the photographers on the site…but you ain’t gonna get discovered by Francesco Scavullo or anything.

Basically, neither party is gonna make much money off Model Mayhem. But at least with modeling, you can make SOME money posing for hobbyists and the occasional traveling photog who actually knows what he’s doing. I do a fair amount of shoots, but realistically I probably only make around $3000 a year from modeling. The rest comes from writing, shooting fetish videos, dumbass promotions…and photographing creepy mannequins. The fact of the matter is, I am NOT Gisele Bundchen…but I feel like I’m a great value for what I do charge.

I tried to explain to my photog friend that his customer base shouldn’t be models — I’ve seen a lot of guys get into shooting so they can charge models for headshots and whatnot. In my experience, most models don’t pay…there’s too much TF (trade) work out there. If they DO pay, it’s usually to an established guy who’s often on retainer with an agency. IMO, my photog friend’s REAL customer base is civilians, so to speak — non-models who just want glamour shots, family portraits, pet photos, boudoir pics, etc. This might sound piss poor, but again — MY customer base isn’t professional fashion photographers, either! You don’t hear me sitting around bitching that Helmut Newton won’t pay me… I just sack up and eat a jar of pickles, or whatever whoever’s paying me wants me to do (as in the pic below…do you really think Cindy Crawford would do this shit?!).

It’s a contentious subject with many photographers, and my friend was bent out of shape over it…plus, his dire financial situation has doubtless been bothering him, so he was extra-grumpy. On top of it all, he found some bozo using one of his pics of me to sell comic books online, and he got in a royal tizzy over it. (The pic has since been taken down due to his lawsuit threats.) He let me know in NO UNCERTAIN TERMS that any and all photos he’s taken of me belong to HIM, and I can only use them for self-promotional purposes. Indeed, he always had me sign a “Limited-Use Agreement” release, but my dumb ass assumed that if MY usage rights were limited, then so were his. Apparently not — he told me that his release provides for HIM to do whatever he wants with the pics, but I can’t.

My understanding of this was all wrong. I thought that if a photographer PAID me, I relinquished rights. Likewise, if I were to pay a photographer, then I would have the rights. I assumed that in a collaboration scenario, where both parties are working for free, then both parties have the same rights. WRONG!!!

Several photographers told me that no matter what, THE PHOTOGRAPHER HOLDS THE COPYRIGHT to the photo. So unless I get photographers to sign off the rights to me, I can never, ever make any money off my photos. D’OH!!!!!

This sucks for many reasons, mostly because I’m a broke hack who needs cash. I don’t mind shooting with photogs who PAY me — I will gladly pose nude for you all day long, and happily surrender all rights to you if I am being PAID. But if I’m donating my time (not just shooting time — an average of 2 hours prep, plus travel time, makeup and hair costs, countless hours at the gym and use of my extensive wardrobe)…I feel like it’s kind of assy to insist that I can’t use the pics for anything more than posting on my MM page and here. It truly sucks that I have sooooo many bad-ass photos, but I can’t do anything with them 🙁

Since I can’t afford to pay photogs, I guess my only option is to figure out a way to do self-portraits — like Cindy Sherman. Then I own everything about the G.D. image. My other option is to collaborate with an individual photographer, and come out with a calendar or book or something of pics taken by him alone. Then we can split the proceeds. I’ve actually discussed this with my friend Randy, a/k/a Shutterbug-Studio…and we’re planning to do it! I’d also like to do one with my friend Michael Maze. So watch out…..you never know!

Auld Lang Syne and Vagina Dentata

Thank Dog 2011 is FINALLY over. It was pretty much the most trying year of my life, which you probably already know, but here’s a brief recap.

It started out exceptionally well — amazingly so, actually, with a miraculous development along the lines of Deus ex Machina. I haven’t written about this before, so let me fill you in.

When I bought my insanely underwater house, I was dating/semi-engaged to a longtime boyfriend. We had been together about 2.5 years, but once we got the house we totally drifted apart. As previously mentioned, he was much younger than me — and MUCH squarer. In fact, he was PROUD of the fact that he liked Stove Top stuffing, baseball, and Velveeta-coated everything. Bleh! But we got along OK, until moving into the house, at which time we started drifting apart.

It wasn’t a super-dramatic split; we both just realized we were too different. He wanted a PTA mom for his future brood of Little-League-playing kids; I wanted to run around nude, smoking, cursing and blaspheming. Ya know, the usual differences! So we decided to break up, and that’s when the shit hit the fan. Because the mortgage was all in my name, he left me with an insanely underwater $340,000 mortgage, which in the interim has mysteriously ballooned to $375,000, despite my having diligently dumped in $125,000 (those crazy banks and their wacky exotic loans).

But I didn’t really get too pissed about that. Sure, it was a huge stress and it gave me a 2-year+ bout of insomnia…but what REALLY stung was what he told me the day the movers came to take away half our furniture. Come to find out, he had this weird rash on his hand, and when he went in to get it checked out…it turned out he had herpes!

He told me I’d better go get checked, too…so I did, although I resented every minute of it as an asinine waste of time, as I had never had any herpes symptoms. I figured he’d gotten it from his new girlfriend (he hooked up right away after we split). But I went to get tested anyway, just to be sure.

I swear, I have never been so nervous in my life!! For some reason it took several days for them to get the results, and all I remember is going to work, coming home and drinking giant glasses of Grand Marnier and smoking bowlsful of marijuana to dull my nerves. Mysteriously, even through all this, I slept very well (my insomnia didn’t kick in for another year, oddly.)

Finally the clinic called me to say they had my results — but I had to go in in person; they couldn’t tell me over the phone. Uh oh. I had to go straight to one of those corporate scavenger hunt gigs after the doctor — so I brought along a mini airplane bottle of Grand Marnier to chug in the parking lot if the results were bad. That way, I could at least get through my day.

Sure as sugar, the lady doctor sat me down and handed me a paper with my test results: positive. WTF!!! I knew it… just my shitty luck to have contracted an incurable STD, and not even know it. Come to find out, many people carry the herpes virus without ever exhibiting any symptoms; if your immune system is strong enough, it just sort of cruises around your bloodstream, waiting to infect others. You can still pass it on to a partner, without even knowing you have it — and that’s how it gets spread so widely. Most people don’t even know they’re doing it!

So now I was stuck with a soul-crushing mortgage AND an incurable disease. Fuck! I’m a MASTER at compartmentalization and dealing with shit, so I just crumpled up the paper with my results, shoved it in my purse, thanked the doc and went out to my truck to down that lifesaving mini of Grand Marnier. Then I drove up to Red Rock Hotel for the scavenger hunt, trying not to weep. But the bitch of it was, this was one of those scavenger hunts where I play the Bawling Bride — I was supposed to play the role of a jilted bride who has been left at the altar. The role called for me to wear a wedding dress and fake-sob, as though my heart was broken. Well, I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to pretend-cry when you’re actually in imminent danger of breaking down into legit sobs…but if you have, you know it’s TOUGH.

Somehow, I made it through the game and then had to go to work right afterwards, taking photos at the Bette Midler show of all things. That show was heinous misery every single night of its existence — talk about a shitty, cheap, miserable old crowd! I think there must have been a Miami Beach shuttle, busing in cranky old yentas and their browbeaten, grouchy old husbands night after night. It was a nightmare, but especially so on this night. I somehow made it through the evening, then FINALLY got to go home and bawl my eyes out…which I did every single night for around a month.

Then, I put on my big girl panties and dealt with it — as I always do. (This is what pisses me off about my boss at the photo company telling me I’m “negative.” If he knew half the shit I’ve been through, yet never missed a night of work…he might shut his ass-kissing piehole for 2 fucking seconds to give me an ounce of credit. Anyhoo, I got on with my life — I started nude and fetish modeling to bring in extra cash, I got some EXTREMELY DISTURBING, CREEPY HILLBILLY ROOMMATES (remind me to blog about them sometime — they were a fucking freakshow!), and I started dating again.

The easiest way for me to date while harboring a dark secret was just to bring the secret out into the light — so on all my dating profiles, I put my herpetic status on BLAST. Something like, “Well, I have herpes…if you can deal with that, read on.” Fortunately, my exceptional hotness canceled out the herpes for most guys, and I had a successful dating life for the next couple of years. After awhile, it even stopped being an issue! Although it was still an awkward bitch explaining my status to partners I met out and about (as opposed to on the dating sites, where they’d already read about my secret).

Anyhoo, I went about my life and was hired by the local paper to write for this new Guide to Adult Vegas they were launching, called AfterDarkVegas (lame name, and everything else about the site was hopelessly clunky and lame. I’ll blog more about that some other time, too). Basically, I was supposed to cruise around town checking out the naughty stuff, then blog about it. It was AWESOME, except for the fact that our local paper is CRAZY conservative, and they were soooo uncomfortable with the subject matter that it was really hard to write compelling content that also passed muster with their Mormon Censor. The only reason I even got hired was, at the time the publisher was a forward-thinking Libertarian with a pervy streak. He saw some videos I did where I drunkenly and half-nakedly impersonated Sarah Palin, and that did it. (Well, that and the fact that I inadvertently flashed everyone in corporate at one of our meetings…the slit on my “sexy business” skirt split, and my luscious ass was hanging out for all to see.)

Anyhoo, this pervy Libertarian was ousted after I’d been working there 6 months, and a new, ULTRA-CONSERVATIVE publisher took over…and the first thing he did was put the kibosh on AfterDarkVegas. I was bummed, but also secretly relieved — they had me do all this cockamamie busywork all week, which no one even bothered to read, so what the fuck was the point?! Anything I wrote that WAS interesting ended up being edited to death by my conservative overlords. So I was actually GLAD to be done with it.

After getting the news, I went home and made a big bonfire in my backyard, to burn all my business cards and paperwork and whatnot. While I was at it, I figured I should clean out my other files, as welll — I’m one of those anal packrats who saves copies of every electric bill they’ve ever gotten. As I was going through my files, I found the folder marked “herpes.” (Yes, I’m THAT anal.)

“Well gee, I won’t be needing THIS anymore,” I muttered, wondering why the hell I kept the test results in the first place. I smoothed them out (remember, I had crumpled ’em up angrily upon receipt) and read them over for the first time — and it WASN’T EVEN MY RESULTS! The wrong date of birth was printed at the top!! Due to a paperwork mixup, the doctor had given me a faulty diagnosis of herpes.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.” In the intervening 2 years, I had banged several herpetic guys — one in particular with out a condom (we were together for a year, and figured since we both had it, why bother?) many, many times. The cruel irony of it all was, I may not have been herpetic when initially tested — but I sure as sugar probably was by now! ARRRRGH!

Strangely, I found the whole thing kind of funny. I guess I was so used to the fact that I had herpes, that it didn’t even bother me anymore (really, it’s a bullshit “disease,” and half the country has it anyway with no ill effects other than unnecessary shame). But I went in to get re-tested, anyway…and sure enough, I was negative. All this time I wasted bawling my eyes out and feeling sorry for myself — for naught! If I had ONLY read the test results in the first place, none of this would have happened…but you know, I was so upset at the initial doctor’s appointment, I was in no state to read that shit. Can you blame me?

One thing I realized after all this was, electronic health records might be the wave of the future…but in this instance, I was REALLY glad to have a paper copy. And I was REALLY glad to be a packrat — if I’d thrown those results away, I would likely have gone for the REST OF MY LIFE believing I had herpes. Weird! Lesson learned: always double-check and verify test results. Ya heard?!

This was all in January 2011 — as mentioned, this year started out FABULOUS. But it went straight to hell after that. My dad killed himself by jumping in front of a train, I lost my 3-year battle to keep my house, my insomnia kicked in FIERCELY and as a result, I was diagnosed as bipolar by a jackass psychiatrist who talked to me for 5 MINUTES — and in that 5 minutes effectively destroyed my chances of ever getting individual health insurance. Because I was diagnosed bipolar (even though he qualified it as “mild” Type II), I have a pre-existing condition, and was denied by several carriers 🙁 My insurance agent told me I’d likely never be insurable unless I paid out the ass.

So I spent most of 2011 in a state of agony — my boss wanted to fire me for being negative, but I couldn’t quit or get fired because then I’d lose my insurance, so I had to suck up and kiss ass and toe the line against my will just to keep the shitty fucking insurance that had led to my misdiagnoses in the first place! Also, for most of the year I was under the misguided impression that I’d work things out with my bank, and get to keep my house — so I figured I needed to keep a steady job to prove my stability to them.

ALL.

FOR.

NOTHING.

What a shitty fucking waste of a year. In retrospect, I wish I would have short sold my house right away, bailed on my job, and run away to join the circus. But, I didn’t….so here I am. 2012 can ONLY be better!

Anyhoo, that was my 2011. It ended even worse than it started, with me short selling my house for peanuts, and being forced to pack up and get out at the bank’s convenience. As I write this, I’m STILL sitting around on pins and needles, waiting for those crooked fucking assholes to say Yea or Nay to the deal. If they let it go through, and waive the remainder of my debt, I’m free. If they don’t….I’m fucked again, plain and simple. Meanwhile, I’m living with half my shit packed up, not sure when I’ll have to leave. It’s a really shitty way to live — no wonder I can’t sleep!

Thankfully, a friend came through with a new place for me to live — a really cute little 1940s bungalow near downtown Vegas. I’m planning to move ASAP — and then GET ON with my life!

In the meantime, I tried to enjoy my miserable Christmas. My mom has been having a really bad year, too — she was laid off a couple years ago, and has been trying to find work ever since, to no avail. She’s eating through her savings, and just had to dip into her 401(k). I feel awful for her, because there’s nothing I can do — I can’t even offer to let her move in with me, because my own living situation is so precarious!

With all this shit going on, we decided not to have Christmas at my mom’s house, because it’s too fucking depressing. Instead, my awesome grandma let us borrow the family vacation condo up at Lake Tahoe, so we all rendez-voused up there for the holiday. The rest of my family drove up from the Bay Area, and I drove up from Vegas — a 7-hour drive through the middle of nothing, just like going to Burning Man! It was really cool, though. My grandma’s condo is really nice and cozy, so we sat around cussing and drinking and playing games for 3 days. It kinda sucked because my sister just had RK surgery on her eyes, so we had to keep the lights dimmed and she had to wear big sunglasses and hide her head under a blanket most of the time…but we still had some fun. Because half of us are broke, we decided not to give gifts this year…but I cheated, and got everyone gag gifts anyway: I went to my favorite Halloween store and bought seven kooky hats, all representing various personality types, and wrapped them all identically. Then I had everyone pick one and open it on Christmas Eve, which was a riot! My mom picked the St Patty’s hat (ALKIE!), my brother’s girlfriend picked the witch hat (BITCH!), my brother-in-law picked the mini top hat (DIVA!) and my sister drew the jester’s hat (TRICKSTER!). I myself ended up with a furry rabbit hat (FURRY! EEK!)…all in all, it was gooood times.

We walked over to the casinos in Stateline (the little town on the CA/NV border on the south shore of Lake Tahoe), and took a walk around the lake one day. But after three days, they all had to go back home…so I got back in my truck and headed back south, back into the midst of all my shit and troubles. I figured since I didn’t have to be at work til Wednesday night, I might as well take my time going home, and stop at some hot springs. There are a ton of natural hot springs in the Eastern Sierra along U.S. 395, so I stopped at the ones south of Bridgeport, called Travertine. They were awesome!

Now, when I go to hot springs, I prefer to bathe Au Naturel. I’m a fuckin’ hippie, OK?! But I also don’t like offending people, so I brought along my emergency bikini just in case (I keep an old bikini in my truck for just these kinds of situations). When I rolled up to the springs (very conveniently located right off the 395), there was a young couple hanging out, and they were wearing bathing trunks. So I suited up and joined them, but they left shortly thereafter anyway and three lesbians showed up, and immediately started stripping.

Now, you might think this sounds like the intro to a spicy porno movie… but you couldn’t be farther from the truth! First of all, these were REAL LIFE lesbians — not the fake-ass fantasy shit you see on TV. Secondly, ALL FOUR OF US had fur bikinis thicker than anything Jantzen ever dreamed of… and hairy armpits, too (I hadn’t shaved my bush since Burning Man in late August, and my armpits since about November)(it was for ART’S SAKE, you haters!).

Anyhoos, IT WAS FABULOUS! We all sat there together stewing our pubes in hot mineral water, chatting amiably and comfortably like the witches of MacBeth, not having to worry about judgmental guys coming in and laughing at our hairy privates. Vegas can really warp a person’s perspective vis-a-vis body image — I had almost come to believe that all women have giant plastic tits, fish lips and baby-bald labia. Not so! I think I might be a nascent lesbian — or maybe just a plain old-fashioned man-hater, I’m not sure. Either way, it was very relaxing.

But I had 6 more hours to drive, so I reluctantly dried myself off and got back in my truck after an hour or so. Boo! Then I drove back to Vegas, and faced my troubles again. Double boo!!!

Thankfully, some of my nutty artist friends came calling, and distracted me from my misery: a bodypainter friend asked if I’d be interested in doing a creepy, post-apocalyptic photo shoot down in the storm drain tunnels underneath Vegas. WOULD I?!?!?! You bet! The only caveat was, I had to shave all my pubes and pits…but it was OK, because it was totally worth shaving for: she painted JAGGEDY TEETH on my labia, and gave my vagina a monster face. VAGINA DENTATA, BABY!!!

I went over to her house around 7:30pm on Thursday night, and she spent two and a half hours painting me. Then we drove down to the this parking lot near the Rio, which is where the storm drains open up, and met the photographers, so that we could all hike down into the tunnels together.

A word about these tunnels: people LIVE in them! They run for miles and miles underneath Vegas, and their purpose is to channel rainwater to the lake whenever we get monsoonal flash-floods in the summer. The rest of the year, they’re dry and empty…and make cozy dwellings for the homeless! I actually went out once with a guy who wrote a whole book about them, which was fascinating…he explored them for miles and miles, interviewing all the creepy subterranean dwellers he came upon. I’ve been DYING to go down and check them out for myself…but I’m too big of a puss to do it alone.

Thankfully, my kooky art pals were all about it, so we hiked down into this gully, towing a giant wagonload of photo equipment with us, and made our way into one of the tunnels by the light of an oil lantern (seriously…it was like Dungeons & Dragons!). This was around 11pm, so it was pitch black. Worse, it was FREEZING fucking cold, but since I was all painted up I couldn’t really wear clothes — the bodypainter (Suzanne Lugano) loaned me a little satin robe to sort of cover up in, but it offered little protection from the elements. But I’m a BAD ASS, so I soldiered on anyway.

The two photographers had brought a propane heater and a boombox, so once we got to a good spot, about 1/8 mile into the tunnel, we set up camp, with music, heat, lights and fun. It was just like Burning Man! Apparently, the photographers (Flash Adams and Derek from Get Back the Love) had done some exploring the previous day, and had followed the tunnel all the way under the freeway, under the Strip, and came out near the Imperial Palace — where they tripped some kind of security alarm and had to run back! But in the course of their exploration, they found the perfect spot, with all kinds of super-colorful graffiti…which is where we shot. It took 45 miserable minutes to set up their lights, but then we banged out the shot in 30 minutes, and I was out of there by 1am. Nice! I don’t have many of the photos yet, but I’ve added a couple so you can see what it was like…i.e. how AWESOME it was!

Anyhoo, after that excitement, I returned to the drudgery of packing and moving. And then it was New Year’s Eve, my most loathed of all holidays. Why do I hate it? Well, for starters, it attracts somewhere around 100,000 drunken idiots to the Strip, which they proceed to bury in a river of piss and vomit in short order, before turning to drunken violence and thuggery. But the REAL reason I hate it is, the photo company makes us work EVERY SINGLE YEAR, no matter what. If you try to call out, you’re fired — because supposedly, NYE is a magical night when everyone buys photos, and they can’t afford to miss any of the business.

HAH! They filled my head with this crap back in 2000 when I first started, and I was sooooo excited: “I can’t wait for New Year’s! That’s the night they tell me I’ll make a million dollars!” My green ass was practically salivating at the thought…until I went in to work it, and found out that it’s NO DIFFERENT FROM ANY OTHER NIGHT, no matter what the corporate line is. I have worked 11 New Year’s Eves in Vegas, and I can unequivocally state that this is the truth. Whoever says otherwise is a delusional company man, and needs to put down The Secret and pick up a bottle of Common Sense. Bullshit! Nonetheless, they insist on their Draconian NYE policy…so I found myself once again schlepping in to work the dreaded Sally Dingdong show.

Just to be clear, we can all figure out who I’m talking about when I say Sally Dingdong…RIGHT?! I thought it was a pretty obvious pseudonym, but comments on my Facebook page have proved otherwise. Suffice it to say that Sally Dingdong is a sappy Quebecoise banshee, and her fans are THE. MOST. PATHETIC. SAD. SACKS. YOU. HAVE. EVER. SEEN. Seriously, I don’t know what it is about her and her schlocky music that attracts the saddest members of society — the ugly, the crippled, the deformed and the unloveable. You know that Morrissey song “November Spawned a Monster”?! I think he was describing her fans!!! It’s incomprehensible to me, since her lyrics are totally sterile and banal, and she doesn’t even write her own stuff so how can she really mean what she’s singing?! The biggest laff is that during her show, she does a cover of Janis Ian’s “At Seventeen,” and prefaces it by reciting some rehearsed pabulum about knowing exactly what it feels like to be an ugly duckling. Talk about pandering! This skinny bitch was a superstar from the time she was 14 — when was she ever an unloved ugly duckling?! I wish her fans would wake the fuck up!

ANYHOO, I suffered through a miserable night of that shit, tempered only by a few furtive swigs of champagne in a back room of the photo lab. When I got off work at 10:30, I *briefly* considered going out to the Strip to join the melee (in fact, my bodypainter friend and her crew of goddess-worshiping hippies were having a drum circle right out front of where I work)…but my existential malaise got the better of me, and I ended up choosing to get the fuck out of the parking garage while I still could (after midnight it’s a DISASTER, and can take over an hour to exit). I went home to the house that isn’t even mine anymore, lit up my bong, and got high as a kite with my dog for company. I even kissed him at midnight (no tongue, you pervs). That’s the other thing I hate about NYE — I never have anyone to kiss. Arrgh!

So anyhoo, that was my SHIT-ASS 2011. I started out 2012 OK, by driving out to update my fetish website with some new breath holding videos earlier today…and now I’m in the thick of moving. I may not be able to update for awhile, so be patient!

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The Shitty Update (Fun Update to Come on Wednesday)

Ho, ho, ho… BAH! This is without question the shittiest Xmas I’ve ever suffered through. I couldn’t even afford a Christmas tree, and had to settle for painting my pubes green 🙁

This is a 2-part entry, because I waited soooo long to update that I did a million interesting things, and it would take too long to write it all at once. So first, I’m just going to tell you about how fucking miserable I’ve been! Seriously, I’ve been weeping, bawling, sobbing and screaming most every night…only taking the occasional breather to guzzle alcohol and inhale medicine to dull the pain. It sucked!

Anyhoo, I’ve never been a big Christmas fan, and I’m certainly no believer…but I generally enjoy the season anyway, what with all the hot boozy drinks, parties and time spent with my nutty family. Corny as it may sound, it’s a time of year for being cozy and loved and pleasantly buzzed in front of the fire.

But this year, it’s been shit. As you’ll recall, I can’t afford the mortgage on my insanely underwater house, and my bank won’t write down my principal…so I’ve decided to short sell it. My attorney listed it the day before Thanksgiving, so all weekend (including on the holiday itself) I was getting calls from all kinds of Realtors, wanting to come check the place out. I was at my mom’s house in California, so I told everyone to come by when I got back to Vegas on Monday.

So on Monday, starting at the UNDOGLY hour of 9:30am, a constant stream of Realtors and potential buyers passed through my house. The first guy showed up at 9:30 am (!!!), and from there one it was one after the other, sometimes two at a time, all…day….long. It was exhausting! Do you have any idea how demoralizing it is to have total strangers tramping through your home, poking into your closets and drawers and looking askance at your wigs and oddities?! I felt like I was running a fuckin’ museum! (I should have opened up a gift shop, to sell my panties!)

All types of people crossed my threshold — it  seemed that all of Vegas wanted a piece of the action! Rightly so, since it was listed at $109,000 — a steal! I mean, a ridiculous steal — all day long people were asking me suspiciously, “So why are you selling this place?” as if I was hiding some awful secret, like, “Oh, because there was a mass murder here and the place is haunted by a thousand ghosts,” or, “Oh, there’s a mad plumbing problem.” The sad truth is, I’m selling it because I HAVE to! I don’t WANT to — I just can’t afford it. I LOVE my house, but I refuse to spend the rest of my life paying off a bum loan on it.

Of course I didn’t say all that to my potential buyers — I was trying to sell the fuckin’ joint, not freak people out. I even took care to cover up the ginormous DDD-size tits on my porn-shop mannequin — normally, as you know, I refuse to kow-tow to the bourgeois moral code of the day…but for propriety’s sake, I did cover her up with a scarf. And good thing– not one but TWO Orthodox Jewish families came in to look! One mother was pregnant with a toddler in tow — can’t have little Ari traumatized by titties at the crazy godless shiksa’s house! (Even though that little bastard Ari toddled into MY kitchen, and opened MY cupboard door, and took out one of MY Capri-Suns and put his drooly crumby lips all over it. Fucker!)

Yes that’s right, not one but TWO Orthodox families came to look — one of them even submitted an offer, mentioning on the offer that I should sell to them because their Rabbi lives down the street and my little side patio would be the perfect spot for them to build a Sukkot hut on Passover. Hmm! Wicca World is also down the block…maybe if I’d have mentioned that in the listing, I could have sold to a wizard!

I showed to several other parties, including a young Mexican couple in a Jarritos van (which probably freaked my neighbors out), an old Filipino couple, a trapeze artist from Cirque du Soleil and a wacky pink-haired drummer wearing those Vibram 5-toe shoes. All in all, your typical Vegas house-buying crowd. This went on and on and on until the last party left around 6:30pm…and by day’s end, I had eight offers. Not bad!

My attorney advised me on which offer to accept (the Mexicans in the Jarritos van, hahahahaha — they had straight cash, yo), so then I had to go back and fill out about 50 pages of paperwork, attesting to my broke-ass financial state and basically pleading with Friendly Mr. Banker the Buttfucking, Bloodsucking Ass Pirate to let me off the hook. *HOPEFULLY* they accept the offer and waive the remainder of my debt… but who knows? Even if they do (which I REALLY hope they do), it could be months before it’s all said and done! And meanwhile…I can’t make any plans for my own future. It SUCKS!

It’s gotten to the point where I can’t even stomach the sound of Xmas music — I’ll be driving around town on my miserable rounds, glaring at other people’s cozy houses with lit trees and decorations in the windows, and some dumb fuckin’ Peace on Earth Silent Night shit comes on the radio, and I start bawling my eyes out in anger, fear and JEALOUSY. Why did I fuck up so badly?! Arrrrrrrgh! I go home to “my” house, which isn’t even MINE, and half the shit is already in boxes, and I didn’t even bother putting up any decorations. What’s the point?

All I want is a cute little bungalow in a shitty neighborhood — so long as it’s MINE! I just want a place, however humble, that is ALL MINE, that no fucking banker will ever be able to gouge excess money from me for. Is that too much to ask? Out of idle curiosity, I did a search of the real estate listings in Vegas for all single family homes under $50,000 — and nearly 4,000 listings came up! Seriously!

NOW HEAR THIS: there has to be somebody reading this who can help me. I’m guessing that bastard Jamie Dimon didn’t read my last post (although, frighteningly, after I emailed him…someone actually called me the very next day! It was just a secretary, and she didn’t offer much more than a half-assed vow to “look into” my fraudulent mortgage…but still. After three years of banging my head on the wall, to finally get an answer totally blew my mind!).

Anyhoo, as I was saying, there has to be SOMEBODY among my readership with $50,000 to spare. If you’re out there, please buy me this house:

http://www.ziprealty.com/property/1300-GRIFFITH-AVE-LAS-VEGAS-NV-89104/42735544/detail#

If you don’t care for this house in particular, there are many more on my list, which I’ll gladly share with you. And I promise to pay you back in a timely manner, at 2% interest…or, if you prefer, you could just gift it to me out of the generosity of your heart. Or we could work out a trade where I write for you, model for you or vacuum your balls for you….or whatever!

All I’m saying is, because of my predicament, I won’t be able to buy a house myself, in my own name, for quite some time. And I’m gonna be forced out of my current joint sooooon…in the dead of winter, no less. Have a heart! Otherwise, I’m gonna end up living at one of those shitty weekly motels with all the hookers and drug dealers (seriously! I already have it planned out).

I fell like one of those unbearable sappy Xmas story characters: [spoken in a thick baby voice] “Dear Jebus [or Santa, whatever], all I want for Christmas is a home of my own.” I just wanna lay in MY OWN BED, under MY OWN roof, and not have to fucking worry anymore! Why, once I get my own home at last, I’ll even take a page from Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and give my porno mannequin a name. All these years I’ve had her, I never bothered naming her, because as Holly Golightly said:

“Poor slob without a name! The way I see it, I haven’t got the right to give [her] one. We don’t belong to each other. We just took up one day…I don’t want to own anything until I find a place where me and things go together. I’m not sure where that is but I know what it is like. It’s like Tiffany’s.”

Well, that’s where me and the fake-ass, bullshitting, false-hope-giving movies part ways: I would NEVER want to live at a place like Tiffany’s.

Unless you’re talking about Tiffany’s Cafe at the White Cross Drugstore in downtown Vegas. I’d live there anytime!

Part Two soon to come….stay tuned!

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Jamie Dimon v. Wonderhussy


  

I *FINALLY* figured out the one person who can still help me save my house……Jamie Dimon, CEO of JPMorganChase. He’s the greedy asshole sitting atop the pile of crooked and ill-begotten mortgages in Chase’s coffers… after three years of dealing with powerless underlings who “can’t” help me, I finally found the one who can.

HELP ME, JAMIE DIMON! YOU’RE MY ONLY HOPE!

All I’m asking is for you to let me short-refi my house for the amount that it is currently short selling for. It is currently appraised at $105,000. *PLEASE* let me buy it back from you guys for that amount! PLEASE! 🙂

If I don’t hear back from Jamie Dimon, then it’s time to go to Plan B. Alpha Male douchebags like this are what keep Vegas afloat…I’m sure it’s just a matter of time before Jamie Dimon comes to town for some kind of corporate-sponsored debauchery. I’m asking allllll my local readers who are strippers, prostitutes and drug dealers to MEMORIZE HIS FEATURES! He’s BOUND to show up one of these days, and when he does….

LET ME KNOW!

Also, I’m sure a stuffed-shirt Type-A power player like Jamie Dimon has SOME kinda weird fetish. Likely he’s into being abused, dominated, pissed on or having his balls tortured. If anyone knows of his having such a fetish…

LET ME KNOW!

I’ll be happy to accommodate 🙂 I won’t even charge him — Jamie, if you’re reading this and you’re turned on by any of this…

LET ME KNOW!

I won’t even charge you! I’m sure we could work out a trade. I’ll humiliate you however you like…and in exchange, you could just give me… say….my house.

Deal?

I’m waiiiiiiting…..

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Silver Slurper Gets Eaten by a Giant Frog

 

Boring part first, fun part later. Although the boring part is so fucked-up and Byzantine, it might interest you despite its being about (what else) my mortgage mess.

Most of my week was taken up with bawling and gut-churning indecision over this fiasco. Those who have been following along know that I was approved for an extremely ill-advised loan back in 2007, and despite the fact that I never earn more than $35,00 per year, was somehow offered a $340,000 mortgage…which, despite the fact that I’ve already paid $125,000 toward it, has now ballooned to $375,000 thanks to interest, late fees and penalties). Meanwhile, the house is now worth $90k. Go figure!

For the last few years I’ve been doggedly pursuing a loan modification. Over the three years, many people told me I was being foolish, and that it would never work out and I might as well just “walk away” (let the bank foreclose and take my house). Well, for once in my life I was actually OPTIMISTIC, and wrote off those people as negative haters. I figured if I just stuck to my guns, and faxed, scanned & emailed endless reams of documents as per the bank’s demands…in the end, it would pay off and they would work with me. I figured I was doing the right thing by not just abandoning the house and thus creating more residential blight…but BOY, was I ever wrong!

I stuck to my guns for 3 years, finally getting a trial loan modification and then a mediation hearing, where my bank was supposed to offer me a workable deal. But the deal they offered me was terrible: all they would do was extend the term of my loan from 30 to 40 years, and bring my interest rate down from 6.25% to 5%. BIG FRIGGIN’ DEAL! They flat-out refused to reduce my principal… so I finally had to give up and admit defeat 🙁

After three years of struggling, it is a bitter pill to swallow…but after crying for around 30 hours, I figured that finally coming to this realization would actually be liberating; for the past 3 years I’ve been stressed, miserable, confused and have suffered debilitating depression and insomnia. I figured finally just letting go, giving in, letting them win and take my house back would initially suck, but…I’d get over it in time, and would actually be better off. WRONG AGAIN!

Listen up, all of who say I should “just walk away.” They always say “just” walk away…like it’s the easy answer; a walk in the park. I’m here to tell you: IT ISN’T!

These fuckers make it NEXT TO IMPOSSIBLE to ever be free. They’re not satisfied with taking my house back — they want to pursue me into the ground and get every last drop of my blood. I’m serious! I already offered to give ’em the house back if they would just write off my debt (what’s called a Deed in Lieu of Foreclosure)…but of course they wouldn’t take it. They want me to try and short sell it first, which is fine and I don’t mind doing it…except for the fact that EVEN if I’m able to find a short sale buyer, I’m still not guaranteed that they’ll sign a waiver releasing me from the rest of the debt. And in a short sale, they have SIX YEARS to come after you for the money you owe them!

I’m also afraid those greedy fucking bloodsuckers won’t even accept a short sale in the first place — they look at your financials and then decide if they should “let” you short sell. I would think that looking at my own financials (I make around $2000 per month, and my mortgage payment is $2300), that it would be a no-brainer. But you’d be surprised…especially considering the fact that I’ve just spent THREE YEARS trying to convince them I’m in good enough financial health to make a loan modification worthwhile to them. It’s a fucking nightmare!

Another thing hampering my case is the fact that my foreclosure proceedings actually started back on March 29…so I’m pretty far along in the process. My attorney thinks I have about 3 months before they sell my house at auction, so I’m in a race against the clock to find a buyer in time. If I don’t, they take my house (which is fine with me)…but then they have 6 months to come after me for the money I owe them! And according to my attorney, they really are starting to come after people — and not just the big fish. Regular pissant peasants, like me, are now being sued by multi-billion-dollar banks for their mortgage debt — they want their pound of flesh, and by God they’ll get it! Even if they have to drive you into the poorhouse/insane asylum/off a bridge to try and get it.

Soooooo….I’m basically panicking, and in a state of constant agony. My eyes are a puffy, swollen mess, my stomach feels like it’s eating itself alive, and I’ve been drinking myself into a stupor every night just to try and sleep to forget about it for a few hours. I just want to be free. ATTN CHASE BANK: you can HAVE the $125,000 I’ve already given you — and you can have the house back, in perfect condition! DO YOU REALLY NEED MORE? Do you really need to hunt me down and ruin my life over this? Are you that fuckin’ greedy, assholes? Apparently, yes!

My best-case scenario is if I can find a short sale buyer ASAP. Sooooooo…. with that in mind, I present you the Deal of a Lifetime: Who Wants to Buy My House?! If interested, click on the link below to see photos and specs of the property. I expect it to be appraised at between $90k-$110…so someone will be getting a REAL STEAL on a badass historical house that’s oooooozing with character. Look for yourself:

Who Wants to Buy My House?

The worst part of all this is, I have at least one friend and a few family members who have offered to buy the house for me, then sell or simply gift it back to me. Unfortunately, this is illegal — as part of a short sale, you have to sign an “Arm’s Length Affidavit,” which basically affirms that the buyer is not a family member or a business associate, and that you will never, ever buy the house back from them or from anyone else, EVER. Even 50 years from now! They want to make sure they’re fucking you good and hard, tearing your perineum as badly as possible. If you dare lie on this affidavit, they can come after you for the very serious offense of mortgage fraud.

MORTGAGE FRAUD! ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS???!

You wanna talk about mortgage fraud? I bought my house in 2008, when comparable properties in the area were going for around $250,000. I paid $380,000! Why? Because the appraiser assured me it was really worth $380,000! And why did he do that? Let’s speculate: the woman I bought the house from was a Realtor herself, and she owed $500,000 on the house…so she was trying to short sell it for $400,000. We offered $320k, she came back with $380k. And conveniently, she had an appraiser all lined up and ready to go “if” we needed one. Of course, they were probably in cahoots, and he deliberately over-appraised the house so that she could get the bank off her back…meanwhile leaving me on the hook to pay for it for the rest of my miserable life. THANKS A LOT, BITCH! Then some crookedy-ass fucker at the bank approved my no-doc loan, undoubtedly knowing full well I’d end up foreclosing…and they still got $125,000 out of me plus a huge write-off for the foreclosure. THAT’S MORTGAGE FRAUD!

It makes me so mad I can hardly breathe…but what really makes me mad is the fact that THERE IS NOWHERE I CAN TURN! NO ONE CARES that I was a victim of mortgage fraud — but God forbid I try to sell the fuckin’ place to a family member. They can perpetrate all the fraud they want…but the minute I try and do it, forget about it. I could sue Chase, but I ask you….how far would I get with that?!?! I’m a fucking peon peasant — I can’t afford to sue the King. They’d grind me into the dirt. So…all I can do is sit here and seethe, and pray that someone comes along with cash to buy my house tomorrow. It’s a nightmare!

I did come up with one idea to get back at ’em, though. If they refuse to approve the short sale, or if they refuse to waive my deficiency in the event of a short sale, I AM GOING DOWN TO THE #OCCUPYLASVEGAS ENCAMPMENT (which is in a shitty little parking lot across from the airport) AND INVITING THEM ALL TO CAMP IN MY YARD!!! As mentioned I have a huge lot — plenty of room for all those tents and bullhorns. We’ll occupy the FUCK out of my house, and make it next to impossible for those fuckers at Chase to take it back! LOLZ!!!!! My neighbors will hate me…but guess what? They ain’t gonna be my neighbors for very much longer, anyway.

Anyhoo, ENOUGH mortgage talk. Now for the fun half of my blog. I was so miserable about all of this all week that it was extremely difficult to have a good time — but somehow, I still managed! No thanks to work, though –the headliner in the showroom where I do my souvenir photo job has rotated again, and this fucking Mullet McWartface has been playing all month. It’s terrible! The problem stems from the fact that his fanbase consists of crinkly old cougars, most of them from down South, all of them with big blonde hair and too many crow’s feet to ever want to buy a souvenir photo. All they wanna do is jump onstage and rape Mullet McWarftface — seriously! Even at his advanced age (67), the women are crawling at his feet. It’s hilarious!

Not so hilarious is the fact that I’ve been making piss-poor money as a result of these miserable hags — only $30-60 a night! Thankfully I don’t count on that job to support me anymore, and was able to scare up some other work to make ends meet. One day I went over and filmed new videos for my medical/breath-holding fetish website — we did the usual heartbeat stuff, including a clip of me underwater in the bathtub having my heartbeat recorded (?!?!???), and then did some belly-noise clips. For these videos, the fans like it when you have lots of growling and churning noises in your belly, so usually I’ll eat something weird and fucked-up before filming one. Well, this time I didn’t need to worry about it — all the worry and stress has made my belly a permanently roiling bog of terror and acid reflux…and it went bananas on camera! Talk about making lemonade…I’ve already sold several of these clips! The fans love it!

Then I did a shoot for the awesomest website in the world, GirlsGoneRude.com, in which I did the usual burping, farting, sneezing and overeating shtick. It was great, especially the overeating part because it was ice cream (!!!!!Yay!!!!!) — and the director, this awesome young chick named Claire, told me to fart or whatever as needed while eating. So….I farted — a pretty loud one, too, but because I’m lactose intolerant it was soooooo foul that Claire almost dropped the camera! And she’s one to talk — she does the grossest stuff on that site (look it up if you don’t believe me).

But the best video we filmed that day was this custom request from a fan who wanted to see a girl get eaten by a giant frog! Claire brought over this frog-shaped clothes hamper, and we filmed a mini-epic in which I get undressed to get in the shower, leaving my clothes on the counter next to the frog. After I get in the shower, the frog sticks out his tongue and eats all my clothes, gobbling them up with relish (Claire was hiding in the hamper, with a long pink sock covering her arm to look like a tongue, LOL). I get out of the shower and look around for my clothes: “What the fuck?! I just put them down right here!” I eyeball the hamper suspiciously…then open it up and reach my arm in to get my clothes back out — at which time the “frog” sucks me down and gobbles me up! I scream and struggle around for ten minutes as the frog eats more and more of me (this was achieved through many cuts and many creative camera angles), and then finally, after the tips of my toes disappear into the frog’s mouth, the frog licks his lips and burps out my panties. LOLZ!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

As far as trying to understand the psychology behind this particular request…the best I could figure is that it’s basically a form of vore. Vore is a fetish in which the guy dreams of being eated and digested by a giant woman — apparently reverse vore is when a guy dreams of a WOMAN being eaten and digested by a monster or frog (one popular vore model just covers her boyfriend with a blanket and calls him a “monster…” Talk about shitty production values!). Well, Claire and the good people at GirlsGoneRude will not settle for shitty production values, so she is working on building a full-size monster that can actually “eat” women whole. LMFAO!!!!! I can’t wait to see it! And shoot with it!!

Now aside from fetish, I also did a couple regular old-fashioned photo shoots this week. One was with this traveling Bohemian art nude model I know (the one from my hot lesbo photos a few months back, the ones that got me deleted from Google+) who had arranged a shoot with a photographer in a room at Harrahs. Never the most exciting place to shoot…but interestingly, this was the same location and same photographer I shot with for my very first paid nude shoot! Ah, memories… that was back in November 2008. I’ve come a long way, baby!

 

My other shoot was a creative funfest with Randy Fosth a/k/a Shutterbug Studio. I havethis long black wig I bought for $3 at a thrift store (a real steal, considering it was originally TEN DOLLARS at WalMart)…so you can imagine what a shitty-quality wig it is. Still, I used it for those Dia de Los Muertos photos I did back around Halloween, and it looked pretty good on camera. So I decided we should do a Cher photoshoot in it!

First, I put out the call on Facebook: “Does anyone have an Indian headdress I can borrow for a photo shoot?” Out of alllllllll my 1,000+ “friends,” most of whom are artsy costume-type people…NOT ONE PERSON responded 🙁 So I went to my favorite costume store, HalloweenMart, but all they had was a deluxe $35 model…and I didn’t want to spend $35 for a one-off photo. But I checked all over town, and that was the only thing I could find…so I just went ahead and bought it. Fuck it, I’m losing my house anyway…might as well spend a few bucks and have some fun.

I looked up some drag queen tutorials on YouTube, to see how professional female impersonators make their features look like Cher. Thanks to a couple of extremely fabulous videos (shout out to Misty Valley Paramount and Breathless in Wonderland), I was able to recreate Cher’s hooded eyelids, loooooong face and high cheekbones….sort of. Well enough, anyway!

Then I figured, since I had the wig on anyway, might as well do some Toke-a-hontas shtick with it (at right). Alas, I didn’t have a real peace pipe with me….just my friend J.R.’s regular glass pipe.

Then I went from one kind of Indian to the other, doing a look I’ve always wanted to recreate: Bollywood!!! I find everything about Bollywood fabulous (well, except for this one time in Fed. 2010 when I was an extra in a Bollywood movie filming out at Lake Las Vegas, for which I STILL haven’t been paid for), and I’ve always wanted to dress up like a Bollywood starlet. I put on this Nepalese wedding jewelry my mom gave me for my birthday one year, and went to town. Randy’s idea was to make it look like I was enslaved in a Calcutta brothel, so he wanted me to cry…but unfortunately, my tear ducts were exhausted from having been sobbing allllll week long, so I remained dry-eyed. D’oh!

Anyway, after all that the wig was basically trashed…but I still hung onto it. Because… you never know 🙂

Now meanwhile, through all this my friend J.R. was in town, having a mental breakdown of his own. He says he’s under a lot of stress because of all his money, and everyone wanting a piece of him, and a bunch of other stuff going on in his life (including a severe midlife crisis), so he ended up staying in Vegas WAY past his original departure date. He delayed his departure date twice, the second time after I had already dropped him off at the airport! He ended up taking a cab to a “shitty dive” motel near the airport, which I’m sure couldn’t have been that bad (although he made it sound like the worst fleabag dump in Mogadishu)…but apparently it was bad enough that he ended up moving to the Luxor, where he ran into some trouble with a Lady of the Night.

Apparently, he was hanging around the casino at Planet Hollywood (why on Earth anyone would do that, I have no idea…I despise that facility) when he ran into this tall, beautiful big-titted blonde. Just his type — although as mentioned many times, he has a weakness for all hot girls, no matter the specs. Anyway, after negotiating a “party” fee, she drove him to the Luxor in her shitty old beater car, and proceeded to blow him and then rob him of $2000! He sent me some pics of her, in case I ever run into her (I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do…kick her ass? Puncture her implants?)…and I found them faaaaaascinatingly depressing and evocative of Diane Arbus. Lesson learned, J.R….although you’d think he would have already learned his lesson, since this has already happened to him once!!! LOLZ! Even now, he’s in Miami with that fake blonde bitch Bobbi Jo (one of the mean whores he brought to dinner with me one night in Vegas)…better watch yourself, J.R.!

After J.R. left, I busied myself with more mortgage-related hell….but took one short break to participate in the Sons of Italy’s heralded Spaghetti-Eating Contest down at the South Point casino. I was driving home from my medical fetish shoot earlier in the week when I saw the contest advertised on their marquee…and knew I had to enter! I’ve dabbled in competitive eating for a few years now, having beat my ex-brother-in-law at an ice-cream eating contest once, but I’ve had mixed results. I failed miserably in the Nathan’s Hot Dog qualifying round here in Vegas (I placed 6th out of 12, but they were all men), and then another time my friend Boris and I tried to complete the pizza challenge at MoonDoggie’s (a local bar), but we failed at that too — and now our photo is up forever on their Wall of Shame 🙁

Anyway, for this spaghetti contest, the prize was $1,000 for whoever could eat the most 1-pound plates of spaghetti in seven minutes. I didn’t really expect to win, but I figured you never know….all the big-time competitive eaters might not enter because of the piddly prize money, so I might have a chance. With that in mind, I created a persona, dressed all in glittering silver: The Silver Slurper. At the Nathan’s hot dog contest (and all other competitive eating events sponsored by the IFOCE — International Federation of Competitive Eaters), the participants all had funny names and backstories and entrance music and stuff, so I figured I’d join in. Alas, this contest wasn’t an officially IFOCE-sanctioned event….so the emcee just looked at me like I was weird. (The IFOCE’s emcee is an AMAZING silver-tongued, garrulous carny with a straw boater and a seersucker suit…he is a GENIUS! See pic at left.) This spaghetti contest emcee was just some local goombah, though…and he didn’t know what to make of me.

There were sooo many people at this contest (apparently $1,000 IS a good prize amount for this type of thing…d’oh) that they broke it down into 3 heats. After watching the first two heats, I knew I had no chance: in the first round, this little old man named Rich “the Locust” LeFevre crammed 10 POUNDS of spaghetti down his gullet! This man is nothing short of amazing: at the age of 67, this wizened little sprite is a full-time pro competitive eater who can put away ASTONISHING amounts of food…without gaining an ounce. He trains for this stuff very methodically, and the best part is that his wife is ALSO a competitive eater! I don’t remember her name, but she’s one of those slim, perfectly-coiffed glamorous grandma types with oversized sunglasses and pearls and stuff. TOO COOL! She comes to all his eating matches to cheer him on (when she’s not doing her own eating, at which she is also amazingly good). Anyway, I remember her well because back in the day at that hot dog contest, as I was the only female contestant, she cheered for me very lustily. Sweet!

Anyway, once I saw the Locust was in the game, I knew it was all over. Then, ANOTHER contestant — one of the amateurs, no less — ate ELEVEN pounds! So at that point, I settled on just being the top female eater. But even THAT goal was demolished when this little tiny gal in round 2 ate TWELVE POUNDS of spaghetti!! Come to find out, she is actually a pro as well…oh well.

Anyway, by Round 3 I knew I had zero chance of setting ANY sort of record…so I settled for just not getting sick. I ended up eating 3 pounds, 4 ounces of spaghetti (which I don’t even LIKE)…and then later that night, I went home and ate a bunch of leftover P.F. Chang’s and half a carton of ice cream 🙁 (I was depressed, dammit!)

 

Anyhoo, thanks to my friends Guy and Jen for coming along and taking these awesome photos. My face was stained bright orange for the rest of the day from the grease in that nasty-ass sauce (now I know why I hate spaghetti!).

 

 

 

 

 

 

OK, now I gotta go get ready for my foot fetish photo shoot with Footmode.com….time to kick some more ass, yay!!! And after that, I have a hot date with my drag queen friend, Jennifer (a/k/a Jenny Bunny)! We’re going to the Heart Attack Grill so I can FINALLY indulge in one of their Quadruple Bypass Burgers (plus of course fries and a butterfat shake). All this overeating is good preparation for Thanksgiving, ya know!

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Let Them Eat Cock!

 

 

 

 

 

Here’s a few pics from my shoot with footmode.com last week…so you can see why I had such a good time shooting with those crazy fuckers! It was verrrry therapeutic to KICK the SHIT (or at least pretend to kick the shit) out of various assholes… I just pretended they were the jagoffs from my bank, who this week refused to write down the principal on my house at my state-ordered mediation hearing (more on that later). Anyhoo, it was a blast and I can’t wait to shoot with them again later this month…meanwhile, if you have a foot fetish and want to see some smokin’ hot pics of chicks beating each other’s asses and then sucking each other’s toes, check it out! Footmode.com…one more time, that’s FOOTmode.com!

Now here’s a pic from the crazy Batman group shoot I did a couple weeks back, at the Lady Silvia bar in downtown Vegas. Good times! I used a can of red hairspray from Sally’s Beauty Supply, and it really worked…I even considered dyeing my hair red after that, because I got so many compliments. But then I remembered the time back in hi skool, when I dyed my hair red with a package of cherry Kool-Aid. That shit lasted forever — I mean FOREVER! It was soooo red that this crazy shiftless crackhead named Smurf who lived in our neighborhood back then used to yell at me “Hey, Red!” when I walked home from school. I was so sick of having red hair, that when it FINALLY washed out, I swore I’d never go red again. And I meant it!

So anyhoo, I had an extremely busy week. It all started after I updated last time, when I mentioned I was getting ready for a date with this kook who used to work in the MGM photo lab with me, back in the day. As mentioned, he’s one of those people who always has a crazy cockamamie story — that then turns out to be TRUE! Like he told me he was a concert violinist who earned a scholarship to Julliard…and that his mom was a famous ballerina…and that he has a genius level I.Q…and that nowadays he’s a professional video poker player and writer. Well, however improbable…it’s ALL TRUE! (At least the stuff I was able to verify.)

That’s not to say that this guy isn’t a real WEIRDO — he totally IS! He kinda looks like Steve Buscemi after a three-week coke-and-ham binge, if that makes any sense. But as you all know, I only like weirdos and freaks, so he was right up my alley. We had a great time catching up over dinner at NOVE (ah, how I hate these pretentious all-caps restaurant names) at the Palms, where supposedly he is a big wheel video poker player. I can’t vouch as to the size of his wheel (or anything else, for that matter), but he did get everything comped by his genial, obsequious casino host, who hovered attentively by our side throughout the evening…so who knows.

Anyhoo, after dinner and catch-up we went down to the lounge to see the Frankie Moreno band play. I wan’t expecting much…but thanks to copious amounts of Baileys, in addition to the impressive talents of the band…I was pleasantly surprised! Not your average Vegas lounge schlock. I’d recommend you go check them out, but I think they just moved to the Stratosphere. Anyhoo, my kooky Steve Buscemi friend had such a good time with me that he invited me back the following weekend to some Halloween party they were throwing for all their high rollers, held up in the Hardwood Suite (a themed suite that has a full basketball court inside). I’ve always wanted to check that shit out!

Before the party, I had to work a shift at the lamest-ass of all lame-ass shows — taking souvenir photos at America’s Got Talent Live! Srsly?!? It’s not even a real show, but they made us go in, anyway. Shockingly, it wasn’t as bad as expected — those people actually acted like they were going to a real show; they were dressed up in date-night clothes and weren’t afraid to spend a buck on photos. Apparently, some people have even worse taste than *I* do! Anyhoo, I still made shitty money because it wasn’t that good — just better than expected. I didn’t care either way — I just wanted to get the fuck out of there and put on my zombie showgirl costume and get to this basketball suite party!!!

Anyhoo, the party was OK but I got there after all the cool stuff went down, so most people had already left 🙁 We hung out awhile boozing and whatnot, and my kooky Steve Buscemi friend’s host became enamored with my infectious spirit and insisted that I come to all future Palms player parties…so now I’m in with the Palms crowd! I also met a few of kooky Steve Buscemi’s professional gambler pals, and boy what a crowd of characters. That’s usually the way it is with pro gamblers…they’re nutty. Anyhoo, after a couple hours we headed out to the nightclub for awhile, but it was so crowded with sloppy sluts in stupid half-assed sexy Halloween costumes that we got the hell out of there pretty quick. By then it was around 3am, so we went over to the coffee shop for a late-nite bite — and guess what?! I ordered steamed vegetables and tofu!!! At 3am!!! No pancakes and shit for me…I’m hardcore.

Speaking of Halloween, I didn’t want to overdo it this year. Last year, I had a job writing for the paper and I felt obligated to go out 6 nights in a row…and got sick as a result. This year, I had no bogus obligations. so I only went out 3 or 4 nights…much more sensible! The first party was at the studio of a well-known local photographer with whom I’ve been wanting to shoot — he’s really good, but he mostly shoots professional shit like hardcore pro whores for magazine covers and stuff. Out of my league! But I figured if I went to this party, I might get to know him, and who knows?!

The party was pretty cool. The local Vegas tradition is that every year, comedy magician The Amazing Johnathan throws a HUGE bash out at this warehouse he owns over by the airport. For years people have talked about his sick-ass parties, and I always wanted to go but never had an invite. Last year I finally went, and it was sick — booze everywhere, a really twisted homemade haunted house/maze, and the SwingShiftSideShow onstage stabbing spears through their labia and whatnot. CRAZY! I like to froze my tits off in my zombie Sarah Palin costume (at right), and as mentioned I got sick as a result…but soooo totally worth it! Unfortunately, that was the last year The Amazing Johnathan hosted a party…so starting this year, he passed the torch to local photographer Shane O’Neal, who has a badass studio right across from the Orleans Hotel.

Also unfortunately, this year my Sarah Palin costume was no longer topical (actually, maybe that isn’t so unfortunate)…so I had to figure out something else. I went into the depths of my closet and emerged with this quasi-Marie Antoinette getup, which I gave a topical spin to by adding a little “I am the 1%” sign — a nod to the #OccupyWallStreet protesters. If anyone was ever a greedy fucking fat cat, it was Marie Antoinette! She’d be right up there with those Wall Street bankers, stomping her little silver toes on my fingers as I cling to the ledge of my house, dangling above a yawning chasm of financial apocalypse. Fuckers!!! LET THEM EAT COCK, I say!

Aaaaaaanyhoo, my costume turned out pretty cool for being constructed out of odds-n-ends already in my closet, and Shane O’Neal expressed interest in shooting me in it sometime! So if he doesn’t flake, I might have some extremely badass new photos to share with you soon. I have a great idea for this shoot, so I hope he doesn’t welsh on this.

Now the parties I’ve already mentioned were all well and good, but it was really all about the big Second Annual Las Vegas Halloween Parade, which is held downtown. I wasn’t able to attend last year (because of stupid work, what else), but this year I was DETERMINED to participate. And it was even badder-ass than I expected!

First of all, let me just say how far Vegas has come since I moved here back in 2000. Back then, I laughed snarkily at the pathetic early attempts at creating an “arts” district…but I gotta say, I STAND CORRECTED. Over the last decade, tons of really cool, artsy, creative people have taken over Vegas — so much so that one needn’t even bother with the douchebaggery of the Strip and the suburbs, ever. You can find alllllll the fun you need downtown. It’s amazing, and I’m actually kinda proud of Vegas for it. I was a pretty big Vegas hater for many years, but I’m glad I stuck it out. I really like living here!

The Halloween Parade is a good example. This young go-getter chick who moved here from New York started it all up from scratch last year, and it really took off — people I talked to came from as far away as Vancouver and Michigan just to take part! It was sort of half Gay Pride, half Burning Man — in fact, many Burners live in Vegas nowadays, and many of them brought their art cars as Parade floats! This one group of Burners even came all the way down from Santa Cruz in their spaceship, built on a flatbed truck chassis with a cherry picker scissor lift on the back that raises a giant neon spaceship into the night sky, while electronic music blares and booms from the giant sound system inside. They’re called the Dancetronauts, and it’s a bunch of hot-ass young guys in white NASA flight suits and a few scantily-clad Sparkle Bunny go-go dancers for good measure. Their impressive glowing spaceship brought up the rear of the parade as it wound its way downtown, and then they set up in the parking lot of the Gold Spike for a big ol’ good old-fashioned rave, right in the heart of downtown Vegas. Gooooooooooooooood times!

The rest of the parade was pretty badass, too: it started with ex-Mayor Oscar Goodman and his wife (the current Mayor) and a bunch of showgirls, followed by this amazing group of musical Towncars called the Car-i-llon — like a carillon, but each car cruises along and plays one note, and they all play together to create music. REALLY neat! Then there were some lame commercial floats sponsored by Dos Equis and Zappos.com (I despise Zappos, despite their being heralded as the saviors of downtown Vegas since they are moving their company headquarters there from Henderson…I worked a charity Halloween golf tournament for them last year, as a sexy caddy, and none of the teams bid on me. Not one! Could it have been my zombie Sarah Palin costume? I’ll never know…but I can hold a grudge like nobody’s business…and to this day I refuse to buy anything from zappos.com. Shoes.com all the way, baby!!!).

Anyhoo, next in the parade was a marching procession of fire spinners and drummers, and I marched with them for awhile until I was able to hitch a ride on the most fabulous float of them all — this 8-person bar/bicycle belonging to the geniuses at camp Kosmik Dust. Some mad scientist/boozer devised this awesome contraption that is basically a long rectangular bar, with four seats on each side, facing inward toward the “bar.” Each barstool is a bicycle seat, with pedals, and the 8 passengers pedal the bike! REALLY cool. At Burning Man, they had a bartender in the middle serving drinks and steering…but even Vegas has some liquor laws, so it was dry for the parade. But it was still SO MUCH FUN!

The parade wound around downtown to Fremont Street, where my friend, local poet/gadabout/attorney Dayvid Figler, emceed the judging for Best Costume and all that shit. Then the parade continued on down to the Gold Spike, where the Dancetronauts’ rave was on in full force. I partied hard with some Burner friends, then hitched a ride back to my car on this AWESOME flying carpet art car built by one of my drum-circle friends — he basically built a wavy platform on top of a little electric car, and covered it in an Oriental carpet, and it looks totally Aladdin! It only goes 7mph though, so the ride back was long and cold and lonely without all the shenanigans of the parade to distract us. But it was still surreal and BADASS to traverse the dark, quiet backstreets of Vegas on a magic carpet, dressed like Marie Antoinette. Who says I don’t have any fun?!

What’s great about this Parade is that it’ll likely get better every year — eventually, this could be like our Mardi Gras! Imagine if all the big casinos built floats, and the parade went all the way from Mandalay Bay, down the Strip, all he way downtown to good old Fremont Street??! How sick would that be??? People would come from all over to see that shit –those big resorts could build some sick-ass floats. I can only imagine the majesty of the Caesars Palace float…not to mention O’Shea’s!!!! GET ON IT, VEGAS! This could be our big break!!!

The only bummer about the Halloween parade was that our float picked up a few kids that were hanging out downtown, and one of the little fuckers tried to steal my purse when we got off! I saw him take it and hide it under his jacket, and you better believe I grabbed that little dick with a quickness! I bitched him out, but his sister intervened and plead with me to let him go, so I just sputtered “Well–DON’T do it again, then!” He was only about 10, but still. Jeez!

The shittiness of that assy kid was redeemed the next morning, however, when I dragged my hungover ass out of bed to attend this protest against the Westboro Baptist Church. I reeeeeally didn’t feel like getting up and going, but I made myself — these are the assholes who hold up those “GOD HATES FAGS” signs at soldiers’ funerals and shit, so it was important. I planned to wear a super-slutty, scandalous outfit to really piss ’em off, but I was too hungover to make the first part of the protest, which was at UNLV (our local university). I was only able to get there in time for Part 2, which was a high school down the street from my house — and since I didn’t want to get arrested for indecent exposure in front of a high school, I toned it down a little for propriety’s sake 🙂

Anyhoo, it was pretty cool because there were quite a few people protesting the two or three Westboro bozos who showed up. I didn’t have time to make a really good sign, so I just half-assed it by flipping over my #OccupyVegas protest sign and scribbling an atheist platitude on it with a half-dead Sharpie. Good enough! I hooted and hollered for awhile, and these kids came by and asked to take my photo because they were budding atheists, too (or maybe they just wanted to jerk off to the photo, I don’t know. They said they were atheists). Anyhoo, the nascent atheist ideology and enthusiasm of those kids effectively negated the anger I felt toward kids in general after that little punk downtown tried to steal my purse.

Anyhoo, I couldn’t stay at the Westboro protest very long because this photographer from New York was on my ass — he was in town photographing and interviewing people facing foreclosure for some media company, and somehow through my aunt, he was referred to me. He and his sound guy came over one night to interview me about my housing mess, and then they wanted to come back Tuesday afternoon to do some photos of me modeling nude (I told them I started doing nudies to pay the bills…which is true, only now I actually LIKE doing them, and will continue to model even if I win 50 million dollars next week). My roommate sneaked this pic of them interviewing me, and it’s PRICELESS — look at the sound guy’s mike!!! Looks like a porn set to me!

So anyway, I left the protest and went home to pose for some weird photos for this guy. I didn’t get it — I thought he was more into an edgy, gritty photojournalist style…but he ended up posing me in my fishnet Westboro protest outfit, laying on my chaise lounge in the backyard. I have a sneaking suspicion I was just Diane Arbused! We’ll see………..

Now in the middle of all this, my friend J.R. came to town for The Big Smoke — a cigar-smokers’ convention sponsored by Cigar Aficionado magazine every year. I’m no fan of cigars, but I AM a fan of dressing up like Chita Rivera after 10 too many mojitos!! I whipped together a 1940s-Havana-inspired ensemble and went over to party it up, in between coughing fits. Bleccccch! It was a lot of fun, though, and J.R. and I made quite an impression….as we always do! Everyone wanted to take our photo, and in fact it will be in next month’s Cigar Aficionado…so look for that!

 

After the party, J.R. went back to his hotel room for a Big Smoke of our own…and it was like a junior high school slumber party! We bitched and moaned and gossiped late into the night, and it was therapeutic…because boy oh boy did I have stuff to bitch about. As mentioned, my mediation hearing for my mortgage was last week, and it didn’t go so well… to make a REALLY LONG, LAME story short, I told them I wasn’t interested in/couldn’t afford keeping my house unless the bank wrote down my principal. I owe $375,000 on a house worth (by the bank’s own appraisal) $105,000. I’ve already paid in $125,000….why would I want to pay in more?! It’s insanity!

The way these mediation hearings work is, the lender sends a representative, and you attend with your attorney, and there’s an impartial third-party mediator who sits in to sort of referee. In my case, no ref was needed — I made the abovementioned statement, and the lender’s rep sadly shook her head: no dice. You could tell she totally understood my point, but she was not authorized to offer any principal writedown, whatsoever. I pretty much expected it, so it didn’t faze me much — the only time a few tears leaked out was when she showed me the appraisal. All these photos of my pretty little house, which some creepy appraiser drove by and snapped…somehow it made everything more real, and I cried a few tears.

But I wasn’t surprised, so after my few tears dried I was fine. The rest of the meeting was devoted to my options, which are short selling or foreclosing. The official results of the mediation hearing were “unresolved,” so I guess I’m in a sort of limbo. My initial impulse was to short sell — I want to at least try and extricate myself from this mess as responsibly as possible, and leave less of a mess for my neighbors. But unless the bank signs a special waiver, they have SIX YEARS to come after you for the deficiency you owe (whatever the difference is between your loan amount and the short sale amount — in my case, I’d be selling for $105,000, which is $270,000 less than the $375,000 I owe them). So unless they signed this waiver, they’d have six years to come after me for more money. A lot of people think it’s 6 months…but my attorney said if you read the law exactly as written, it is six YEARS. That’s a long time!

Meanwhile, they only have six MONTHS to come after you if you just walk away. How stupid is that?! You’re basically encouraging people to abandon their homes. Plus, the foreclosure process can take years to complete…so all the while, you’re basically living rent-free in your house — until they stick a sale notice on the door, at which time you have 30 days to get out.

My attorney did bring up a third option, which involved filing for bankruptcy and is very clever — yet too convoluted for me. I’m too confused by all this, and in way over my head. I am a textbook example of why some people are NOT cut out to be homeowners! I just want OUT. J.R. and I did go visit another attorney the next day, who explained the bankruptcy plan in more detail. He ended up yelling at me for asking too many questions…but what the fuck! It’s my life and future I’m talking about — I need to be absolutely certain shit’s on the up-and-up here!

Poor J.R. had to listen to me bitch and moan all week long as I agonized back and forth about what to do. I must have changed my mind fifty times, trying to figure out what’s the best thing to do. I lost a LOT of sleep, bawled my eyes out every single day, and felt VERY haggard (and I had TWO photo shoots this week). It caused a lot of stress for him, I’m sure, but then he’s going through some tough times of his own anyway, so he was already in a bad way. I didn’t realize just how much of a bad way until the day he was supposed to leave — when he changed his mind and stayed an extra few days. He did not want to go back home and face his problems, so he stayed over a few days to look into some investment opportunities here. Then, when his second departure date arrived, I took him to the airport…….and he purposely missed his flight! He checked in all his bags and stuff, but then wandered around the airport pissing away time until it was too late, and the last flight of the day had left.

Meanwhile, I was going through hell trying to figure out my house thing. I was bawling my eyes out 24/7, while still trying to keep a sexy face for these fucking photo shoots I was doing, and I just didn’t have it in me to console him over whatever he didn’t want to go back home to. To make matters worse, he was being kinda mean to me at dinner one night —  I don’t remember what he said exactly, but he hurt my feelings so badly that I got up and hit him with my purse in the middle of P.F. Chang’s and stormed out. Seriously!

J.R. and I made up the next day, but I guess the whole scene made his depression worse — after missing his flight, he left the airport and disappeared into some shitty little dive motel near the airport — he won’t even tell me which one! Normally, he always stays someplace nice…so this is really out of character. He’s always wanted to “diasppear,” like in the movies…so this is like his dry run, I guess. As we speak, he’s holed up in some shitty hovel somewhere with nothing but the clothes on his back and his laptop. He doesn’t even have WiFi — which was a big deal to him (I hate to tell him about some of the places I’ve stayed in!). And he’s been there two days! I’m kind of worried…but I think it might actually be good for him — even though he says he was rolled by a hooker the other night to the tune of $2,000. Either way, I’m so fucking stressed about my house I can’t handle any more worries!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Anyhoo, speaking of destruction, here’s the hot new stocking stuffer this Christmas season! Here’s what it says on the back of the box:

“Wannabe showgirl Wonderhussy was rejected from the Jubilee! auditions for being too short…so in a furious rage, she takes on Vegas. Level one: destroy legions of balloon-breasted, fish-lipped, white-haired, orange-skinned whores at a Vegas pool party! Shoot ’em right in the tits, then watch their implants explode for a Goo Bonus. Level Two: hunt down hydrocephalic muscleheads at a nightclub: each dead body in a TapOut t-shirt is 50 points, Affliction shirts are 100 pts, and the elusive Ed Hardy shirt gets you 500 pts!! Level 3: Dodge and weave among porn-slappers, prostitutes, crackheads in Barney costumes and daiquiri-toting frat boys as you race the clock, Frogger-style, attempting to cross Vegas Blvd. Don’t get hit by the “Hot Girls Direct to Your Room” truck!!! Final Round: face off against the Boss, a/k/a the meathead douchebag nightclub doorman. Tip: steal his BlackBerry, and he’s powerless! Once you’ve defeated him, watch in glee as the city crumbles to dust…then get the fuck out.”

 

 

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The Goddess vs. the Grape

This week, I got an exciting new gig as a model for Footmode.com…one of the Internet’s oldest foot fetish websites! I’m particularly stoked about this gig because a) it’s ongoing — they shoot twice a month, every month and b) it’s EASY! All I did was pose for a series of still photos, pretending to kick another chick’s ass, and then making her worship my feet (i.e. suck my toes and lick my soles, etc.). Easy! Because I was new, they didn’t make me do any of the toe-sucking…just the ass-kicking. But next month, I’ll probably have to do both :-/ Still….I’ll gladly suck a freshly-washed toe or two if it means being able to eventually quit my job.

Because, you see, that’s my plan. Lately it seems like my dumb-ass job has been getting in the way of all kinds of fun stuff I want to do, namely travel, party and booze — so I’ve formulated a plan to permanently ditch the rat race in favor of going full-bore Bohemian. It’s a Five-Point Plan:

1. Get rid of my house                                   I’ve been working on a loan modification on my fabulous estate for THREE YEARS, and I’ve finally come to the reluctant realization that it’s not worth it. I don’t want to be chained to a mortgage, even on a badass house like mine 🙁 I have a mediation hearing tomorrow, so we’ll see what happens…

 

2. Move into a shitty apartment                This part sucks, because I really don’t want to live cheek-to-jowl with hookers and crackheads…but I have no choice. I have to wait 6 months after surrendering my old house before I can buy a new one.

3. Buy a cheap shitbox in downtown Vegas   Anyone who’s read this blog knows how much I love downtown Vegas, so I might as well live closer to the action. Once I quit my job, I won’t even need to acknowledge the lame-ass tired old douchefest known as the Strip…except for the occasional mushroom-fueled nighttime barhopping foray!

 

4. Buy a new trailer                                           My pop-up camper has served me well through 2 Burning Mans, but if I’m serious about becoming a traveling gypsy, I need an upgrade. With a Casita or Scamp fiberglass trailer, I can go anywhere, and make money modeling along the way! I can’t afford not to buy one!

5. QUIT MY JOB                                               The only bummer about this is, I won’t have health insurance. Because some jackass psychiatrist diagnosed me as bipolar, it counts as a pre-existing condition that prevents me from buying personal coverage…but I figure by eliminating the SHIT and TORTURE I endure on a nightly basis, I won’t need a doctor anymore, anyway! I can scare up enough cash to finance my adventures by modeling and doing assorted gigs around town.

So anyhoo, look out: the adventures of Wonderhussy will only get better over the next year! Meanwhile, I tried to distract myself from my current shitty situation by keeping busy as follows:

After my Footmode shoot, I went down to check out the monthly Wonderground event over at the Olive Mediterranean restaurant. Wonderground is sort of a Happening involving artists, dancers and magicians, plus lots of food and booze. It’s good times! I’ve met a lot of cool people there, and have even been bodypainted at the event a time or two (as in the pic at left, when I was painted by Suzanne Lugano for a benefit they did for Japanese tsunami victims).

Anyhoo, everyone at Wonderground was all a-buzz talking about the upcoming annual Bonedance ritual out at this fertility temple in the desert. I remember wanting to go last year, but was unsure as to whether or not I’d be welcome — it’s a real ceremony, with no booze or electronic music, for people who identify as Goddess-worshippers, Wiccans and whatnot (they make up a sizeable percentage of the Wonderground crew). I realized how serious they were about it at the annual Witches’ & Wizards’ Ball last year — the annual W&W Ball is also held at the Olive, the day after the October Wonderground. I looooove a good costume party, so last year I went with some friends and dressed as Glinda the Good Witch, since I didn’t have a regular witch costume (shocking, I know). Well, imagine my embarrassment when I arrived at the party to find that it wasn’t that kind of witches’ & wizards’ ball…it was full of people who seriously believe themselves to be witches and wizards!! Can we say faux pas??

So anyhoo, I decided that this year, I must attend the Bonedance…Wiccan or no, booze or no. One of my photographer friends gave me the info, and after work on Saturday night I raced out to the desert to join in the revelry. IT………WAS…….AWESOME!

First of all, it’s at this kooky little fertility shrine way out in the desert north of Vegas, out in the middle of nowhere. The only thing nearby is Creech Air Force Base, a/k/a the place Sgt. Peanut blows people up with remote-controlled airplanes. It’s about an hour out of Vegas, so it was almost midnight by the time I made it out there…but I was totally glad I made the trip! In addition to their “no alcohol” policy (WTF!!!), they also had a “no photos” policy. If there’s one thing I HATE more than a “no alcohol” policy, it’s a “no photos” policy. FYI guys: at my house — and indeed anywhere else I happen to be — booze and photos are ENCOURAGED! Nay, MANDATED!

Anyhoo, I didn’t want to piss off any witches, so I didn’t take photos of the action…except from a respectful distance.  I’m including a few daytime pics I took once on a Harley ride with Muscles Manischewitz, so you can see what it looks like (it’s TOTALLY badass!), but try and imagine how DOUBLE-badass it was at night, under a million bazillion stars, lit only by firelight. Truly magical! Because I wasn’t able to take pics,

you’ll have to use your imagination — like the old days. But it’s worth it, I promise!!

I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I brought along my drum just in case they had some tribal beats going on. And just in case I had misunderstood the booze policy, I brought a flask of wine. Having learned my lesson at last year’s W&W Ball, I dressed in a sort of neo-tribal Burning-Man-meets-Mexican-Funeral ensemble… but it was pretty cold out that night, so I also rummaged through my closet for my witchiest-looking hoodie…which was this:

I got it from a hippie nutcase I worked for one year at MAGIC (the fashion tradeshow)…he had a line of funky hippie clothes and he let me buy what I wanted from him at wholesale. I bought this hoodie in both red and black, and thought nothing of wearing it around town until one of my friends asked me if I was in the Klan. WHAT??! Nooooo! I never thought of it as a Klan thing — it looks like a Wizard hat to me. Does the KKK have the exclusive rights to pointy headgear? I mean, it’s BLACK, for Pete’s sake — if anything, it’s the ANTI-Klan! But my friend made me paranoid — I don’t want to piss off any black people, so nowadays when I wear it, I kind of bend the top point over — TOTALLY LAME, but less offensive, I guess. What do you think, reader??

So anyhoo, I donned my carefully bent hoodie, hid my wine flask in my bag and grabbed my drum…and headed out to the desert. Like I said, I was kinda hesitant…but as soon as I saw all the cars and tents camped out near the temple, saw the glow of a bonfire through the trees, and heard the sound of drumming, I knew I’d made the right call! I crunched up the gravel path and entered through a sort of canopied gate-type structure they’d erected, where a wizard waved a handful of smoldering sage across my body to sort of bless me or anoint me or whatever. I crossed through the gateway and found myself in an open area before the temple, where a hundred or more people were chanting and dancing counterclockwise around a huge bonfire, while a group of drummers beat a furious tribal tattoo off to one side. I joined the drummers and proceeded to BEAT the FUCK out of my drum — I loooooooooooooove me a drum circle, and this was one of the all-time best! They had all these drums and gongs and weird percussion instruments laid out for everyone to share, and it was REALLY cool. The only thing that would have made it even cooler is if I’d had a buzz…but as it was, I only managed a few furtive swigs from my flask 🙁 Hardly enough to get a good buzz going!

Behind us was the temple itself, which had another, more contemplative fire going inside where you could just sit and be mellow and reflect on the Goddess and the Blood of Your Ancestors and whatnot. About 100 feet away there was a secondary fire area, where witches and wizards were gathered to nosh on Doritos and drink water ($@%*#^!!!!).

Then, off to one side there was also this amazing beautiful red pavilion with an altar inside, where you could write messages to the departed on pieces of red fabric (I left a message for my dad). All in all it was a very serious affair, not really a party but not really somber, either.

In between bouts of drumming, I joined the caped masses in circling the bonfire, chanting and singing stuff like “Die to be Reborn!” and “I am Bones, I am Fire!” (Not exact quotes, but you get the idea: Manson Family meets Bilbo Baggins.) Every once in a while the chanting would stop and random revelers would extemporaneously spout stream-of-consciousness gibberish about the Goddess, the Fire, and the Spirits. One fur-clad reveler with the light of either religious ecstasy or insanity in his eyes told a sort of rambling, Castaneda-esque fable that reminded me of the Boring Prophet from Monty Python’s Life of Brian, and various Priestess-type women got up and sang/chanted prayers and the like.

Then, this old couple came out who were like the Elders of the local Witches and Wizards: a ginormous woman swaddled in quilts watched through glowing, narrowed eyes as her husband, a wizened old man with a long white beard, skull-printed fleece jammie pants and a glowing LED wizard’s staff, came forward to address the gathering. He waved a little book around and gave an impassioned incantation about Samhain and the Blood of our Ancestors, then flicked the book open so that it belched flames!!! Dramatic!!!!

After awhile the Wizard Elder went back and changed into one of those one-piece skeleton bodysuit costumes, and then danced around the fire waving around a huge scythe (I’m pretty sure it was the same man; I saw tie-dye and long grey hair peeking out the back of his bodysuit). Meanwhile, at least a hundred other people danced around in their furry, sequined, mirrored, feathered tribal best, and it was FABULOUS! The only downside was that one of the Steampunk-infused Priestesses kept yelling at the drummers that we weren’t drumming appropriately lugubriously…apparently she wanted something more funereal and dirge-like to accompany her Goddess-droning.

After about 3 hours I started to get cold (even my witchy hoodie wasn’t enough) and tired of all the spiritual mumbo-jumbo, so I packed up my stuff and drove home for a 4am glass of wine. So sue me — I prefer to worship the grape, not the Goddess. But all in all it was a FANTASTIC time, and I definitely plan on going again next year. I guess the real point of it is to drum and chant til sunrise…and it would have felt more healing and therapeutic if I’d done so, but I had no idea, and came underprepared. Next year for sure!!!

So after Bonedance, I pretty much slept all day and then went in to work Captain Fantastic’s last show of the year — his engagement is over, so now I’m looking at four weeks of a performer I’ll call Mullet McWartface — a gravelly-voiced legendary Scots womanizer who is popular with cougars and various other know-nothing Baby-Boomers. Seriously, where the fuck do they drag all these old zombies out of?! It’s ridiculous!

In between Captain Fantastic and Mullet McWartface, we had one solitary night of REAL music in the showroom — none other than Paul Simon came in to do a concert! I’m a huuuuge Paul Simon fan, so even though I knew I wouldn’t make any money off that room full of musty old Prius-driving intellectuals, I was totally stoked. I figured I could do like I did when Bob Dylan and Captain Fantastic first played, and find someone with an extra ticket who would let me sit with them (that’s how I met my friend J.R….at the Bob Dylan show). Accordingly, I loitered around the front orchestra section, chatting up single people and hoping for an invite that never came. Thankfully, one of my usher friends hooked it up for me and I was able to sit in one of the box seats, sandwiched between two grumping and grousing old couples, and watch the entire show. My friend even gave me a free drink ticket for a glass of wine, so it was allll good…and the show was great! I just loooove Paul Simon, but even better was watching the crowd: a room full of old white people getting down. I was particularly enamored of one portly, bearded old man, who looked to be a cardiologist or surgeon in real life, who’d had a few to drink and was jamming in the aisles to “Cecilia.” Too cute!!

So anyhoo, now I gotta go and get ready for my date tonight…I’m meeting up with a kook who used to work in the photo lab with me about 10 years ago. He was the manager, and he was one of those people who’s always full of these amazing, unbelievable stories that you just figure are B.S…but then improbably turn out to be true! Like he was always bragging about how he used to be a concert violinist, blah blah blah….until one night I came in and he was playing the violin (beautifully, I might add) in the squalor of the photo lab in the basement at the MGM Grand. We’ll see if any of his other stories are true…..

Musical Dildo and XXX Karaoke (among other, less titillating things)

Last Saturday night I faced a veritable Sophie’s Choice: should I hit up the Renaissance Faire afterhours party, or go to a secret underground warehouse rave downtown? Hitting up both was not an option, since a) I didn’t get off work til 11pm, b) the Renaissance Faire was waaaaay out in the boonies this year, and c) there is no outfit on the face of this Earth than can go from Rave to Ren Faire. Torn between two parties!!!

As mentioned, last year I got into the afterhours jamboree at the Renaissance Faire due to a genial drunken pirate friend who had an extra wristband. (Only people in registered “guilds,” a/k/a hardcore dorks, are allowed into the Ren Faire grounds after they close for the evening…so they allocate a certain number of all-access wristbands to each guild.) The pic at left was me last year, drumming and dancing and swigging Charles Shaw from the bottle, and having an all-around awesomely badass time…until the haters in the Parks & Rec department received a “noise” complaint and made us shut down around 11pm. Booooosauce!

I have since learned, through the Ren Faire grapevine (some steampunk friends of mine, specifically), that the “noise complaint” was filed by none other than Wayne Newton. If you’ve ever flown into Vegas, you’ve seen his sickeningly expansive estate, Casa de Shenandoah, which covers around 20 acres just to the east of the park where the Renaissance Faire is held. His grounds are full of ostentatious displays of wealth, and apparently the cannon fire from the Ren Faire bothered his delicate thoroughbred Arabian horses…..and since Wayne Newton apparently runs Vegas, his displeasure was enough to get the Faire banished to the farthest reaches of Hendertucky, into a depressing suburban softball field near Sam Boyd Stadium. LAMESAUCE!

Anyhoo, my kooky pirate friend was out of town, but ANOTHER kooky guildmember friend promised to get me into the party, if I wanted to go. I vacillated between Rave and Ren Faire all night long…but in the end, I eschewed both in favor of going to bed early. Shocking, I know! I did hit up the Renaissance Faire the following afternoon before work…and it was LAME! A buncha fat half-assers waddling around a softball field in sweaty cloaks…no, thanks! Look at the pic to the left — I somehow doubt they had electric fatty scooters in Merry Olde England (although if they did, Henry VIII would surely have owned several). The only cool thing that happened to me there was when some half-naked fatso dressed as Pan came bounding up to me, bleating in my face. I had a quite lengthy one-sided conversation with him about the new location of the Faire, and when it would move back to the old location at Sunset Park — one-sided because he could not/would not talk other than bleating “Mehhhhhh!” in various goat-y intonations. But I totally understood him!

Alas, I heard from friends that the afterhours Ren party was SICK — fire-spinners and bellydancers and lots of mead and whatnot. DAMN!!! I knew I shoulda sacked up and gone. But I was soooo tired. Why, you ask? Well, I’ll tell you!

The reason I was so tired on Saturday night was, my day had started at 5AM!!! You heard me — 5am, the time I’m normally just going to bed! I got up at that ungodly hour to do a gig as a certain furry kids’ TV character at a PBS fundraising event (stop laughing!). Since my face would be covered by 100 pounds of red fur, I didn’t bother with makeup but rolled straight out of bed and headed over to the local PBS station, where I donned my costume and proceeded to entertain the shit out of hordes of excited children…after being schooled by my corporate master on the Do’s and Don’ts of this particular gig (DON’T pose with anyone holding booze, or with any obviously “Vegas” landmarks in the back…bad for the family-friendly corporate image, you know).

It was actually really fun — the little kids would get soooo excited, and run up and give me these huge hugs, which was very cute. Even better, though, were the kids who were FREAKED THE FUCK OUT, but whose parents shoved them in my face anyway: “Say hi, Taylor!” (Taylor: “WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!”) The only bummer were these snarky Cub Scouts, who were too old to care about my character, and one of whom tried to knock my head off. Also, a Somali-looking smartass kid kept grabbing my ass. But other than that, it was actually really fun!

After my mascot gig ended at 10:30am, I had to hurry home and get ready for my next gig, as Poison Ivy in this sexy Batman-themed photo shoot downtown at this fabulous, kooky new bar called the Lady Silvia (theladysilvia.com). One of my photographer friends had lined up a sexy Batgirl, Catwoman, Robin, Joker and some weird latex Harlequin-clad villainess…and he asked me if I could do myself up as Poison Ivy. Could I ever! I went to Sally’s Beauty Supply and got a $3 can of red hairspray, and went to town, using a photo of Uma Thurman on my laptop as a reference. The results came out pretty damn good, if I do say so myself! I can’t WAIT to see the photos!

Then after THAT I stopped at my beloved arepa stand for a snack, and then had to go to work taking photos at the Captain Fantastic show…so by the time all of it was over, you can understand why I was too tired for the Ren Faire or the rave. Oh well, there’s always next year….but arrrgh, how I HATE missing a good party!

Anyhoo, after my busy weekend, it was time to get down to business and take care of all those annoying little day-to-day tasks…like renewing my prescriptions. There’s only one prescription I really care about, and it’s one that my regular doctor won’t fill…so I had to go across town to a special, progressive doc who was simpatico enough to understand my situation and fill my needs for the low, low price of $100. I’ve had a prescription for this particular medication since 2010, but the State law here requires that you renew it every year. What a SCAM! Aside from the $100 doctor’s visit fee, you also have to shell out $200 in application fees, plus pay to be fingerprinted and have your application notarized. All in all it’s a $330 ordeal…but more than worth it to me, since I will soon be in possession of a state-issued patient’s card that I can wave in the face of any and all nay-sayers. I love being legal — TAKE THAT, ASSHOLES!

Seriously though, it’s all such a fuckin’ farce that I could hardly keep a straight face. I actually DO use my medication as it was intended — for pain relief, and not recreationally (you probably don’t believe me, but it’s true — I should be the poster child for this program)…but the whole process of GETTING the prescription is a joke. The doc gave me a cursory physical exam, wasting disposable plastic thermometer caps and ear-examiner-thingy caps in the name of giving me a genuine “physical,” complete with blood pressure and reflex checks…and the whole time I was like, can we just cut the bullshit and get down to brass tacks, Doc? But I know how it is — so I bit my lip and played along. My facade only cracked once, when a bearded old hippie who was a fellow patient winked at me in the hall. Pedro’s not here, Man!

After taking care o’business, I went home to bake some special medicated cookies, and then got dressed and headed back out for a little Pornstar Karaoke (karaokexxx.com) — a local karaoke night hosted by porn actresses (dreamed up by a verrrrry smart karaoke DJ). I’d been wanting to check this out forEVER, so I met some friends down at this divey little lounge on West Sahara near the World’s Biggest Souvenir Shop, and joined in the fray. Since it was XXX karaoke I sang “I Touch Myself,” by the Divinyls, and got a decent reception from the crowd of frat mooks, C-list porn stars and assorted fanboy perverts. Seriously, THAT was a funky crowd! In addition to the likes of “Claudia-Marie, the Big Tittied Southern MILF” (pic at left, taken last year at another event), I also ran into my friend Kid Dynamite, a seasoned fetish performer and professional “sub” who is known in the biz for being able to withstand all manner of CBT (that’s cock-n-ball torture, to you normal folks). Kid told me about one of his recent shoots, where a dominatrix covered him in Saran Wrap and then lit his balls on fire. Wow, and I thought *I* did some fucked-up stuff to pay the bills!

Meanwhile, besides all the porn “stars” there were also a bunch of regular weirdos and perverts in attendance, including this one really creepy, silent older white man who sat in the corner gazing at his iPad all night, only breaking his reverie to get up and sing a Backstreet Boys song. WTF! Then, at midnight, they got the crowd going by starting a game of Musical Dildo — five of us were chosen to get up and toss a rubber butt plug around, and whoever was caught holding it when the music stopped, was out. Well, no big surprise — I was the last man standing. But instead of letting me keep the buttplug (ouch!), they gave me the choice of either a t-shirt or a “mystery grab bag.” OF COURSE I went with the grab bag, which was just a little resin piggy bank shaped like a hippo. But still! It makes a nice memento, and I can use it as a swear jar or something 🙂

I didn’t stay out toooooo late at pornstar karaoke, because I had made plans to go hiking the next afternoon with my little 18-year-old friend Samantha. We hiked up to the top of Sunrise Mountain, a local behemoth that looms over east Las Vegas like Jabba the Hutt, and it was a HARDCORE hike! It’s one of those super-duper uphill-all-the-way hikes where you’re scrabbling and slipping and sliding over treacherous mountain passes like a crazed Taliban foot soldier looking for the lost caves of Tora Bora. (Read my review of the hike here.) It was awesome!

Once at the top, we enjoyed the FABULOUS view (you can see Lake Mead on one side, and all of Vegas on the other), and I mooned the city just to show ’em what I thought. By that time it was getting late, and Samantha and I decided to head back down and go downtown for Quadruple Bypass Burgers at the Heart Attack Grill, which was supposed to finally open for business that day.

Fortunately for us, some Southwest Gas employees were just finishing up some repairs to the electrical towers up at the summit, and they offered to give us a ride back down in the back of their pickup truck. YIKES! Was that ever a bumpy ride…the road was so steep and the gravel so loose, I thought we were gonna careen over the edge several times. Some of the hairpin turns were so tight, they had to back up over and over to make them. But they made it! We got back down to the parking area safe and sound, and now we can look up at Sunrise Mountain from anywhere in town and go, “Oh yeah, I’ve climbed that.” The only bummer was that I couldn’t find the guest book or register they supposedly have up there…I wanted to leave a Wonderhussy sticker in there!

 Anyhoo, we went downtown to the Heart Attack Grill…and by that time, we were STARVING! Alas, they still hadn’t opened….but that nutty Doktor Jon was there, and he let me climb back in through the window, although this time we didn’t do any body shots. He wasn’t even wearing his doctor’s outfit this time, because they were in the middle of boring-ass training class for the sexy nurse waitresses he’d hired. But the good doctor did tell me that he had checked out this very blog, and he really enjoyed “reading my articles.” You know how men always say they read Playboy for the articles! But anyway, he seemed really sincere, and said I seemed like a really interesting person. AND he invited me to come down and be the guest bartender one day! Uh oh…..me as a bartender is like having a fox guard a henhouse. Watch out, Fremont Street!

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Jerry Springer, Part II

Time for the latest installment of All My Children…which is what my life has felt like lately! This week’s episode is brought to you by Charles Shaw Vineyards: when your life is a mess, Two Buck Chuck makes it allllllllllllll seem manageable 🙂

After posting my last week’s blog, I got a very long, sincere, heartfelt apology/explanation from Sgt. Peanut. The gist of it was that he was truly sorry to have gotten me involved in all this, and that he had in fact broken up with the “girlfriend” (the slightly off-kilter Asian woman who approached me at the bar, wept, and then lavished me with excessive praise and flattery) back around New Year’s…but she was having trouble letting go.

This was all totally plausible, and the more I think about it, I believe him. She’s nuts. However…literally about 15 minutes after posting that last blog, I got a Facebook message from ANOTHER woman: “I hope you don’t find my contacting you odd, but I’ve been reading your blog for a few months now…and I am also dating Sgt. Peanut!”

WTF! A few email exchanges revealed that this third woman, we’ll call her Nancy, had been dating Peanut on and off since last year. According to her, they didn’t really do much at first, since she could tell he was still entangled with the nutty ex, and Nancy herself was still sort of mixed up in another dying relationship. But supposedly, around New Year’s, Peanut informed her that he had officially broken up…so they began dating for real.

Nancy said she knew the nature of their relationship was casual, and not exclusive — she suspected he was dating other people, and then too she knew he was a swinger, since he took her to some swinger parties in town. She said he had a regular swinger couple, in fact, with whom he “played” on a regular basis. (At the risk of offending all the swingers out there…I find the whole “lifestyle” of “playing” smarmy and creeeeeepy…I’ve spent a fair amount of time at swing parties and clubs, and it’s just not for me.)

Anyhoo, around the beginning of summer, Nancy felt that Peanut was growing distant and less available, so she spied on his Facebook page and saw “Sgt. Peanut ‘likes’ Wonderhussy” (you should all “like” it too, incidentally). Curious, she clicked on the link and began reading this blog. The more she read, the more she realized he was dating me and her at the same time (as well as others, she suspected…plus the “play” couple).

She said she never contacted me because she already knew the nature of hers and Peanut’s relationship was casual, so she didn’t feel like it was her place to get involved. Supposedly she loved reading my blog, though, and as time went by she realized I was liking him more and more…so she broke up with him. Not just because of me, though — apparently he got back into it with the nutty ex sometime in the spring, and the whole scene was just too complicated for Nancy to stomach.

So they broke up, but had lately been talking about getting together for dinner sometime to hash things out. They had ended up arranging to go out last Thursday — but with all these new developments (the events of last weekend), Nancy wasn’t sure if she should still go meet him.

I said ABSOLUTELY you should go meet him — and let me know where you’ll be, so I can show up either in disguise (to spy on him) or in my Wonder Woman costume (to kick his ass). But apparently, Peanut ended up cancelling the date — he suspected a setup, only he thought it was the nutty ex behind it and not me. They ended up rescheduling for Friday night, and that was the last I heard…Nancy mysteriously stopped emailing me, after a virtual barrage of long, heartfelt, “just between us girls”-type emails. WEIRD!

The last missive I got from her was after Peanut had called her to cancel their Thursday date. Supposedly they talked on the phone, and while she didn’t mention having talked to me, she told him she’d been reading my blog, and what the hell was up? According to her, he admitted to her that we HAD been seeing each other…just in a very casual way. He told her I was dating other people, too, so he hadn’t thought  it was a big deal.

She said he spoke fairly highly of me, and she thought he really was truly fond of me…and she said she’d fill me in on the results of their dinner date. But she never emailed me again, so I have no idea what happened.

After thinking things over, I’ve come to realize that this whole fiasco was caused by one thing: lack of communication. Peanut assumed I was dating other people — rightly so, since most of my friends are men. But I don’t sleep with any of them — and that’s the crux of my problem. Remember when I said I was “a whore in public, and a lady in the bedroom?” Well, that’s my curse — people think I’m the swingin’est whore of Babylon that ever lived, but in reality, I’m just a niiiiiiiiice girl 🙁 I know it’s my own fault, because I enjoy shocking people, running around naked and otherwise pissing on the moral code of the bourgeoisie…but I can’t help myself. I don’t want to change.

Meanwhile, all along in the back of my head I suspected/knew that Peanut was seeing other people — ever since the amateur porn party, I had him pegged as a true freak. But I guess I was too lazy to really think about it, and how it made me feel…so I just kept chugging along, figuring things would work themselves out one way or the other. I suppose what I SHOULD have done was have one of those awful, awkward “Sooo, what are your intentions for my daughter?” kind of talks…but being the passive puss that I am, I hate that kind of stuff and avoid those confrontations whenever possible!

Either way, the nutty ex showing up like that REALLY fucked things up. Because she took me by such complete surprise, I completely believed her entire story. I wouldn’t have been so upset to find out that Peanut was dating other women at the same time as me (as mentioned, I already suspected as much). It was “finding out” that he was in a committed 2.5-year relationship with someone, and talking kids and marriage, that freaked me out!!!

So now, with a week’s perspective, I see it all as a massive failure to communicate, and not really anyone’s fault. HOWEVER, it was DEFINITELY his fault to bail on me in the middle of a date like that, and not bother to explain anything that was going on! He basically threw me to the wolves. Nice! And I still think there’s more to the story than any of this weird cast of characters has been telling me. If he really “broke up” with the nutty ex around New Year’s, why did he get back into it with her in the springtime? Or did Nancy just make that up?

Arrrgh, it’s all very confusing, so I am washing my hands of the matter and moving on. Dating in Vegas is a real bitch….especially for someone like me. The old biddy at work who’s always giving me advice (“Listen to Mother Jane!”) just gave me a stern talking-to about the way I present myself — she said I give up too much information up front, and that I need to keep an air of mystery about myself or no “nice” man will ever want me (she’s a firm devotee of that dumbass book “The Rules”). Apparently I’m supposed to string a guy along for a few dates, being coy and demure, and then when he starts to really like me, THEN I can spring the whole naked-godless-bohemian-iconoclast shtick on him. In theory, by then he’ll be so smitten and hooked, he won’t mind.

Meanwhile, my friend Muscles Manischewitz also had some advice for me: no guy is ever going to accept me as a naked, godless, bohemian iconoclast. They will at first — just to get in my pants. But according to him, no man wants to seriously date a naked, godless bohemian iconoclast…after awhile, they’ll either move on or expect me to change.

Well, gee. I guess this means that I’ll be staying single — because there’s no way in hell I’m changing myself that drastically. I’d rather be alone and be myself — I learned that the hard way, when I was with my one ex-boyfriend (the one I bought my house with). He was much more conservative than me, and made me keep all my “kooky” stuff (art supplies, mannequin, costumes) in a room in the basement. Boosauce!

Sooooooo, Wonderhussy 2.0 is back on the streets, looking for action. It didn’t take long for me to set my sights on a new target: these two hot Croatian cellists who play in the band at the show I’m working at. As you know, I am a souvenir photographer at a certain ginormous showroom in town, and a new headliner just began a 3-year engagement — a 1970s gay piano-playing icon we’ll call Captain Fantastic. He played Vegas a few years back, at the height of the economic boom, and back then times were faaaaaaabulous — we made assloads of money, hand over fist, photographing showgoers posed at this little red grand piano out in the lobby. We’d dress ’em up with feather boas and kooky sunglasses, and it was genuinely good times — the only time, in fact, when I truly loved my job.

Well, now the bitch is back…but alas, this is 2011. The crowds are nowhere as lavish with their spending, and the show itself has been toned down considerably. The old show was totally over the top — inflatable boobs and bananas all over the stage, with exceptionally lurid, fantastic videos by my hero David Lachapelle playing on a giant screen behind everything. Meanwhile, the crowd was totally over the top as well — people were busted doing drugs, masturbating, having sex and pissing in the aisles during the show. GOOD TIMES! (I’m being serious…I loved that crowd, and would take it any day of the week over the roomsful of dour, humorless Quebecois attracted by Sally Dingdong.)

So anyhoo, the new show is basically the same as the old show, sans inflatables and lurid videos. Instead of Lachapelle vidoes, a series of fairly cheesy CGI animations play on the screen — stuff like morphing curlicues and cartoons that would be of interest mainly to stoners and heroin addicts. However, there are a couple of FANTASTIC additions to the show — one being an AMAZING percussionist who rocks the SHIT out of an array of crazy instruments. And the second being these two smoking hot Croatian cellists.

I first saw these two guys on the Ellen DeGeneres show about 6 months ago. I was running on the treadmill at the gym (the only place I’d get caught dead watching TV) and almost fell off the treadmill when I saw them, so I went home and looked them up. Little did I expect that 6 months later, I’d be up close and personal with ’em. Alas, however, a VIP insider friend at the showroom told me they’re gay…but I’m not sure, because they ARE European, after all… and sometimes it can be hard to discern: Gay or European?

Anyhoo, the new show just started last Tuesday, and thanks to my VIP insider friend I scored a free 5th-row ticket for opening night. Without the inflatables and the bananas, though, I must admit to being pretty bored with the show — I almost wanted to bail after the first few songs. But then the cellists came out, and gave me something to watch! It ended up being a pretty good show, especially during the latter part, when they invite people up onstage to come dance with Captain Fantastic. I was one of those lucky people, and danced my ass off with nothing more than a velvet rope separating me from Captain Fantastic and his piano. Unfortunately, I was so swept up in the moment that I focused all my attention on the Captain, and forgot that a mere  5 feet behind me were two smoking hot Croatian cellists 🙁 Damn! Valuable flirtation time, wasted. Still, I saw them again the next night out in the casino, and was at least able to kick them a little game…although my gay suspicions were confirmed by the company they were keeping.

Speaking of gay, Captain Fantastic is well known as one of the world’s most outspoken advocates for gay rights, so he attracts a hug gay following. Opening night was wall-to-wall well-heeled homos and fag-hags, with a few celebrities and other notables thrown in for good measure. In fact, none other than Doogie Howser, M.D. aka Neil Patrick Harris was in the crowd. Fabulous!! I gotta say, even though the crowd this time around isn’t quite what it was last time…I still really enjoy shooting this show. Yay for not being miserable at work!!

Aside from work, I also went topless kayaking with my little 18-year-old girlfriend, this super cool chick I work with we’ll call “Samantha.” Her dad has been chainsmoking Marlboros for years, and they saved up so many “Marlboro Miles” that they got a free kayak out of it, which we took out to Lake Mead for an afternoon of fun in the sun. Neither of us wanted tan lines, but I wasn’t sure if she’d be comfortable going topless in front of me, so I brought her a pair of pasties I’d gotten from one of the topless pools, and for myself just used a couple squares of duct tape. Of course, the first thing that happened to us was some pervy old nudist in a stretched-out Speedo who was picking up trash on the beach came over and chatted us up. I’m used to this kinda thing — I thrive on conversations with pervy old nudists and other nuts — but Samantha was like, WTF! Especially when he pulled down his Speedo to show his “tan line,” thus exposing his nasty-ass shaved dick-n-balls. I mean, seriously?! Did I NEED to that plucked-chicken-neck-looking thing, good sir???

After kayaking around the lake all afternoon, we went back into town to go check out this awesome haunted house one of my actor friends is working at, playing a vampire. I met this guy at the mascot convention thing that I worked awhile back, and he’s basically a full-time actor — he was even in Pirates of the Caribbean as some sort of bit-part scurvy knave! He’s super nice, and he got Samantha and I into the haunted house for free, and it was really cool — especially when he busted out a surprise “Birthday-Party-in-a-Bag” he’d made for me after reading about my shitty-ass birthday. It was too cute — he stuffed a gift bag full of b-day stuff like a card, gift, cupcake, hat and noisemaker. Too cool! After we went through the haunted house, I went downtown with him and his wife and friends to celebrate his birthday, which happened to be that day. His friends were very cool people who all work at the Natural History Museum together, and get together for these crazy godless holiday parties: they burn a Yule Goat at Christmas, and eat turducken and qua-duc-ant at Thanksgiving, among other crazy traditions. They invited me to their parties this year, and it’s enough to make me wanna stay in Vegas for the holidays! Normally I go home to California every year — I find the idea of staying in Vegas for Xmas extremely depressing. But my newspaper reporter friend Phil Connors says his best Xmases EVER were in Vegas — dinner at the Peppermill followed by holiday lap dances at the OG strip club. Then again, he’s Jewish, and thus used to weird holidays…so I dunno.

Anyhoo, while I was downtown with my new posse of museum friends, I realized once again how much I LOVE downtown Las Vegas. Really, anyone who’s ANYONE prefers downtown to the Strip these days. I’ve long preferred the seediness of Fremont Street to the sanitized corporate behemoths on the Strip, but lately there’s been somewhat of a hipster renaissance down there and now EVERYONE goes downtown. It’s kind of annoying — all my old parking spots are now taken, but the trade-off is there are more cool bars, restaurants, art and events down there.

I’m not even just talking about Fremont Street (the tourist zone that’s covered with the light show ceiling). I’m talking about ALL of downtown! I stopped for a snack at this new little kiosk on the street corner across from the OG strip club called “I Love Arepas,” and it is FANTASTIC! Arepas are these weird little Venezuelan corn pockets stuffed with various fillings — I had some down at a bus depot in the Venezuelan hinterlands back in ’09, but these were 100 times better! (They don’t like Americans down there, so someone probably pissed in my Arepa at that bus depot…which would explain it.) Anyhoo, “I Love Arepas” sells a buncha different type arepas for $3.50 each, and they are AWESOME! Plus, you get to sit right out on the street while you eat, and watch the weirdos go by. As mentioned, it’s right across from a strip club, and also near a dive bar and an all-night drugstore populated by pimps, prostitutes and crackheads. It’s GREAT!

As I drove down to Fremont St. on my way to meet my museum friends, I passed all the aforementioned nuttiness, plus a number of crazy boutiques, pawn shops (including the one from Pawn Stars), peepshows and wedding chapels full of tourists in prom wear. Then I saw a homeless man with a long white Santa Claus beard, shuffling drunkenly down Fremont St. in a t-shirt printed to look like a Santa suit. What a nutty fucking city, I thought — the perfect place for me! It’s rare that I feel any sort of fondness for Vegas, but downtown does it for me. And now I wanna move closer to the action!

My current humble estate, Villa Sinvergüenza, is technically considered to be “downtown,” but it’s probably a mile or two from the actual epicenter. And while I love my house (enough to bash my head repeatedly against a wall for the last 3 years, struggling with my lender to modify my awful unaffordable loan)…I am finally coming to the realization that I wouldn’t die if I had to move out. I bought the place for $380,000 and zillow.com currently values it at $91k. WTF! Meanwhile, I found a genteel hovel in the middle of downtown for $60,000. It’s nowhere near as nice as my current estate — faaaar from it, in fact — but it’s sixty thousand dollars! I could pay for it, CASH, and never have to make another mortgage payment for the rest of my life. Which means I could stop posing for stupid lesbian photos and kissing tourist ass!

I have a mediation hearing on my current loan coming up on Oct. 26th. At this meeting, my attorney and I are supposed to sit down with my lender’s representative, plus an impartial 3rd-party mediator, and hash out a deal that’s amenable to all parties. But I have my doubts. All I can really afford to pay on a mortgage is $1000 per month, and thanks to my friend J.R.’s amortization calculator I found out that means that for my $340,000 loan, they’d have to give me an interest rate of 1.8%. HAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The other option, of course, is for the bank to write down my principal to what the house is actually worth. I don’t think $91,000 is an accurate amount — zillow.com valued the boarded-up abandoned marijuana grow house next door, which has sat empty for over a year, at $150,000 — so obviously these numbers need tweaking. I’d say my house is worth more like $150k too. But it’ll be a cold day in hell before the bank cuts my principal IN HALF 🙁

Soooooooooo…I am completely and utterly lost. HELP! When this whole fucking mess started — when my ex-boyfriend left me with this insanely ill-advised, no-doc, robo-signed, fraud-ridden mortgage, I should have just walked away then and there. Why didn’t I? A sense of moral obligation, reinforced by my second ex-boyfriend (“You signed that loan, you should honor it”), Mother Jane (“Whatever you do, don’t ruin your credit”) and even one of those free consumer credit counseling services (“Your moral obligation is to honor the agreement you made with your lender”). FUCK!

If I had walked away then, I’d be richer, happier, and probably able to sleep. As it stands, I’m a hot fucking mess. I weep just about every day, because I’m so utterly confused and alone in all this. What I need right now is to blow a Senator or some other corrupt fucking good-old-boy in a position of influence, and get them to work out a special deal for me. OR, I just need someone to buy me this other $60,000 house. I’ll pay you back within 6 months, I promise!

Or, I need Jebus to come down and smite my enemies, and make everything better. But that doesn’t seem very likely, either. Arrrrrgh!

P.S. My depression this week was so deep that I wasn’t even able to enjoy a trip to the annual Las Vegas Bikefest with my friend Muscles…although while there, I did pick up this pair of metal testicles for my keychain. Next time someone’s trying to push me around, I’ll use them as my magic talisman…a reminder that despite my anatomy, I DO have ballz and I will not stand to be fucked with! Not by bankers, bosses OR boyfriends!

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