People keep asking me why I haven’t mentioned that Forrest Black and I have some of our photography of American Idol runner-up Adam Lambert in the current issues of Star Magazine and Rolling Stone, so I suppose I’ll mention it now. The internet has been abuzz for weeks now that Adam Lambert was going to “come out” in Rolling Stone issue 1081. So many publications were reporting that Rolling Stone was going to report that Adam Lambert says he is gay that Rolling Stone had to rush to put the digital image of the cover, lensed by brilliant top photographer Matthew Rolston, online well before the issue hit newsstands. Which seems very meta-something.

For some reason, a number of folks desperately wanted to be the primary source for settling speculation on Adam Lambert’s sexual orientation. Forrest Black and I photographed Adam Lambert kissing Brad “Cheeks” Bell. In point of fact, all of the supposedly scandalous images of Adam Lambert kissing a male were of him kissing the same guy, Brad “Cheeks” Bell. However, as many fans seems to find boy/boy smooching inconclusive and seemed to perhaps care about orientation, I didn’t want any part of anything which might hurt Adam Lambert’s chances of winning American Idol. I heart Alex Burton, my editor at Star Magazine, because the deal he and I made for the first round of images he ran was that there would be no outing of Adam Lambert in the issue and Alex Burton, my man of the Led Zeppelin tattoo, kept his word and kept the article classy and positive. Word is that Star Magazine offered Brad “Cheeks” Bell $2,000 to tell all and Cheeks declined, saying that he’d turned down higher dollar offers than that and he would only ever do a positive interview about Adam Lambert.

Unsubstantiated rumor is that Rolling Stone ponied up $50,000 for Adam Lambert to tell them his sexual preference first. Rolling Stone contributing editor Vanessa Grigoriadis, my fellow Wesleyan University alum, did a great job presenting Adam Lambert as a whole interesting person with visceral prose and probing but respectful questions. In the interview, Adam Lambert tells Vanessa Grigoriadis that he waited to come out in Rolling Stone because he felt he could express himself in context there. Some of the context, however, is that he didn’t lose his virginity (presumably to a man) until he was twenty-one and that he’d made out with girls while drunk at nightclubs and was now somewhat bi-curious about what it would be like to have sex with a woman.

Rolling Stone has always had some of the best, most incisive and most intriguing interviews of any magazine (and of course Wesleyan grads tend to be terrific writers), so it is no surprise this is a good one. But I’m left uncomfortable that the issue of a sexual label was such a big deal. I feel like we don’t have enough words to describe sexual orientation for the terms gay and straight to have much meaning.

If Adam Lambert suddenly got a girlfriend, after years of going out with the same sex, would that mean he did not count as gay any more? How about if he just occasionally fooled with really inspiring women who really got him as a person, but only had relationships with men? I realize that I travel in circles which are perhaps a bit ahead of the curve on sexual openness. But I know men who are gay-identified who sleep with women from time to time. I know women who are bi-identified who only have relationships with men but also have sex with women. I know men who are straight-identified who will have sex with men provided there is a sexual configuration of enough people for it to count as an orgy. Everyone can think of the prison example for same sex relationships among people who do not identify as gay or lesbian. Etc. I think that maybe 10% of the population is strongly hardwired to enjoy only the same gender and maybe 10% of the population is strongly hardwired to enjoy only the opposite sex. But most people, in the right situation, are more fluid than that. They might have a preference, even a strong preference, but, in the right situation, the preference won’t dictate their actions.

At any rate, I feel most human sexuality is too complex for a tidy label to be genuinely descriptive. I thought it was cool that Adam Lambert told Vanessa Grigoriadis and Rolling Stone, “I loved it that this season girls went crazy for me . . . As far as I’m concerned, it’s all hot. Just because I’m not sticking it in there doesn’t mean that I don’t find it beautiful.” There is a certain combination of flamboyance and rawness there which is the reason so many of my friends were rooting for Adam Lambert on American Idol.

And it is a flamboyance and rawness which utterly transcends sexual orientation. I think that general America is far more afraid of that rock star counterculture essence than they are of male homosexuality. Senior Blue Blood writer Will Judy made the excellent point that, although Adam Lambert was runner-up to Kris Allen, rather than winner, on American Idol, “Lambert got to live my ultimate superdream from 5th grade though. Fronted Kiss AND Queen in the same night. (And KILLED, of course)” which is a really fine summation.

Apparently, ineffable is one of the most searched for words on the internet today. This is entertaining because it is ironic that someone should search for the meaning of a word which means that which has meaning which can not be expressed.

I think ineffable is one of those words which comes up around a holiday like Easter, as folks bust out scripture, while being a bit fuzzy on what the bunnies mean. So, as a service to the community, we thought we’d help everyone out with, not the nine billion names of G-d, but at least the ten most useful definitions of ineffable.

Ineffable is . . .

1. incapable of being expressed or described in words; inexpressible: ineffable joy. (Random House)

2. not to be spoken because of its sacredness; unutterable: the ineffable name of the deity. (Random House)

3. Incapable of being expressed; indescribable or unutterable. Unspeakable. (The American Heritage Dictionary)

4. Not to be uttered; taboo: the ineffable name of G-d. (The American Heritage Dictionary)

5. defying expression or description; “indefinable yearnings”; “indescribable beauty”; “ineffable ecstasy”; “inexpressible anguish”; “unspeakable happiness”; “unutterable contempt”; “a thing of untellable splendor” (Princeton’s WordNet)

6. too sacred to be uttered; “the ineffable name of the Deity” (Princeton’s WordNet)

7. Incapable of being expresses in words; unspeakable; unutterable; indescribable; as, the ineffable joys of heaven. (Webster’s Dictionary)

8. That cannot be described, incommunicable, indefinable, indescribable, inexpressible, undescribable, unutterable (Roget’s II: The New Thesaurus)

9. too great for words, beyond words, celestial, divine, empyreal, empyrean, ethereal, heavenly, holy, ideal, impossible, incommunicable, incredible, indefinable, indescribable, inexpressible, nameless, sacred, spiritual, too sacred for words, transcendent, transcendental, unspeakable, untellable, unutterable (Roget’s 21st Century Thesaurus)

10. Ineffable? Is that that hot girl in high school who was saving herself? Or is that uneffable? I get the two confused. (Forrest Black)

Definition #10 is my favorite. (Yes, he was kidding, although don’t try drunk word definition debate games with him because you will not win.) Now that you all know what ineffable means, don’t blame me if the stars start winking out one by one. I’m just the messenger. (Do blame yourself if you are as big a dork as me and get the Arthur C. Clarke reference.) And, if you like furry bunny suits, decorations, candy, and treasure hunts (even for lame treasure like boiled eggs), I’d like to wish you a Happy Easter.

Happy Repeal of Prohibition Day! So a Dewar’s ad pointed out to me that we should all celebrate the Repeal of Prohibition on December 5. I thought to myself that that was a great idea, but wondered if it would catch on. On December 2nd, Fleshbot did a feature on December holidays which included a New Years photo Forrest Black and I shot of Miss Bunny and which also put “December 5: Repeal Day: The 21st Amendment ends Prohibition” in their sexy calendar.

I got drunk for the first time at the Baptist Mission in Israel. Yes, the Baptists send missionaries to the Holy Land and so does everyone else. And my friend Elisabeth Bjerreaugaard-Pederson (who I would love to find me via Google) and I thought some of the missionaries’ kids were hot and so we drank with them, having no idea what we were doing. I got my real drinking merit badge drinking with Marines in Germany at age sweet sixteen. Blue Blood is sweet sixteen now, but Blue Blood has a curfew. Unlike sixteen-year-old me. To be honest, I’m a fan of water and, although I enjoy going drinking very occasionally, I feel the most important thing about today’s holiday is the celebration of freedom. I just don’t like being told what to do in my personal life and the Repeal of Prohibition was a win for personal liberty.

I thought it would be fun to celebrate the day with (besides drinking of course) some free sexy barroom photos Forrest Black and I shot of Rachel Face. I seem to have spent a lot of time in bars with Rachel, sometimes shooting and other times drinking. One of the things I enjoy about her is that she always comes up with fun bars to shoot in or go to.

Blue Blood has been working with Rachel Face since 2001/2002 or thereabouts, but the most recent sets shot in 2008, were at a Portland gin joint called Plan B. Plan B is pretty much awesome incarnate. It is owned by punk bass player Jeff Truhn of Straitjacket fame and it has the best bacon dogs on the West Coast, maybe the best bacon dogs anywhere. The actual bar in the bar has all sorts of collectible records inset along its glossy surface. Apparently this was the hard lemonade made from a hard lemon of a breakup with the sort of punk rock girl who scratches all your favorite records on her way out the door. With today’s update, there are now 11 sets of Rachel Face available on BlueBlood.com in their entirety.

A bit of history for the history buffs not already viewing Rachel Face in the buff. (Sorry, I loathe puns . . . except for sex puns. We all have our foibles.) On December 5 in 1933, Americans got back the right to legally sell and drink alcohol. During the period from January 16, 1920 to that date, some of the saloon culture, the so-called drys were up in arms about, did decline. Drys was the slang of the time for teetotalers, axe-wielding beer barrel smashers, and other temperance advocates. Strangely there was (and purportedly still is) a Prohibition Party, so the temperance movement could run candidates likely to oppose the sale and consumption of demon rum, alcohol, booze, intoxicants, alky, canned heat, cocktails, drinky-poos, firewater, beer, hard stuff, hootch, moonshine, whiskey, rotgut, sauce, spirits, tipples, tequila, hot juice, that sort of thing.

In all fairness to the drys, there had been more saloons than the population needed and the law of supply and demand forced saloon-keepers to maintain sidelines in girls, gambling, and other mind-altering substances. Not that the more profitable early saloons did not also feature such things, but there was a feeling in America than the problems were getting worse by 1919. At the same time, during Prohibition, more traditional drunkard customs were replaced by the world of the speakeasy. Speakeasies tended to draw previously respectable types into a more criminal and more sexually open environment. And of course Prohibition made a lot of wealth move around, most notably out of the government’s pockets and into a few bootlegging families everlasting fortunes.

So have a drink today to celebrate freedom of vice and pursuing happiness and making money the American way.

So apparently, while I wasn’t paying attention, best-selling author Tucker Max challenged Nick Denton’s huge blogging empire’s flagship Gawker to a $10,000 bet over the likely domestic gross of his upcoming movie and Gawker declared Jihad on Tucker Max over everything. Not in that order.

Full disclosure: I have drunk beer with Tucker Max and I’ve shaken hands with one of the Rudius Media bloggers. I have partied in Vegas with large portions of the Gawker staff, enjoyed Gawker’s hospitality in Austin, and shaken hands with Nick Denton. I think it is fair to say that I don’t have a horse in this race because I genuinely like and enjoy the work of people in both camps.

Now, Fleshbot is the main Gawker blog I read with any regularity, although, given that I quoted ValleyWag earlier today, obviously it is not the only one I read. So I don’t know how I missed the Gawker flagship’s 20 entries this month about how much they loathe Tucker Max. I worried that I might be being too rough on Joshua Todd and Buckcherry earlier this week, but, damn, compared to Gawker, I am sweetness and light and the personification of all that is gentle.

I wrote a thing a while back where I praised Tucker Max’s writing and general brilliance, but I mentioned that he was coy in his stories about use of cocaine. Tucker Max is very sensitive to people having misimpressions of him and he explained to me that it was important to him that he was about hanging out with beer and hot chicks and not about hookers and blow and that he felt beer and hot chicks were more fun. I’ve never been big on choosing just one scene, if more than one has something to offer, and there was probably more blow than beer in the room we were standing in, so I told him I’d have to contemplate that. I then printed a retraction of my implication that he might do drugs. And Tucker was still stressed out that I might not have been clear enough.

At the time, I thought he was being more sensitive than he needed to be, but, having read through some of the Gawker articles where everything the guy does is put under such a microscope, it makes more sense to me now. Wikipedia, which almost never takes any responsibility for how badly someone is being falsely maligned or lauded, actually locked the Tucker Max entry about a week ago. If Wikipedia actually makes any effort to control the rampant wikiality of an entry, then you know it is serious. Either that or Tucker Max has superpowers. In addition to pointing out that editing Tucker Max’s Wikipedia entry must be a full time job, on their site, Gawker assassinated everything about Tucker Max from his writing to disgruntled former employees to what swag he gave away at his movie’s wrap party to how cutesy he is with his dog to entries friends of his have written about him during arguments and since removed from the web.

As a big fan of Tucker Max’s book I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell, I don’t get what it is about him that drives some people into a complete frenzy of hate and disgust. Folks who are allergic to him generally complain about frat boy something or other and refer to his work as fratire, but Tucker Max says he has never belonged to a fraternity and I believe him.

I’m not excited about I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell being made into a movie. I recently watched the Augusten Burroughs Running with Scissors flick on TiVo and it was painful, even mostly fast forwarding. The problem with bringing memoir to the big screen is that the aspect of high quality memoir which is most interesting is the memoirist’s perspective. I have read almost all of Augusten Burroughs‘ books and enjoyed them, but the Running with Scissors movie was wretchedly unwatchable. And Running with Scissors had Alec Baldwin, Annette Bening, Gwyneth Paltrow, and Evan Rachel Wood in it.

Tucker Max quotes Eminem’s lyrics “I love being hated, it’s great, let’s me know that I made it” when talking about the Gawker month-long hatefest. Maybe I’m just a sucker for a sociopath. The line between self-actualized individual and sociopath is soooooooo thin. But I think being vilified bothers both Tucker Max and Eminem, especially being vilified inaccurately. People always like to laugh about the idea of someone getting upset over something on the internet, but we live in a digital age and everyone needs to get their heads around the fact that what happens on the internet is real life now. You can step away from the keyboard, but something that tens of thousands of people read is still going to have an impact.

Sometimes you just have to live your life on your own terms and deal with the fallout. In this case, Tucker Max says that his film needs to do about $20 million gross to definitely be in the black. He has invited Gawker to wager what they feel will be the movie’s earnings and they win if it comes in beneath their bet and Tucker wins if it does better than they gamble. I’d say that a 20 entry media blitz on Gawker might be worth a few grand, but Hamilton Nolan and the rest of the Gawker crew write too well for a hostile deconstruction from them to equal good publicity. I’m very curious to see if Gawker will accept Tucker Max’s wager, all proceeds to be donated to charity of course. After that, I’ll be very interested next spring, when I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell is released, to see who wins the bet. I hope I haven’t offended any of the involved parties, but, if I have, I’m okay with dealing with the fallout.

When I was a little kid, my compatriots would frequently use the expression “I don’t care”, but I was always careful to say “I care, but not enough to change my behavior.” Everybody likes a smartass, right?

The following are the top three definitions of Halloween, as voted on by the users of Urban Dictionary:

”(1) An annual excuse for girls to dress like sluts and get away with it.

Girl 1: I’m going to be a ______ for Halloween.
Girl 2: What’s your costume look like?
Girl 1: I’m wearing my ______ underwear and _____ bra and heels.

(2) celebration where little kids dress up and get candy, teens dress up, get drunk, and go get candy, and adults dress up, get drunk, and give out candy, funny how things all work out.

im dressing up as a farmer for halloween. im so cool.

(3) the day that makes the other 364 worth living.”

For a lot of people Halloween is the one day out of the year that they can truly be themselves. It was always my favorite holiday and then one year it seemed like almost a let-down, like it wasn’t really any different from any other day. Which, in a way, meant that I guess I’d made the right life choices to get to be who I wanted to be all the time, but, since then, I try to pull out the stops when October rolls around, so it still feels special. Sometimes trying to pack so much into one short time period makes me melancholy and high strung around Halloween, but I generally end up feeling good about it, after all is said and done.

As usual, this year, Blue Blood is the media sponsor for a ton of events. The ones Forrest Black and I will be personally shooting at include the just passed Release the Bats Nine Year Anniversary and the upcoming Hex Hollywood Halloween 2007. You can see what we shot last year in the Hex Hollywood Halloween 2006 photo gallery.

”well I live with snakes and lizards
and other things that go bump in the night
cos to me everyday is halloween
I have given up hiding and started to fight
I have started to fight

well any time, any place, anywhere that I go
all the people seem to stop and stare
they say ‘why are you dressed like it’s halloween?
you look so absurd, you look so obscene!’ . . .

well I let their teeny minds think
that they’re dealing with someone who is over the brink
and I dress this way just to keep them at bay
cos halloween is everyday”

That is a quote from the seminal Ministry song Every Day is Halloween, by the way. It was actually first released in the early 80’s, although most people will guess later than that, even those somewhat versed in their goth-industrial trivia. This week, I recommend you give candy to drunk girls in excusable slutty costumes and quiz them about the origin of the expression “Every day is Halloween” and win barroom bets, with an assist from your pal Amelia G.

I would like to say that I was aware of Tucker Max long before he was ever in print. On account of how I’m such a spectacularly plugged-in girl on the interwebs. The truth is that there are massively high traffic sites which somehow never have audiences intersect. In actuality, I was stuck in the Phoenix airport when visiting my family and, strangely enough, the Phoenix airport actually has a pretty good Borders. Which even more strangely contained a book with a sleek black cover featuring a gentleman with an antisocial smirk holding, I believe, a bottle and a bottle blonde with her visage replaced with a Your Face Here sign. The title was the clever I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell. I bought it along with a stack of noir novels.

Tucker Max’s I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell chronicles the author’s drunken and salacious exploits. He came of age as the offspring of a South Beach restauranteur. From his writing, I gather his taste thus unsurprisingly runs to big-titted blondes with fit but not skinny bodies. Mildly Southern demeanor potentially a plus. Too bad for him that his intelligence level is off-the-scale brilliant. Tucker Max has raised hitting on drunk human sluts to the art form, or perhaps sport, of a more advanced species.

He comes across to some reviewers as a misogynist. He does tend to refer to women as filthy whores and mention that they owe him a rib. The following excerpt from a tale of a horseracing tailgate party drinking contest is a pretty representative exchange from his book:

1:58: She raises the first shot and gives me a toast, “Give me chastity and give me continence – but not yet . . . St. Augustine!” All her little friends laugh and cheer. Amateurs.

Girl: That was really sexist.”
Tucker: No it wasn’t, it was a joke. If I had said that women are nothing but life support for pussy, now THAT would be sexist.”
Girl: “Excuse me?”
Tucker: “If I had called her a hot mouth, that would be sexist too. Or, if I said that the only thing going for her is that she’s 98.6 degrees and has two wet holes, that would be very sexist. But I didn’t say those things, did I?”
Girl: “WHAT?”
Tucker: “Uh oh! Did I piss you off? Are you going to write angsty poetry?!?”

Women in the stories Tucker recounts also tend to say things along the lines of, “I can’t believe how funny I think you are and I’m a girl.” It is my opinion that they are either (a) easily manipulated chicks or (b) missing the fucking point. I’m not delusional, so I’m well aware that some people look at my own work and aren’t aware of anything deeper than quality photos of punk genitalia and gothic boobies, although there is more to it. But I do understand that sometimes pervy sex is the common denominator for a reason. Sure, Tucker regularly points out how much pussy he has thrown at him 24/7 and how great he is at acquiring even difficult pussy. His writing career started when he first launched his site as a dating application. Some chicks will always be attracted to a guy they believe other chicks want. Some guys will be impressed by any dude who claims to have laid miles of pipe. Although I went through a phase in the late 80’s where I liked to tie up blonde boys from good families, that was a long time ago, so some people will undoubtedly be surprised that I am such a huge fan of Tucker Max’s writing that I told my panelmates at the recent SXSW confab that I’d be late getting to the green room for our panel because I was going to watch Tucker Max speak at his first. Then again, readers who really got BLT, the antisocial punk rock humor zine I did in DC, well, I think they will understand the Tucker Max appeal.

The point is not that Tucker Max is a hard-drinking vanilla guy who has frequent sex with varied partners. The point is that his writing is brilliant, articulate, painfully insightful, and totally fearless and he is able to find the humor in absolutely anything. John Hargrave of Zug.com, the moderator of Tucker’s one man SXSW panel From Blog to Book called the author “a promiscuous drunken Tolstoy.” To give you an idea of the Zug perspective, my horoscope on the site today suggests I “Call a hardware store and whisper “stucco” into the phone over and over. “Stucco stucco stucco stucco stucco.” If they hang up, simply call back.” I used to manage an adult boutique where callers sometimes attempted this sort of thing. They might as well have been saying “stucco” for all the impact it had on folks who sold lingerie and vibrators, although only the serious submissives called back to speak with the manager, once I got through with them. At the end of the From Blog to Book panel, John Hargrave was kind enough to pour healthy doses of something called Tucker Max Death Mix. The ingredients of which are apparently Everclear, Lemon-Lime Gatorade, and Red Bull. No wonder so many Tucker Max Drunk stories entail such copious amounts of vomit.

Tucker Max claims to have little formal idea how to write properly. This is debatable as he went to both U Chicago and Duke Law. Both good schools. But he assured his SXSW audience that he has no clue how to use commas, confuses forms of the word ‘too’, and doesn’t really consider himself a writer. He says he tries not to consider his audience when writing, to just concentrate on telling his story in his own authentic way. “I write in my authentic voice,” he says. Oh yeah, and then he works on trimming the fat from his work. But the authenticity is key.

According to Tucker Max’s business card, the name of his company is Rudius Media. According to the Rudius web site, “a rudius is a wooden sword, given by the Roman Emperor to a gladiator upon attainment of his freedom.” It may be happy coincidence that this is probably also a play on the word ‘rude’, but whatever. The best thing about Tucker Max’s writing is the sense of abandonment, the extreme freedom. He’ll tell you his ferocious opinion of some lesser person that himself and he’ll tell you his dick is average in size, although a bit large to put in a midget or a small girl’s colon. He may be coy about whether he has ever done cocaine in Vegas, but he’ll tell you how much hostile fun he is on absinthe. He’ll detail how he drove a mildly inconsiderate girl’s car through the storefront of a donut shop. He’ll pressure all the law firms in Silcon Valley into raising their salaries for summer interns by posting sock puppet conversations with himself on Infirmation.com. He’ll tell girls he is in a Christian rap band and coerce his friends into playing along. He’ll get accidentally pepper-sprayed during the sex act. He’ll bring friends in Special Ops to a politically left wing cocktail party. He’ll get thrown out of IHOP. He’ll get thrown out of Denny’s. He’ll get thrown out of Mickey D’s. And he’ll pretty shamelessly tell you – and everyone else – about it. Although his book has been out for more than a year now, he says it is still selling a remarkable 2,000 copies a week to people like me who are just discovering him. He says he designed the flawlessly appropriate book cover himself too. Tucker Max challenges the SXSW audience to check his numbers on Bookscan because everything he says is true and this is one outlandish tale which is verifiable.

And why, you may ask, was I at the airport, while visiting my family, buying noir novels and I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell? All happy families are alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.

Actually, I have a pretty happy family, as these things go, but that just seemed like such an elegant literate way to close that I almost couldn’t help myself. Of course, now I fucked it all up with the disclaimer.