I’m not generally a fan of anything which uses the expression “white trash” because I’ve lived in the American South. Pig ignorant people there will generally excuse racist nonsense by explaining that they also have issues with “white trash” like being bigoted on the basis of class, as well as race, is somehow more reasonable than being merely racist alone.
Due to the humorous intent of the occasion, I made an exception, however, for Miss Kitty’s White Trash Ball at Dragonfly this past weekend and, damn, but I had a good time. My homeboy Lange and I hit the Cat and Fiddle beforehand. Having been a fisherman in Alaska after art school (yes, like the TV show), Lange is not such a big fan of crab and raw fish, so I felt it was high time I chose a restaurant with cooked non-seafood items on the menu. The Cat and Fiddle is a music industry hang which bills itself as an English pub in Hollywood, although I am personally partial to the New Orleans fare like their uber-buttery crab fingers. In fact, I ate brussel sprouts and crab fingers and I was thinking that this would be a kinda healthy meal without the butter and Stella Artois. Kind of representative of Los Angeles really, something which looks healthy on the surface, but something just underneath which could probably kill you. Fun fact to know and share: Parts of Casablanca were filmed at the Cat and Fiddle location. When I first saw Casablanca as a teenager, Humphrey Bogart’s Rick was not pretty enough for my taste, but, these days, I have enough pretty in my world that I’m more impressed by force of personality and strength of character.
Major Strasser: What is your nationality?
Rick: I’m a drunkard.
Captain Renault: That makes Rick a citizen of the world.
Despite my best efforts to alternate with water, the Stella theme continued at the Dragonfly where my friends kept plying me with high quality beer and low quality water. Given a choice between sparkling Voss and Stella, I will generally choose the water over the beer. Given a choice between Stella Artois and flat Arrowhead, the beer is going to win most of the time. I would like to particularly point the finger at Lange and Blue Blood hottie Joel Awesome for enabling my wayward ways. When Scar called Lange an enabler, totally independent of having heard me call him one, he claimed not to know the meaning of the word. I am skeptical on this point, but was happy to give him the benefit of my otherwise useless over-education.
The really cool thing about the evening was that people dressed really tongue-in-cheek. Instead of being all doing their little turn on the catwalk (on the catwalk, yeah, on the catwalk), everyone was dressed silly and laughing and having a good time. The only difficulty was recognising everyone I know under tooth black or without makeup. Perish, who I once shared a house with for a month, generally dresses like the demon prince of elfland (or at least a fetish-y goth boi) so I didn’t recognize him at all in his faux beard and flannel and jeans. Embarrassingly enough, not even when he hugged me and said hello. I was all faking like how’s it going and he totally knew and told me who was under that hair. I was very entertained. The winners of the costume contest were a gentleman dressed as a farmer with a date dressed like a sheep. Ya gotta love any event which involves sheep-fucking. My costume was blue eyeshadow and a limited edition Alabama stagehand T-shirt I got for working for the band about a million years ago, in a land far far from here. Although I know the band has had a couple dozen #1 hit songs, Alabama fans who are impressed by my collectible T-shirt will be less impressed when they find out that my best guess at what a song by Alabama might be was “Sweet Home Alabama” which, according to the interwebs, is actually a Lynard Skynard ditty. (I also kind of think Alabama has done a song for Sesame Street.) That’ll learn me not to guess.
My knowledge of things a person could put in her cunt is far more extensive than my knowledge of Southern fried rock and country music. Thus, I was pleased to impress my friends when a gentleman named Craig wandered in wearing little besides a towel and a gigantic fake cock. “Ask him if that is the Dick Rambone,” I told Scar. “What?” she said. “Ask him if that is the Dick Rambone.” “Is that, uhm, the Dick Rambone?” Indeed it was the dildo modeled on legendary 80’s pornstar Dick Rambone. Dick Rambone has one of the largest cocks ever to appear in porn, so the Dick Rambone plastic cock has little real world application. I used to manage an adult boutique where I often fantasized about beating shoplifters (and a prudish wife who came in to complain about her husband’s female-orgasm-inducing-oriented purchases) with our larger plastic appliances. Apparently the knowledge from that particular weird job has stuck with me better than the knowledge from my gig as a stagehand for Alabama.
Other Blue Blood hotties in attendance included Kitty Von Klau, Damon Knight, Tassy Pink, and Nikki 666, who told me that her outfit, like mine, was just kinda what she would normally wear to kick around work, as opposed to go out on the town. I’m only posting a small gallery of pictures from the festivities because, for some reason, most of my photos appear to just be of people’s asses. Also of people’s asses being spanked. One of the great truths of life is that sometimes what looks hot as fuck in photos is sorta off in person and sometimes a really hot live sex show watched while tipsy doesn’t totally translate to snapshots. Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, people with appealing and frequently visible asses tend to walk into whichever one I’m at.
Whoo-hoo! Agent Aeon just alerted me about being on the cover of Star Magazine this week. A few days ago, a charming editor from Star (who knew they had nice peeps over there?) contacted me about the sexy blue photos Forrest Black and I shot of Adam Lambert. He also interviewed me about my impression of Adam Lambert, formed while shooting him at a Blue Blood-sponsored event, that I wanted Adam Lambert to win American Idol, etc. Mostly, we talked about Led Zeppelin (both fans, although only he has a Zoso tattoo) and booze (for excess, he prefers red wine and I prefer beer, he likes Pabst Blue Ribbon, I like Stella Artois, and we both like Shiner Bock.) I knew there was going to be a feature in Star, but I didn’t realize it was going to be a cover feature.
