crashing a stand up show is harder than it looks

The good news is that stand up comics are actually very very generous to each other about stage time past a certain level. (if you don't suck or look like you don't suck.) so there is a thing where you can say "I am a comic" and get into most comedy clubs for free sometimes even your friend gets in too.  You have to be ready for them then to say hey you wanna do 5? ten? headline? so if you indeed arent a comic, that can be awkward. OR if you are one and you have just finished a meditation retreat in the backwoods of Western Australia that involved 2 hours of didgeridoo playing right over your FACE and big gongs clanging to clear your inner child of resentment and create compassion towards the parents who made you so depressed comedy seemed like a good idea, you might wanna rethink this technique. I didn't. And it wasn't pretty tonight at the Little Creatures Brewery in Fremantle by the ocean where i perpetrated shrill incomprehensible comedy on a very beer-soaked audience who mercifully were too drunk to really gice two shits.

Party Crash Tip #5: If it is a comedy club say "I'm a comic from " (insert exotic far away place or city here).  This gets you in. but you might have to perform.

Tiffany in Beverly Hills Party for Dogs and Rich Ladies

A wonderful party crash opportunity came through a friend of mine who moonlights as a publicist here and PR person for events.


Party crash tip #3 : Have friends who are publicists/PR people and do them favors. Lend them your car. Write copy for them when they are in a crunch.  Invite them to stuff.

So it was a pretty fab party outside Tiffany on Rodeo drive given by the Amanda Foundation, red carpet was for cast members of True Blood, and also showing up were the Mayor of L.A. and Bill Maher who I guess are into dog adoption rescue thingys. It's a pretty popular cause here in LA, the Ace of Hearts Foundation also rescues dogs on the day they are euthanized and all have a ton of celeb support.  This one had a costume contest for dogs (it's halloween) a silent auction, an open bar (love that even though I dont drink much I support free cosmos in skull shaped shot glasses and sake) a buffet of seafood, veg dishes and sweets.  Pretty nice spread. I bid on (and won) a juvederm treatment from a bev hills doc and brought my cousin Tommy from Jakarta who takes pictures for some Italian Fashion mag. The best was talking to some very intensely botoxed real housewives lookin chicks holding their little pooches dressed like princesses and cowboys.  The winner was a pomeranian who lit up like liberace on opening night at the MGM Grand. He is on the extreme left of the picture with all the white ladies holding their dogs on a stage.

Going to this kind of thing makes me feel rich. And poor all at the same time. However I did get an excellent discount on my next round of face injectables which only seems right when you spend half your time living in holly-weird.

The land of dreams and glitz

This is a madonna street vent box on Melrose and Highland. It kind of epitomizes how I feel today wandering around scrounging for change to buy food this week, paying for tires with my bartender tip money for my 85 jag because the 1981 ones are still on there!!  aware that I am about to be paid handsomely for some shows in a few days, aware that i have a gorgeous new laptop and 3 creditors calling me. Preparing a grant application and 3 tv pitches. And a free trip to hawaii in december. Honey Hollywood really really is poverty jet set even when you are "making it"

Lisa Ann gets an award and I see David Hasslehoff's shoes

That is David Hasslehoff's white patent shoe!!!!

We went to this Torrid event-- Torrid is a line of "cool" clothes for plus sizers. Lisa Ann who created the show I exec produce "Dance Your Ass Off" on oxygen was getting an image maker award and I thought oh yeah, a few free hors d'oeuvres maybe some lip gloss in a swag bag, a typical Hollywood event. Plus I got to chill with three of the BEST dancers we had on DYAO (Pinky, Shayla and MAra all who totally rock) and Julian had a night off so we went to the quad/lawn of FITM for the event. There was a runway set up for a cute fashion show. Turns out Torrid wasnt fucking around. they had Brooke Hogan do the preshow yes i know, i know, but that shit aint cheap, and then they had the Hoff present an award to his own kid (the one who posted the drunky video of him on youtube channeling elvis eating a burger and mumbling megalomaniacally about how great he is--LOVES IT) and there was a singer chick whose name I can't remember 9sorry publicists) but who gave me a little Rihanna vibe and was pretty ovah ("ovah: what the kool kids now say instead of fierce or off the hook. It is OVAH. this look is OVAH. it will be OVAH") anyhoo. Here is David Hasslehoff. He looked a little man-o-rexic.



Party Crash Tip #7: Sometimes say yes to what might look like a party with your friend just coz why the hell not, and look forward to the mini pizzas. You might get a Hasslehoff sighting as a bonus. Or a coupon for a free massage in the swag bag.
Lisa Ann wowed em in this vintage dress

And finally a lil Brooke Hogan in da house...I appreciated that her ultra cougar mom was there with her asymetrical haircut on a boy prey, and her car driver brother Nick also there cheering her on. She was a big Lisa fan so that's all good too.


I haven't had anything particularly cunty to say lately, so I hope that doesn't mean that I am going to start actually getting invited to parties. I suggest if you are a kulturefuk fan that you read these like the Torah. Start at the end, (the earliest blogs) and end up here on the front one. Otherwise I might be giving you too much hollyweird bullshit cheese factor just because I am too busy to record my actual cunty reactions on the night of the events right now and have to back track. Takes the edge out a little. but not totally.This one is the Hoffs daughter who posted his burger-eating shame video. Nice goin kid. Everyone is accountable! She had on some Fendi shoes that were OVAH.

Fireceness at Soho House ALL SUMMER LONG

Who the fricking frik has time to blog? I mean really??!!!
I am so super duper behind I am gonna have to backtrack to august now. SHIT.
OK so real fast here are some pics from the couture runways we did at Soho House every wednesday night. Next year bigger and BETTER. I ended up hosting the last few coz, well, ya know. That first pic is me with drag legend and ex-con Flotilla DeBarge and our music Director slash genius in residence Lance Hornewho happens to be my favorite emmy winning composer in an Alexander McQueen suit. we did not pay retail. What am I crazy?
From the Calypso Show model Ash who herself is an extremely good party crasher






PARTY CRASH TIP #98: Be a model






(all walk for Diane Von Furstenberg on the rooftop runway)


Tiffany valentine is on fire on the runway!




PARTY CRASH TIP #99: You have to sort of be aware what couture looks like at a bare minimum. Sometimes clothes SAVE you. I was crashing a Junior Vasquez birthday party at the now dead and gone Tunnel in 1999 (the kind which STARTS at 6am-- seriously) and the door bitch was giving my friend grief and we were listed under HER name. So i sidle up, and go really are you sure? and He/she goes is that Dolce? And I was like, uhm, yeah I just got it . (strange mumu outfit that looks way better on the rack than it does on me but definitely 90s Dolce and Gabbana.) and I shit you not he she goes, "That is fierce. Ok, anyone wearing Dolce gets in." and in we went. SO YA NEVA know. I did not pay retail for that either. I resent retail and I also resent fake bargains.
Know the difference and lap it up when you see a bargain.

this one is me talking backtage to Brady Mc Donald principal dancer with Mark Morris Group and Javi Ninja of legendary house of Ninja who performed the preshow for Ungaro.



PARTY CRASH TIP #89 Bring cool people. Guess what cool people are often not snobby. Benny and Javi Ninja are uber cool scenesters in NYC and Benny is notorious from his vogue career and America's Next Top MOdel. Javi is just plain wildly talented. Brady is my old classmate from Juilliard and one of the top modern dancers in the world. I promise you, if you swaggered up to them in the correct manner, knew something or someone in common and had cool things to offer them (sobe party tix, hookup to a photographer, invite to a weird poetry reading where they could perform etc) they would not act like dicks. Even if you bought them a drink and said whoo let's dance they would be into it. Bribery works. Friendliness works. Appreciating what people do works. And THEN. Bring them to whatever thing you are crashing or only marginally invited to and let THEM do the sweet talking. OR just stand there looking cool while you convince door bitchery to let you in.

this is brady and javi on stage. the song was smooth criminal it was fabulousss.

I got more. I spent a few weeks chilling with those ninja boys and re-firing up my friendship with Brady. The other thing about being fearless about talking to those you think are cooler than you is then when it sticks (and honey dont even sweat it -- you WILL get blown off often-- but it is worth it for the times it sticks, for when it does, your world of ideas and colors and friends and experiences opens up and it keeps opening and opening the more you say yes to things that are new and interesting and challenging and intimidating. Risk being told no. A lot. a hundred nos are nothing. One yes is a doorway to parts of you (and parties) you never knew existed.

That SOBE lizard makes me DANCE! Part 1 SOBE Friday party in the West Village

This photo is me at the party
Dude, this one was off the chain. Every Friday this summer there is a party thrown by genius promoters and apparently sponsored by SOBE that made me sit down like I did 10 years ago at Pat Field's birthday and say THIS PARTY IS IT!! CAN I LIVE HERE?? Leda had the hookup as she so often does and got us on a list. Which we werent on when we got there but she totally fixed and we walked right on in to a giant warehouse with movie screens and these gorgeous classic cars being wiped down by short short wearing models.

party Crash tip #9 You have to know someone who has the hookup and hang with them all the time until you earn the status of automatic plus one.

Party Crash Tip #10 even if you do hang with the person with the hookup you need to know the name of the hookup's hookup who put you on the list in the first place and prefereably have their phone number for when the list holder says ummmm no, who are you with. Acting cool, and indifferent with a sliver of indignant usually gets the job done at this point. Drop the name, act like you could give a shit if you do go in, make the call and leave a voice mail. Like, hey i thought you had put us on the list we are outside. If your shoes are nice, usually this is enough to get you in.



The sliders came out then sushi (not pretend sushi which is avocado and cucumber only--no the real kind with fish and everything!) and then some kinda dumpling thing that was delicious. I just sat and looked at the car polishers asses and admired the lamborghini they had somehow gotten into this party. It was an indoor drive in for Spike Lee's joint. Upstairs there were free manicures and pedicures on the roof and a bar pouring sobe mixed drinks all night long like the Diddy-- Ciroc and agave lemonade and pink lemonade mmmm-- and the crowd all looked like the wandered in out of a maxwell video or a commercial for brandy (drink not DUI singer) or some rich people in brooklyn party for angela robinson. You get the idea, lots of hats, and spats and dreds. I looked kinda dorky in black suit with yellow rosary but I passed. DJ Mos was spinning the the door guy Mel, a giant gorgeous movie sar looking bouncer in black suit with earpiece, who knew all about all the parties here. They had Robin Thicke up in here last week. They had cool DJ's. I have to admit if i actually wanna stop eating sliders and dance at 2pm that DJ is BANGIN. This is why we all need sponsors.

Diane Von Furstenberg at Skinny Dip SOHO HOUSE hotness

This was a hot show. First of all who knew that bird kites fromo china town plus bamboo planting poles from 27th st equalled fabulousness sailing down the runway before the models. Me and Leda that's who! I gotta tell you her electrical tape zebra stripes and feather headdress madness was pure couture genius. How oh how do we pull this shit together week after week for a box of tic tacs and a metrocard? The crowd was pretty sexxy i have to say and Michael and Carrie only got slightly paparazzied which of course is totally against the secret handshake NO PHOTOs policy at the house , which i totally get because some people , ahem maybe even people i know quite well, do not need their photo taken at random parties when they are off the grid and lookin at models on rooftops. So yeah, sato and the girls did another pretty brilliant modern dance slash lion king puppet slash performance art turn as pre-show with the fire eating Miss TiffanyValentine cavorting in her teeny tiny little nyphette of an outfit. And then the DVF gorgeousness descended. I like staging fashion shows. I like the drama of the clothes being surrounded by actual drama. We also had on that night the synchro swimmers in the 4 foot pool which is ridiculous but seriously elevates the show. And burlesque of Danger Dame Veronica Varlow doing a really vintage looking sexxy sexxy fan dance. I of course never get to have any fun at these my night mostly consists of running back and forth saying whre the fuck is the sound in the back speakers and who ate the model's food (and oxymoron) and ok, zebra birds, GO! Its like running a drama camp by the pool on the roof. and there is drama. and it is camp.

Soho House Wednesday Nights Skinny Dipping in couture

( Leda's amazing butoh flower girls at our Juliette Longuet runway.)


Sometimes the best way to get into the party is to actually throw it. If you have been living the kulturefuk lifestyle and actually paying attention to the litterati and the glitterati you start to have an idea of what feels like a good time. Lance and I went to a Pat Field Party JUST BEFORE Sep 11 at the Sub Mercer lounge. Leda was in a white pantsuit. So was lance. I was in black. Jimmy James was there. Hors D'oeuvres on little trays and champagne everywhere and the space was GORGEOUS. Drag queens rubbing elbows with editors. Fashion freaks and uptown girls. It was heaven. There were plastic beds and lucite lamps and spontaneous performances that no one could see and a heavenly DJ. Lance and I said if we could LIVE at this party we would. So fast forward 8 years later and we are throwing Wed night parties at the poolside of the Soho House outdoor deck under the name Skinny Dip... (Sato! on the runway)

Somehow I found synchro swimmers willing to do shallow water choreography to Lady Gaga. Somehow we managed to make the pool lounges into a runway and had models walking in Jill Stuart's new collection to a remix of the remixes of Dinah Washington and Nina Simone I heard on Virgin's playlist.

Party Crash tip #56: Sometimes the best way to crash an a-list party is to throw one, and entice other a-listers to show up by giving them the gift of seeing through kulturefuk eyes-- a hybrid of trash and panache, a uptown meets downtown experience. Hardly anyone can resist the thrill of meeting at that party.

Somehow we got Maine to be in full body paint and do a Kali number where she lights her nipples on fire at the end. And somehow we got Lea DeLaria to jam with Justin Bond's band. It was a good party. I didn't really attend it but I was there. Holding beach balls and hula hoops. Cleaning up non toxic neon from the faux heart Maine pierced in her number. Stay tuned to see if it is more fun to throw it than to crash it. I am sort of thrilled to be puppet mastering, especially because the Skinny Dip runway is hosting some major talent: Malandrino, DVF, Williamson. And there is drag. And glow in the dark hulahoops. And tap dancing. Seriously, I would jizz if I was actually just sitting at the party. But for now it's a slight reversal of the usual voyeuristic cultural tourism that defines my existence as queen of the poverty jet set. I'm letting the guest list be the tourists while we party by throwing a party.


(on stage with the first look at the Ungaro show.)

Feeding the homeless with James Brown's widow

See interesting things always happen when you kind of just go with the flow in Los Angeles or New York. The first step is usually to say yes and just keep saying yes to see how it all unfolds like a giant snake of improbable sights and sounds wrapping itself around your otherwise sedantary habitual nature. Or is that just me. So on one of these nights when I actually said yes (it helps to have friends who ALWAYS say yes-- Lance being on the forefront of those but I can think of others--it's a requirement to be in the inner sanctum chez Rigg) I ended up at the Viper Room to see Tomi Rae Brown's chick rock band Godmother play a set. Not too crazy since we are pitching a reality show for Tomi and a documentary on the late James Brown and have often enjoyed her edgy throaty power rock vocals in the process. So they play the gig, and I am in a booth with Lance who is visiting some musical theater friends, and Julian and Andrea who decided to drive me there so I could drink. Which I didn't. Lance did, and took a shot from between the breasts of sexy female bassist Beth Ami who obliged with a full titty dunk into his eye that rivals only the Nicole Sheridan puss flash we had in the elevator at the porn awards a couple of years ago.

party Crash tip number 17: Sometimes you don't actually want to crash a party or be part of the party at all. If the host looks like a homeless person, excuse yourself and make your friends go with you. Even if they are drunk.

So it was one of those things where everyone afterwards goes whaddyYOU wanna do no whaddyYOUUUUU wanna do for fifteen minutes in the parking lot. Some dude from Indian Casinos out west gave me his card which I lost. Lance flitted away, the band starts to flit away, Beth Ami has mold in her kitchen and is at a hotel with family, drummer Athena has to return to her Scorpion (drummer James Kottak-- it's a family biz) and I am like wait am I Tomi's ride? She's hungry. They leave me holding the bag so to speak and she goes CMON, WE"RE GOING TO THE RAINBOW. Which is across the street which seems totally like, whatever, but she points to some dude that has been sniffing around us for the whole time and says that dude is a sax player he is gonna buy us dinner. I go, are you sure? She goes yeah yeah he loves me he wants to show off and buy us dinner. And then she lurches across Sunset. I spot check Julian and Andrea who are yessers, sometimes and they shrug ok. The roadie whose name I forget is following too. Everyone is talking about Tequila and Pizza and Tomi keeps saying they know me there, My picture is on the wall. And as we slither into a booth there it is, fuscia hair and all next to a grinning James Brown. So we order the pizza and Tomi Rae is poking my sunglasses through a kind of hilarious drunken aria of laughing and cracking word-play jokes. She's got a mind for puns and a bod for sin apparently. It's a little disorganized and I say to the roadie, "Dude will you drive her back?"and he is like hells yeah. So I go when did you start working with them and he goes "Tonight" we met on the plane. Visions of Rufis and tattoo ink dance through my mind and I go "You know what it's cool I got her." Seeing as I am the Exec and all.

Long story short the meal ends with Julian's eyes rolling back in his head from making small talk with drunk people, I got the tattoo of James Brown crushed into my shoulder by Tomi Rae who is leaning and lolling through interesting stories, but still. Photo is me having my glasses knocked off my face close to end of meal by an exuberant Tomi Rae Brown. The check comes. The sax player who is supposed to be the ringleader of this extravaganza and who has drunk 3 shots of tequila, throws a buck on the table. A buck. Julian laughs. Tomi goes, hey he's buying. Sax player who is as I suspected actually creepy homeless dude says well this is all i got for richer or for poorer. Like that is supposed to be funny. Julian throws down a 20 for him and andrea. Roadie has like 10. Bill is 150. I pull out my amex card thinking, poverty jet set don't like getting stuck with the check, even if I do get a candid shot of James' Brown's widow drooling on my shoulder. I can still taste the flappy tomoatoes and soggy crust under the layer of white cheese and am not at all happy that THIS is the meal i am paying a buck fifty for. I mean at LEAST Beso. Katsuya. Something.

As we leave, a group of cougars in a pink convertible go Hey Tomi!!! She whispers to me, they all want to fuck me. They are Beverly Hills lesbians they throw parties and wanna do me. I am shocked particularly because they have the long silk wrapped nails of the idle rich/hookers/check out chicks in Queens. And plenty of inectables in their nasal labial area. Hardly dykey looking predators on the outside.

I consider how much money it would take to entice me to be the meat in that Real Housewives sandwich, particularly because I have just fed the homeless who is now saying to Tomi "how you gonna leave without giving a brother your number"....

We drive her to Beth Ami's house where she is tip toeing around the kitchen mold to get to her bedroom, and she flops open her suitcase for the weekend which contains a crazy hat, a devil mask, a bra and a hairbrush. That's it? I say incredulous at how packing light can be so eclectic. "Yeah" she says "I thought I might need this stuff."

That makes perfect sense to me.

FIRE IN QUEENS NEW YORK

Wind can either blow out the candles and you get your wish, or fan the flames of a burning building. Outside the All Saints Church on 46th st in Queens, a crowd stands watching a building burn. No one really talks. No one is smiling. People are taking pictures to bring home to their apartments which hopefully are not on fire. The top floor windows are all melting. There are black clouds of smoke all over the neighborhood which reflect the early evening sun and make the sidewalk look very very bright. I am watching everyone watch. Firetrucks all up and down Skillman ave. A shitsu in the window of a limo looks at the people. The firefighters are stomping around in the top floor windows you can see a think layer of orange on the ceilings above them. Everyone watches and waits thinking it could be me. The statue of St Francis of Assisi is small and covered in soot in the courtyard.

PERFORMANCE ART I DRAW THE LINE AT SALMONELLA

Quick fast blog here. I was doing a 3 song set for a friend in downtown LA opening her art show of GORGEOUS paintings of America in disrepair taken from a cross country road trip she made in search of buildings and things that had been abandoned. Gorgeous. LA has a nice scene of "happenings" that spring up randomly especially at art galleries and fire pits. For this one I became accidental MC. It was mostly performance artists. So lemme just break one down for you. She puts on a video of nature and deers and stuff. She goes around in a cape with a red riding hood basket and hands out fistfuls of raw hamburger meat. She drops cape, and is nude with big bush. She affixes a fox tail to her ass and dances around in front of the nature video. There is some ironic music playing cant remember because I am too busy gagging from the smell of raw meat all around. I have successfully avoided it by wandering out of reach everytime her weirdness approached. At this point in the story lance was like "Yeah, So?" To which I reply, "i know not that big a deal." More naked dancing and she actually picks up a taxidermied fox carcass thing and starts waltzing with it as the crowd of about 30 hold their meat. Yeah, so? Then the music changes a little and she one by one goes up to each person and eats the raw hamburger out of their hands. Sorry. That's my limit.

Crashing Bishop Tutu's party makes me donate my last c-note

I wonder if I keep outing myself as the ultimate party crasher if I'm gonna start getting cock blocked at the velvet rope. Gives a scammer pause that's for sure. I'm hoping kulturefuk will fly under the radar for another year or so, so i can continue to chronicle the pursuit of free shit, and the infiltration of tony snobby exclusive parties for all of you who dream that one day you will have a use for that armani suit in tasteful earth tones that can fit in anywhere.

Party Crashing Tip #34. Do not wear outlandish colors to any event you are not actually invited to. Standing out is a total buzz kill. Especially if you dont know what the host or organizers look like you are an instant sitting duck if you draw the eye. Wear a subdued extremely expensive looking outfit. Do not wear anything with swirls or chartreuse or orange or pink unless part of your gambit is to see how long it takes to get kicked out. A tasteful conservative sexy look without, again, standing out too much is your meal ticket. If you look TOO HOT you will again get too much attention which is danger. This is not your moment to be the belle of the ball. This is your moment to pick up a drink like you've been there for hours, make a friend instantly who can make you look like you belong and entrench yourself in the party so that when you do get the raised eyebrow it's too late coz everyone feels like you belong there. See photo of Rachel and I in appropriate party crash attire with random dude who looks like a film maker

So when my hookup said -- "Come to a luncheon for Bishop Tutu which Elizabeth Taylor will attend," I donned a black dress with tiny dots, low heels and a coat and made Rachel do the same, and we pulled up to the valet in Pasadena all business. We breezed past the check in desk with some story about working for the charity, then immediately found some blank nametags, everyone had them, and quickly filled in our names.
Party Crash tip #35: Always bring a black blue and red pen for such occasions.
Long story short No Tutu. No Taylor. Rainn Wilson of The Office hosted the auction (with much less aplomb then La Stone in the previous blog) and there was a band and catering which wasn't too outlandish (good thing too since it was a charity event for an outreach to Africa organization called GAIA). Chuck of Chuck and BUck, or was it Buck, hmmm the weird one ok? That guy was there and then a lot of doctors and the guy who invented something which i cant remember right now, I think some kind of med thing like aspirin. Or the defibrillator. There were no gift bags and I actually donated a hundred bucks to the thing which is not supposed to happen on a free party crash situation. But kids need school. And Africa needs help. And I can't always expect Sharon Stone to take her shoes off and make a difference. You know? This pic is us in appropriate attire in an inappropriate photo op in mansion bathroom

Sharon Stone can sell me the Brooklyn Bridge

One of the events I was ushered into last month was the L.A. women's night awards which the LGBT center puts on. Michele Balan (In pic with me and Jane Lynch of all the gay movies and the L word) had extra tickets to the dinner and gala and I am never one to turn down a 300 ticket to any red carpet event if there are going to be gift bags involved. Or a Linda Perry sighting. And this had both. We bulshitted on the red carpet and I made some spanish girl laugh as media maker and very very popular lesbian Fitz interviewed us for her I dunno what, and then inside saw the LA's finest in dresses and formal khakis, bierkenstocks and Shane from the L word get ups. The dinner was an awards ceremony and as Linda Perry who I find so freaking talented it makes my eyes get dry and itchy if I think of how lame I am compared to her, was gonna get one and sing. She ROCKED it. We were at the table with Poppi Champlain of Girl Bar who sang voulez vous douchez avec moi at the Dinah with me and Sandra Valls earlier this year, and when Westenhofer got up to start the auction in her all white getup (Michele said she looked like a tampon-she kinda did) not much was crackin. So Sharon Stone who was an award recipient for the work she has done with Amfar, after one limp wristed kinda bidding session thaat yielded like 2000 for a cruise on Olivia or some shit, Sharon fricking Stone jumps up from her gala table (she has a lot of lesbians working for her--maybe she likes the attention, maybe she likes the dyke drama maybe she likes herbal tea and wallet chains) anyways, she jumps up, reaches a well pilades'ed arm up towards the heavens GRABS the mic out of westenhofers hand and proceeds to take over the entire auction. She barks "this is pathetic even for lesbians! Do you or do you NOT want equal rights, marriage, and the same freedoms that straight people enjoy. Do you really want me, who ordained myself as a minister just so I could marry my gay friends to each other, to be your only option. Do you want my kids to see your unions as viable and real lawful affirmations of love? or what!!!???" And then she proceeds to literally yank the dollars out of peoples wallets with an intense auction of all the remaining items, one of which she pulled 20k for, the other 10k.

Lisa Ann tells me that she once saw Stone rip the shoes off her own feet at a private auction and say "there are only 3 pairs of these in the world. the bidding starts at 10 thousand dollars" Now I got a lotta gay friends who HATE when lgbt orgs give awards to the straight pretty people. But as a half time straight pretty person and full time queer culture vulture, I have to say lighten the fuck up. SHe is a gay icon, she raises hundreds of thousands of dollars and puts her time to making all of our lives better. I hear she is a handful at home. So fucking what. The bitch can call an auction. And she became a minister and she shows up to events. She ain't the problem. She is not taking nothing from nobody. She's trying to live a good life. We are all in this together. And any ism and obia hurts everyone. I agree that lgbt orgs need to be a little less uncle tom-y and sentimental about the straight pretty people who take up the cause. But stone made me think about making more money so I could give more away. To anyone who needs it. As long as I get a gift bag at the end of the night. (I gave mine away by the way, so there!)

Phyllis Diller Art Party part 2 w/Scott Thompson and Lisa Ann

So I went BACK to phyllis Diller's house this week because a)her assistant Karla is my friend and it is fun to see her and b) who wouldnt. I was picking up a piece of artwork I bought for my friend Lea De Laria who is gonna shit a brick when she sees it--dedicated to her and all. I brought Michele Balan (who ironically is in a jets and sharks feud with Lea and I stay out of that shit because mean old dykes need to leave their cute perky token asian friend out of the hate!! No haters!) Anyhoo, This time, Ms Diller was all dressed in yellow head to toe like a delightful canary in giant round yellow sunglasses and a bucket hat and yellow beads over her yellow shirt (note to self extreme color coordination looks like an OUTFIT in all caps). She told us tons of jokes. Like: An irishman is leaving a bar and.....It could happen! She also said pussy and fuck A LOT. So did I. What will happen when i turn 91 what words will i use the most? Sphincter and enema maybe. Or collaratura. I like that word. We drank pink champagne, apparently the same brand that Debbie Reynolds likes, -- Diller told us that DR carries her own bottle of Zinfandel around, the non fizzy kind, coz she likes nothing else and I drank my whole glass which is imprudent coz I am asian, I dont usually drink and I was driving. But excuse me if La Diller is in the champers then so am I honey. We talked about burlesque and the new show I am pitching, and she said she liked Dancing With the Stars because there was a band and there was dancing. It sounded smarter and hipper when she said it. Then she showed us where c1 and c2 were broken form a night fall and then we looked at her amazing and glorious and beautiful walls of art. Michele took home two pictures. Seriously, Phil Dil's art muscles are STRONG right now she is PROLIFIC. I am unfortunately going to miss her art party on may 18th, legendary especially amongst fags because she hosts a viewing, people buy, get photos and signatures and tour the house. Gorgeous.

Party Crash tip #71: Be nice nice nice to personal assistants. In fact be friends with them because they are unsung heroes in the entertainment industry. Be generous with hookups and reciprocate invitations. Then you too can get invited to art parties at mansions

Party Crash tip #70: Show up with your own celebrities. No one will care how much champagne you consume or how awkward you are if you're the one with the notables on your arm. Although i sometimes don't like this one. You become visible without actually being seen. Sometimes better to slide on in alone, or with fabulous nobodies. Then you don't have to explain why you are colleagues with actual famous people who will pity you in that moment even though you are the ring leader.

Party Crash Tip #69: Buy some art. Or donate to the cause the party holder is passionate about. You become and instant colleague.


This is the 3rd time I've been and the longest we spent one on one chatting. The first time I think she actually spoke to me one on one, and man, we had that perfect kind of formal, lovely visit. Michele said it was the highlight of her trip to L.A. and I kinda believe it because we just chilled. SOme fun Diller facts. Dont hug her. She dont like it. She started comedy career at 37. Her kitchen is all red with a checkered floor. Everything even the fridge is red. There is a big ass portrait of Bob Hope in the living room. She laughs super duper loud. She has a room full of wigs and boas. She loves to cook. There is a bluebird bathroom in the front.

Apologies to Von Teese

So in the spirit of not being a bitch ass bitch head from bitch world,and for the five people i know who actually read this online diary I keep, Apparently Von Teese is not a crow perching on a tombstone all the time as I reported two entries ago and actually is smart and funny and cool most of the time according to my burlesque superstar acquaintances. Is she nice to people she doesn't know or who she thinks are not famous? Remains to be seen. Am watching you ex-Manson. Believing in your gothic power to conjure goodwill and fun through your serious soigne all black style. Because I was schooled and I am not one to rebut a wagging finger from a twirling tassle wearer who definitely knows better than me. So, sorry if you were just feeling shy, or quiet, or PMS'y and it came off to the untrained eye as cunty. Believe me, cunty is my screen saving mode a lot of the time so I understand. But, you know, clap for your friends, so they don't have to explain to me that the cool you is lurking under the surly slash pretty exterior. I still however think LA is bullshit compared to NY. That I do not retract.
peace. k.

Food at rich white people conferences is worth lying for

After my weekend of burlesque viewing and late night peppermint schnapps parties with trannies, I went to the Four Seasons resort to attend the 5 course banquet for the Amex luxury summit in full "Brand Consultant to the Entertainment Industry" drag. You know, that is actually what I do. I actually do product placement, branding, ad writing, image making and generate tons of images and copies centered either around shows or pitches. So you know, I wasnt exactly LYING. Not exactly. I mean I did have a room key. And a pair of prada shoes. And I once had an actual job that paid money. So you know fuck off rich people hand over the silver ware and the filet mignon. God don't like selfish expense account holders. Pay it forward. Whack a mole. Gimme some etc etc.

Unfortunately I sat awkwardly this time at the banquet table without a nametag, trying to explain myself to the hoteliers and the luxury brand marketers and CEO's of wall street venture capital firms. I had a sip of chardonnay, "yes I think the philanthropy co-branding of a product is an important trend" pinot noir "international sales in Asia are actually looking for american cultural product and vice versa", cabernet "a year overseas broadens the mind" , and then coffee and diet coke "chef driven restaurants are the way to go in LA". It was a little tiny bit dicey since one of the sponsor execs you know who organized the entire conference was actually at our table, eyeballing me. Over and over like pepe le pew and the girl skunk, but less amorously. No I was not on the golf course nor did I attend the philanthropy and luxury consumer workshops. I did however sit by the pool cabanas and drink a smoothie with a lot of precision and skill. The 5 courses were pretty fuckin good though, and like anytime I am grifting I do math (coz I am asian !) and I think i ingested a good 2-3 hundred bucks of tres chic food and drink and gift bag stuff in one day. All for 10 bucks in gas and parking.

Party Crash Tip #33: Do something boring to show solidarity with the actual attendees. If you are going to crash rich people conferences, my retrospective advice is to go do at least one tedious activity, like attend a seminar or do 6am yoga because then you will automatically bond with attendees over said tedium. Merely floating in the pool and showing up at the 5 course meal makes you seem, I dunno more suspiciously poor. Although, everyone there was wayyy too polite to say anything really. White people are afraid of confrontation, especially if you look confident and calm.

Party Crash tip #32 Show up late for buffets. It is also a good idea to waltz into buffet situations on the late side, after the prelim check ins, and leave before dessert. Less likely to get stopped by toolbag holding a clip board.

I do recommend crashing one such event at least once in your life. The food and wine are excellent and not paying makes it easier to critique the flavors the chef puts on the plate because you are not doing math at the same time. Also it is good to learn how people think you think within these little corporate cultures.

New York Tranny Freak legends trump LA losers.

Another wonderful weekend to ring in Spring Fever. Beginning Thursday night Weimar New York the sensation of the Spiegel Tent and home show of such NYC legends as Justin Bond (kiki of kiki and herb) who did me the honor of demonstrating a porn kiss after the last show, Meow Meow (transcendent cyber cabaret star) Julie Atlas Muz (well deserved winner of Ms. Exotic World Burlesque championship in Vegas) Tigger (Mr. Burlesque world, and ditto) and Taylor Mac (you have to see to believe the totally bizarre and stunningly beautiful juxtaposition of Mac in full androgynous retro alien clown drag singing about the war to a ukelele. I can't explain it, but it is truly a sight to behold. So lemme see. On Thursday I did the show and Tigger did his signature naked splits at the end of a number where he dressed up as a french lesbian and danced to a parisian electroclash mix about loving Harley Davidsons. Julie Atlas Muz got inside a giant acrylic baloon and stripped naked to Moon River before busting through it. Here's a link coz you gotta see this. Taylor played a song and everyone cried. Penny Arcade, one of the foremost performance artists in America (look her up all ye pretenders to the avant garde) ranted about how much she loves LA and hates the vagina monologues. my vagina is not wearing a hat either penny, kudos. Well maybe a snood. But not a rainhat. I did a quick number from chinkorama and Lance played piano all night and sang one of his songs. There were Pixie harlots, a gypsy like troupe of gogo dancers who also strut in 8 inch stilettos and outrageous only in New York Fuck you gowns and grotesque accessories designed by soon to be unbelievably famous Machine Dazzle (also of the Dazzle dancers.) Friday, shake and repeat. Followed by the cast descending on the 101 cafe in hollywood and being totally stared down in their glitter sequins and the ocassional tassle-less nipple popping out over chai lattes and egg white scrambles. Saturday, prince showed up but alas too late. We did go to an after party in the hills at one of the producers' houses, a transparent blonde with delicate features whose ethereal dandy style seemed to fit his occupation as model slash novelist. I bought it. He looked like a tallish blonde cat, quiet in a crumpled 1000 dollar suit and tussled locks in his Hollywood studio with a giant pink neon sign that read "Optimism is the product of sheer terror " or something like that.

Dita Von Teese was there, perched on a chair like a crow on a tombstone, waiting to be noticed in her little 40s black suit and tilted fedora with feather and ultra red lips. I was kinda like F-You Von Teese. Your fake german name doesn't hide that you were the dork goth girl at school writing insuffereable poems between bouts of cutting and sulking with no friends. In this room of NYC performance artistes and history makers, and your friends, you certainly could afford to, I dunno, like, clap after they spontaneously bring down the house, r i dunno buy a ticket to their show or at least get a little happy to see em in an after show performances which was requested for you and your cunty LA dilettante poser friends. Did I mention she pissed me off sitting there and NOT clapping or smiling or like even talking. F you!

Saturday we drove to the other producers pad in Malibu and ate chicken and salad overlooking the ocean for no particular reason but it seemed logical. Sunday post show there was a lot of naked Pixie Harlots jumping off the rail at the beverlywood motel (ew!) into the slightly grimy pool leaving a trail of glitter and sweat that I am sure will clog the drains for awhile. Justin told a delightful story about getting bj's from his neighbor and 69'ing in snowsuits when they were mere boys, and Julie read a poem I wrote out loud before passing out on a cocktail of courvoisier and peppermint schnapps. It was like all the best things about college keggers with the added bonus of being old enough to know better and young enough not to care.

I cant really relate how everything sacred and profane about new york is so different than the LA sacred and profane. I think in LA there is no sacred profane. Perhaps no sacred, because Fear is such a motivator. And as I looked into the shifty eyes of Von Teese whose income I would venture to say is much much more than any of the fabulous and one of a kind pixie harlots, and whose parasitical international fame (at the moment) trumps the sublimely talented and edgy Atlas Muz, and the rest of the LA zombies in their crumpled D+G vintage sort of leaned into things and tried to look cool before returning to their snacky brand new luxury cars to return home and look for photos of themselves on TMZ and gawker like desperate freshman pledging the sorority that is Hollywood, --I saw, beautifully, genuinely, grimily, joyfully the unabashed exuberance of my new vaudevillian friends from NY, sharing their music and their sometimes awkward raw talents, cheering each other on and debating the finer points of tassle gluing and german crooning, and i saw that OPTIMISM. Right there in front of me, slightly sweaty, probably broke as hell; stuffed into suitcases at the Grody Beverlywood where the pool could give you a rash; bummed like a cigarette from Penny Arcade who said, "hey kid, i'm 57 and I'm just getting started on this new thing"; in Lance's feverish banging on the piano behind an increasingly frantic Justin Bond singing about shaving asses in a studio just behind the Magic Castle; in Julie Atlas Muz's current obsession with growing the longest pubic hair in the world; in Earl dax, the producers' accidental trip and fall into a kiddy pool at the club and crying and then sayin "well I needed to cool off anyways". In all of it. optimism. Life. Terror, is actually just terror. I see it every day in H-Wood wearing designer shades and saying nonsense things into its bluetooth. Taking meetings and pretending to feel good about having a parking space. and It is why I will leave soon enough. But optimism, you can't buy it or schmooze it or find it in newsprint. You can live it. Love it. And be it. Because art is supposed to be fun. Life is supposed to be fun. And lemme tell you, kids. If ya ever have a chance to follow around a group of New York gypsy performance artists, do it do it do it. You'll never feel poor again.

Party crash tip #23: Follow the cool people back to their hotel. Just keep talking and acting like you are having a great time. Offer to drive or buy more beer. Offer anything you think they need, pay for a cab, buy cigs and say you will bring them over. Just keep moving and assume you are going. Don't make the amateurish mistake of ASKING "Hey can I come with you guys?" unless they are making out with each other. IN which case you just keep following without a word until you get a cold stare or are actually told to go. Most times you can just keep going and waltz right into the hotel, and who KNOWs who you will meet then.

SAG Swag Swindle

i wont tell you how i got there but I will tell you this. I'm in one of those swag parties we always read about in InStyle Magazine you know where celebrities get a giant duffel bag of free shit from companies anxious for the publicity and the "As seen on" tag to add to their brand. This one wasnt too swanky..It was at the Beverly HIlls Hyatt in the Penthouse. Omarosa was there showing her tit job and The Haitian from HEROS and that's all a I saw from current TV besides my friend. These obviously are list only affairs but since I was on crutches still I looked like pathetic enough a friend to get in and who is gonna say no to a handicapped asian girl in a town with no pity. Here's a tip Hollywood style. Everyone wants to believe everything especially good things. About half way through our perusal of the tables which really were more like booths at a local artists fair--bedazzled hats, fruit elixirs made in santa monica, bottle cap jewellery, t-shirts with silk screens and home made baby blankets, -- I realized that I didnt have to skulk in the background at all. I became the super producer I really am and started talking to all the merchants about product placement in all my shows.--Suddenly without a bracelet I was now getting the golden key. Too bad there werent some couture sunglasses or blinged out sidekicks. The best thing I got in my swag was a Poo Pourri collection of toilet sprays that literally make your shit not stink. And some high end body lotion from one of Fred Seagal's exclusive lines MOR, which by the way is to DIE for it's so luxurious......And the packaging is outrageously gorgeous too.

Visiting Phyllis Diller (Who Brought The Gook?)

Sometimes you gotta just sit back and let the big personalities rule. Which is a funny thing for me to say coz usually I am the bigmouth wisecracking fag hag slash hostess slash idiot savant with no filter for the profane and bizarre running comentary on present action. But This time I brought comedy icons Lisa Ann, Scott Thompson, as well as Pier Carlo, Lance, and Julian, a veritable menagerie of Diller fans slash art world heavy hitters and witty party guests. The last time I went a- Diller art collecting it was a lo key affair, with us gingerly walking through the halls of her incredible Brentwood home looking at her gallery of oils, pastels, watercolor acrylics and mixed media...the extensive collection of work by a prolific artist who clearly LOVES to paint. And super duper cool assistant slash cali-girl with the party vibe Karla showed us the wig room full of wigs and boas, the famous red kitchen and the parlour with the giant portrait of Bobe Hope who was Dillers BFF and the kind of colleague and pal and listener we all dream of having. (You all know who you are.)

I personally am a fan of her portraits and bold brushstrokes. Lance loves the pictures of shoes and faces painted on sheet music. Julian liked the abstracts. My mom bought two of the "prettier" pieces with florals and feminine pastels. After my first visit there, I read her autobiography in one sitting and felt my life like a ball of energ in my hand realizing that the story we will tell the career we will have, the way we serve ourselves and our art cannot be predicted but it can be planned. The Phyllis didnt even set foot on a stage until she was 37. And like me she struggled with finding the right opener. And it struck me that there must have been one of those AHA moments that Oprah puts in the mag, where she just said FUCK IT I am talented I'm just gonna keep on doing this. And then her concert piano career. And now her visual art life. All coming and going from the same place in the heart. And me playwright comic writer actor songwriter singer rapper I suddenly make sense to myself. Having said all that, I gotta tell you, it was Scott and Lisa who kept her interested. Whenever I had gone over it was done in two seconds of autographing and pleasantries where I used my best SAT vocabulary to show her "I get it" "I got art in me too". But my homies had STORIES. About cock fights in the Phillipines, and performing pregnant at the Comic Strip and having lots of wild kids and doing shows with the BIG NAMES. And jokes. They all had jokes. Diller even said to Scott at one point jeez he's funnier than me! Which I will remind him of everytime he may doubt his genius.

Me on the otherhand, I sat back, not unlike the time I met Milton Berle at the Friars club and basically heard him tell me that chicks arent funny and character comedy isnt funny and to keep my day job. He did make a great joke about this stripper i saw in harlem who shot ice cubes out of her ass as part of her act. POOPSICLES he said without even pausing for a thought beat. I also stole my "wrong number" joke from him as payback for him screaming "NOT FUNNY" at every name I threw out (Whoopi Goldberg, Lily Tomlin, Tracey Ullman) and every joke I attempted to tell while sinking deeper and deeper into my seat at the Friars while his assistant who was dressed like some valet from a black and white Jimmy Stewart movie in a high waisted grey suit and spats over his black shoes kept saying in that weird 40s voice "Heya Miltie! Remember that Harold Arlen Song-- that was a ripper huh! Howzabout we get you a copy for the phonograph..."etc. I kept eyeballing him and thinking DUDE, What the hell? You're wearing your pants over your man boobs and Sammy Davis Junior wants his shoes back. Who the hell are you? DO you talk like this when you are hanging out with your friends from college? Do you have friends? It was so weird and sycophantic and like the guy was maybe 30. Who fucks that guy? Gypsy Rose Lee fan club members? Anyhow, back to La Diller. She demonstrated her cock fighting chair by straddling it and opening up the cash and tobacco compartment.
Scott thought she was hitting on him. He said "I think she likes me like a mannnnnn. Like you know the way a woman likes a mannnn" And looked very butch and proud as he said it before giggling. Then she made us all drink Fa-Bu-Lous champagne and best of all me and Lisa were invited in to see her personal wardrobe-- not the wig room, but her actual room full of clothes, gowns, furs, shoes, and a flock of pink hat boxes fluttering above our head like gorgeous exotic birds. Stuff to know about visiting Phyllis Diller: Dont hug or touch her. She dont like the fake air kisses or weird celeb-specific hugging from strangers. Don't bring her a bunch of crap presents. She has an room full of upholstery she bought from a store going out of business and a garage full of art frames which are too enormous for her pictures. Lisa suggested putting them in the attic to which Diller goes : Where would I put the spaghetti? She's a pack rat she says because she had NOTHING when she was a kid. No clothes. No toys. "I played with boxes" she said. "Stuck the cat in there and said you live there."
I sat back and let it all happen, Glad to be amongst my cool friends who can talk and make Phyllis Diller laugh. And even though I felt like that other time with Milton Berle, where the big star American pioneer of comedy was looking at me going "who broght the gook?" or "Do you work for me? Why arent you cleaning something?" "let the funny people talk"...Somehow, even in my self imposed shame spiral of being less talentedcoolwittyworldlyfunnysmartassed than the pros, I was glad to be alive, glad to be mixing french champagne with my wellbutrin, glad that my pals are hilarious, glad that I had enough money to own two Phyllis Diller portraits, glad that Karla is so cool, glad that Scott Thompson was at a cock fight and could talk about how he thinks eating a dog is no different than eating a burger, glad that Lisa knows all the gals from the Comic Strip days and glad that I was there to watch everyone laugh and buy art and crack jokes about Jesus. "he was an annoying Kid," said Diller" I know him and he was always whining..."Note taken.

LA Lesbians and Kato Kaelin as Jesus

Last night i randomly ended up on the set of the L word on one of their last days of shooting. They were doing a party scene so a lot of the series regulars were there and I have to tell you that not unlike actual real L.A. Lezzes, the cast of the show was pretty slammin in their cocktail dresses and stilettos. Jennifer Beals is totally rad in person. I of course skulked in the background despite my on set friend saying "Like, Just go up to them and be like HI YOU DONT KNOW ME BUT I AM A BIG FAN OF YOUR WORK" I almost did it just so I could bask in the lameness of that kind of moment. And if I wasnt kinda working in this dumb ass town I totally would have. And taken a cell phone picture. And asked them to autograph a napkin or something equally tacky. I wonder why Tv lesbians wear wayyyyyy better clothes than real ones. Even the hot ones. Seriously. There are barely any label whoring lesbians. Although I had a nice guess the designer moment with creator director Ilene Chaiken's boots (PRADA, I guessed Cole Hahn.) I realize this document lacks my usual social commentary, but seriously visiting the set of a show is super boring. I mean really really boring. Did I mention the boredom? You can only stare at monitors that dont belong to you for so long.

The second installment of lala lesbian sighting came today at my gym where WorkOut pseudo celeb trainer Jackie Warner was apparently working on her shoulders and chest. Delts? Traps? whatever. A bitch was in a shame spiral on the reclining bike watching Jackie fuckin work those lean muscles and hoping she would not look anywhere near where said embarassed and fat bitch was sweating to the oldies wondering if it will ever actually make a dent in the cookie and cake pillow i have decided to moat myself in with. She was dressed like a hot guy, baggy abercrombie shorts, cool t shirt, cool running shoes, cool gym bag. Pretty face but the rest was like a swaggering cute guy who may have played lacrosse in college and had a ton of girlfriends swooning when he played guitar. Oh the andgrogynous enigma. In any other town she would have faded like a person you call "that guy over there" but with the amount of hair product she was rockin, the perfect arch of threaded eyebrows, the very expensive casual look she had on her, it was def another hot l.a. lesbian sighting.


And to cap the day, I was playing a born again christian, a very zealous one with a very wet lisp, in Hollywood Hellhouse: a recreation of the christian youth group hellhouses that pop up on halloween in towns across america where dancing is still only semi legal and pro choice rallys are bombed and gay people are called "the queers" (which in academic circles is a compliment-- but in those towns most people dont read. Or at least past high school they dont read anything but labels. And yes I do mean that in two ways.) Anyhoo, the hellhouse is a freaky haunted house depicting scenes of SIN like a harry potter game which incites a young man to murder his sister. A rave which ends in a date rape. A slumber party which incites girl on girl kissing.
And a hospital ward filled with botched abortions and AIDS victims who are compared to devil worshippers. Gruesome stuff. One of my favorite actors Harry Dean Stanton poked his head into the abortion room and politely asked to be shown the way out, wishing to ahem, terminate his hellhouse experience early. He missed Kato Kaelin's dynamic turn as Jesus on the cross in a room decorated with clouds, angels and fluffy wallpaper.

Kato Kaelin as Jesus. Me in a shame spiral at the gym because Jackie Warner has a perfect upper body. Standing on a rooftop in the Hollywood Hills with an entire crew looking at me thinking "what is SHE doing here?"
Welcome to Hollywood.

fag hag marathon of LIFE

Don’t be jealous. I think I should have won some kind of lgbtqq award for my marathon of fag haggery 2 weeks ago.

It started with a roadtrip to lovely Las Vegas to see Liza Minelli at the Luxor hotel. We went not once but twice and let me tell you I don’t give a shit what anyone says, that woman can deliver a song. Celebutante chanteuse Meow Meow wept and wept during Liza’s rendition of Charles Asnavour (sp?) and I screamed like a lil bitch when she started doin New York New York the way only Liza, fab eyelashes, punky hair, sparkly see through leggings and boots could do. Rumor has it she is still livin the studio 54 good life if ya know what I mean, but the woman looked great for someone with 2 hip replacements and a possible lifelong buzzkilling hangover. I knw I am now a true fag because I refuse to tell you the gory details of how in the second show she was ahem, sniffling a lot, and maybe forgetting the odd punch line and oh I dunno wobbling, but listen. Any pop star of today WISHES they could wobble out a song the way Miss Liza did so fuck em coz she tore it upppp. I also liked how when her dazzle dancer and current BF of my new york Gay Husband took back a bunch of merch and ticket stubs for her to sign for souvenirs raffle items and conversations starters, she signed every surface in the bag including a business card for a window tinting service that fell out of my wallet. We framed it. Vegas rulz. We saw a titty show after that and then played slots for 2 hours. The game was “Keeping up with the Joneses” and considering I had to play to stay awake while Julian napped in a hotel room so we could drive back to LA without actually paying for another night in a hotel—it was memorial day and there was nothing frugal about that, the game was apt. Also i felt the ass of a centurion at caesars which is pretty gay too.

I also somehow got given a giant Hello Kitty piñata as a souvenir. Now hear this. Do not give me knick knacks as gifts ever. Especially giant ones. My ex, Ben can testify how mad it made me when he gave me a lifesize Elvis thing made of cardboard that said hello lil lady. At least giant knick knacks come with a story. Or a good photo. But don’t do it because they are usually too big to ebay.

Next stop on the fagathon was Drag Queen Bingo in Hollywood hosted by Rosario the maid from Will N Grace. Nuff said.

After that I hosted an entire afternoon of gays at the Queens Pride Rally in New York. My co host was called Jiggly Caliente and she was both jiggly and caliente. Also Filipina/o which was fun for the asian jokes. I unfortunately got no photos of this but did find a nice old queen dressed as wonder woman. Don’t be jealous.

ALSO if that weren’t enough, I went to the premiere of Ru Paul’s Starr Booty a vagilicious romp mostly about drag queens selling their “pussies” and making camp references to fun old movies while singing about their hot pussies and giving bj’s. I touched Ru’s blonde hair and sat next to Lady Bunny. Again DBJ. Finally as the final two installments that I think give me enough fag hag cred that you all should send me a years supply of poppers and glo sticks, I did some queer based comedy for a French tv station and then went on the only commercial gay radio station in the WORLD, that is Proud FM which I am proud to say is in my hometown of Toronto Canada.
Where I had THE BEST TIME EVER with my friends. We graduated from high school a longgg time ago. Lets just say more than 10 years ago but less than 100. we all looked smoking hot and apparently we all still like hangin out, avoiding real work, smoking wacky things, playing pool and video games, and splitting a check with no arguments, ever. I love my high school friends oh yes I do. And one of them is a gay so there you go. You cant see him though coz he is hiding behind kate s. Two weeks of all faghaggery all the time. Sigh. Thank god for little queens.
Here's a clip of my fag hag humor

Crashing the American Express Luxury Summit in Palm Beach

Crashing the American Express Luxury Summit

Let's just say that I practiced the fine art of talking myself into things this past weekend at the fabulous luxurious, slightly musty, but always elegant Breakers Resort in Palm Beach. Let's just say that I ate some fabulous lobster, prime rib, baby bok choi, scampi and lemon mousse out on the lawn of this resort and possibly-maybe wasn't really supposed to be there. Or that maybe-possibly I was a little presumptuous when I got the pina coladas at the beach cabanas comped by acting haughty and/or maybe shouldn't have been pitching a high ranking exec from a large private jet and commercial airline company on behalf of a woman I had met in a hot tub next to aforementioned cabana while drinking said coladas. But I did pitch well. And I did the kind of voyeurism I like best. Infiltrating a culture (in this case the culture of purveyors of so called luxury goods to the so called elite in the upper income categories. Many hoteliers. Some product floggers. Many ad and marketing folks. Some posers. Ahem, like moi.) It is funny that I am nervous to report this to you kulturefukkers, fearful of being kicked out of a club I don't belong to nor do I necessarily aspire to. I don't like golf pants. And I don't like rooms filled with exclusively white, well fed, fifty somethings who claim space by inflating perceived values and holding on to classist and exclusionary practices. Did I just mini vomit some leftover marxism from my college years? Maybe. Lord knows I like a fine silkcarwinetintedlensmeallaptopbag but still...I wonder if everyone at the luxury summit goes home and wants to throw everything out and replace it with the BBD. Bigger Better Deal. Or if they take their goody bags, gift them to the houseservants, and feel happy to have found other souls who enjoy the kind of privilege we photograph endlessly for the grocery aisle tabloid set. Am I more guilty about a) crashing the "Night In Havana" buffet dinner with fire eaters and conga band (this is very unlikely but maybe?) b) knowing that I too am part of the luxury summit demographic despite my by and for the people art c) wishing I had more money even though the secret and the tao both tell me this is a fool's inner life d) talking about shit I really dont know about with folks who have made a lifetime of studying it-- consumer trends and the luxury buyer etc e) b-d. f) none of the above. No matter which of these revolving answers I choose I definitely can name you some highlights of attending such a convention especially when not officially invited: Following up a 40 dollar steak sandwich from room service with a Free 4 course meal at the luxury buffet. Getting a copy of Centurion magazine, only available to Amex Centurion cardmemebers, now called Black Ink and reading it cover to cover by a glistening Florida ocean. Salt crusted sea bass with coconut tinged rice. A Belvedere pear tini while already tipsy from excellent wine. Talking about Coach product design with Coach and Black ink cover design with Black Ink. Meeting Paul Bennett of IDEO and genuinely being thrilled. Eating fruit again from the baskets strewn around the premises. Talking myself into the members only gym/spa and drinking tea and cucumber water after a workout. Hearing that less is more for the consumer and more is more for the employee. Discussing the pros and cons of high end hotels selling their fixtures and accessories to the public. Inventing several brand strategies in my mind as I eavesdropped on other people's pitches to each other. Coming up with an idea for implementing private jet brokerage to mid size luxury buyers. Stealing a very plush robe from a cabana then giving it back. Free haagen dasz ice cream bars on the patio. the pretty palm trees near the pool, see pic.

Party crash tip #45: I highly recommend if you are going to crash a convention that it be at a luxury resort and preferably sponsored by someone like Amex. Hint: the bigger the sponsor, the more sprawling the venue and richer the attendees, the less likely they will miss that one lobster leg and glass of chardonnay.

Basic party crash etiquette: dress nicely. Pick up a drink the minute you arrive at the party even if it's half consumed- s0 you look like you have been there awhile. Dont talk shit you dont know about. Enjoy the real delegates and learn something from them. Be generous with your humor. Eat fast. Arrive later than the VIPs and leave earlier than the hangers on. When possible get a nametag. Respect the lines, literal and figurative. Have an escape strategy. Make a best friend fast who will vouch for you even if they dont know you. Dont tell anyone you crashed. Dont take a doggy bag. Enjoy it more than if you had been invited. Disappear.

Freaky douche bags in Hollyweird love the Chyna Doll

So I gotta tell you that Chyna the wrestler is a really really fun girl. Woman. Sex symbol. What fuckin ever. She is a good time even when she is crying and holding her arms close to her bod so you cant see the cuts. I am spitballing ideas with Lisa Ann about Chyna's upcoming pitches for a reality show—things involving redemption, exploration, having the Chyna go and be with all her people meaning people who share some of the troubles she is so vocal about right now: eating disorders, dysmorphia, feminist perspectives on gender, the limelight, the ex-limelight, surviving physical abuse, surviving scandal, cutting, drug use and abuse—she is a rolling blackout of issues and thanks to surreal life and the Anna Nicole movie coming out she's in the media. And I love her. Coz she is open and honest and always a good time no matter how much she suffers she doesn't make you suffer and that is a generous kind of person you see.

So anyhoo, what I wanted to recount is actually just about the reactions we got to the girl herself. Never since the night I briefly hung out with the Anna Nicole have I seen what I saw with the Chyna: drooling, speechless living dead. Whoda thunk it? I have been adjacent to several celebrities from the a-z list and even the minor celebs in their own inner sanctums where they are GODS (John Cameron Mitchell, Alan Cumming, Julie Atlas Muz, various drag queens, and foreigners you don't know) anyway, I have seen all manner of fawning and autograph hounding and picture taking but this freaky vibe I only saw with Anna Nicole and now Chyna. Let me describe it: so we are standing around talking about the ice sculptures at Jeff Conaway's house (please refer to next blog) and how weird it is that they are basically two triangles of ice, in fact one square of ice cut in half and placed on tables. Weird. Anyways we are having this lively art connoisseur meets zamboni conversation and I start to notice that at about 15 paces from us are three different guys and one girl all standing and literally staring, with their mouths all droopy, with a singularity of focus usually reserved for weird old guys in itchy suits at porn conventions or at the autograph table at a car show. But these dudes and the one girl are normal looking. People with jobs that don't involve answering surveys online for free ipods. People who look like they shop at Trader Joes for toffurkey. People who have been to several nice restaurants and known what to order. So what the fuck. They even have product in their hair ok? And nice shoes. They are not wearing cutoff tshirts and bandanas that say no muff too tuff. And here they are in a semi circle around our little conversation sort of dripping into the concrete. I think , oh maybe they know her. Or maybe they are being polite and waiting for a break in the conversation, but no. Slowly, eerily one by one they pick an awkward moment to kind of hurl themselves over the gap of 15 paces and say in hushed creepy voices: "Um I just wanted to introduce myself." PAUSE PAUSE PAUSE "Um you are really beautiful" PAUSE PAUSE PAUSE "I just uh can I take a photo with you?" PAUSE PAUSE "I mean, I just wanted to say hi and everything." PAUSE DROOL SHIFT. The girl too. Everybody. I was like What the hell? This is Chyna! Star of such great films as uh, none! Maker of such great music as uh, WHAT? I mean I like a celebrityfuk moment as much as anyone but drooling on your nice Cole Hahn shoes is usually not necessary—maybe if you are a fag with no parents who knows how to breakdance and you are meeting Madonna, maybe. But these douche bags (and I say that because they became instant douches when their freakish fetishy erection beamed them out of an otherwise normal life to suckle at the perceived goddess bosom of the Chyna) were zombified with no real justification. Chyna says it happens all the time. And I saw it at least 5 more times before it became too distasteful and I chose instead to watch a very yoga fit looking Marilu Henner shepherd her kids around the pool area and pause briefly to tell us about the love of her life, husband number 3 whom she had known in college and who called her upon hearing of her divorce from number 2 to ask her out. Awwwww. Cute. What does it all mean? Who cares. But Chyna. Yeah. They see something in her that they want, nay need, in a medieval primeval base kind of way. Submission? Power? Gender fuck? I dunno. But now I am fascinated, and definitely think we need to make the show.

A hicky from Knicky is like a hallmark card Jeff conaway gets the Temptations to play in his backyard. Coz A hickey from Knicky is like a hallmark card.


I can quote many many lines form the 1981 movie version of Grease. I used to annoy my friends when we watched it by doing it under my breath like a rosary or a tantric meditation. Grease is the WORD. So of course when Lisa Ann and Chyna were like let's go to Jeff Conaway's housewarming party I was like oh hell ya. Even though we all witnessed the Celebrity Fit Club melt down 2 seasons ago when he basically spewed hangover bile all over the other cast mates (who were they? Cant remember? See what I mean! Knicky rulz) Anyways it was not lookin pretty back then with Jeff hazily running into walls and living in the backyard of his girlfriends place and alternating herbal Chinese medicine with street drugs. We wondered if the house warming was gonna be in the back of someone's car or in a Home Depot shed erected in the backyard of some in law's house in Pacoima. Oh how wrong we were. Seems Jeff got a nice little settlement (or perhaps he was watching the secret and willed himself into a better house—who knows--- only the bald genie who looks like the Rock and talks to the lady with the Australian accent) anyhow. Greeted by valet service, 2 green parrots and a manager called Freddy who had the list we swept into a gigantesque unilevel sprawl in Topanga with backyard pool hottub grotto waterfall thing and multi level patio. It was saint patty's day so the buffet was corned beef and cabbage (only the white half of me was amused by this) and there were two triangles of ice (a sculpture, a statement on the demise of the rhombus—I just learned rhombus on are you smarter than a fifth grader, answer NO) and Marilu Henner's middle school aged kids running around a crowd of semi hip pseudo well dressed young men and women in smart casual wear. I had on a smart casual silk top and jeans, Kristen fared better in a black wraparound, Chyna could have been wearing a burlap sack and it would have been formal (see above blog). Lisa was cute as always. It was a'ite. I didn't want to talk to Jeff or his super cute girlfriend because this was their night and I defined random at their party. But I did photograph the ice geometry and went to lick it as an act of performance art. The point is that the Temptations came onto the little backyard stage at about 1130. They just appeared, in their matching blue suits and deft hand foot choreography and harmonies. All the screenwriter looking white guys with horn rims nearly shit themselves. One kept screaming in my ear "it's the Temptations! Temptations! Temptations!" which was kind of exciting. Everyone was like is it REALLY them? And after a lot of heads jerking around to see what the consensus was, yes indeed it was them. Lisa said Jeff must have spent his entire settlement on this one party. It was surreal to quote the VH1. They did papa was a rollin stone and I was ecstatic. You can see it in my eyeball in the picture. Jeff gets on stage for My Girl. Marailu's kids were roaming and pausing to look at all the old dudes in suits sliding and floating on the tiny backyard stage. One redhead actress was grinding everyone near the tiny stage and sort of whooping the way only a forty something who still has great hair and who really remembers the songs can whoop. Chyna was nowhere to be seen and Kristen called her mom to tell her we were in a backyard with the Temptations. This is the opposite of New York. Nothing makes sense. There is too much money. There is too little money. People get a beat down in a casino and buy a house with two parrots in it. You are always a voyeur because nothing seems real here. In NYC you are the list. Here when you are on the list you get to watch the thing happen and then blog it because no one would believe it and you wont even remember it in the morning when something else bizarre happens. I like it here too but it seems like a really extended play version of Surreal Life Fame games. Non famous people act famous, famous people want to be something else, there are ice sculptures and parrots and the Temptations and no one knows how they got there or who is their friend. Just reporting it. Wondering at the end if I even had fun? I should have licked the ice for real. Just to see if it was as cold as it looked.

Midget strippers on New years Eve

Actually midget burlesque dancer is the correct nomenclature for the lady in the picture with me. She often shows up at Earl’s parties and events and this New Years Eve at Joes Pub it was a good rockin time with Slanty Eyed Mama, Penny Arcadde, Mike Albo, The Dazzle Dancers and many more. I fuckin lovelovelove the city I call home and it is mostly because this is where I can wear a gun holster corset and get my photo taken on New Years Eve with a midget burlesque dancer. I know this exists in other cities. I know that the drag scene in Raleigh NC is kickin and that the girls at Jumbos Clown Room in Silverlake work the stage like no one’s business and that Atlanta has Blondie and that Toronto had El Convento Rico, the finest nightclub salsa drag cabaret in the world and that the Rock N Roll on sunset strip is LIVE and that private clubs in London has better fashion and more cool than a room full of Velvet Underground, but…still….in New York you don’t have to really go anywhere special to be in a special place. You don’t have to make reservations or get in a car or show up on the right night or have a reduced admission pass or be on anyone’s list. Honey if you are here, you are the list. And everywhere you look, someone is pulling the art out of themselves like a string of cum covered pearls with a strawberry on the end; everyone is participating somehow in the collective project of surviving and staying in a good mood and enjoying the rush of 10 million people who are proud to be part of the loud brash genius of this place. I love it so much. I bring it with me wherever I go. Everyone is always like, are you from New York? And the Torontonian, Melbournian, North Sumatran in me says YES. Because it is the truth.

Air Guitar as a beacon for the new asian america

I went to the screening of "air guitar nation" in the AFI fest in Los Angeles mostly to support my friend and former chink-o-rama cohort MC Chink Daddy aka C. Diddy who happens to also be the kickinest air guitarist in the world as evidenced in this filmed account of his meteoric rise to win the International Air Guitar championships in Finland in the USA's first ever official entry to this decades old competition. And I was so very proud as C Diddy resplendent in Hello Kitty Breast plate, moved and rocked across the big screen demonstrating his total commitment to the form. Of course it is retarded but it is a part of pop culture history and a part of rock n roll zeitgeist and Diddy's natural passion for metal and freedom to express that as an american! was what jazzes me most about this bip in history. Not once in the film is his asianness called into question. We meet his parents his fiance and high school sweetheart and we see him go on Kimmel and Stern and race is never an issue, despite his sardonically rockin spandex hello kitty chinatown kitch rock god ensemble! This is the future people. When Asian americans are allowed to rockkkkk with a nod to their place in the multicultural mosaic, but with the backing of their country and their fellow rock gods as they compete on the world stage for the USA!

Are all womyn lesbians? Do they have to be to be wimmin? Do I like tofu?

I get so mad when I am told how to spell things. But I understand the fighter spirit behind things like womym wimmin hymen beings woah-men womb-en wimen wimmyn. The need to separate experience and create identity distinct from the "other" which is in this case men. Are we separate can we claim an existence that is distinct. Is not the rejection of the other an acknowldgement of its power? Yes post feminists, I have to say the debate is lengthy and often conducted in French. thank god I grew up in canada and know my derrida from my cixous from my foucault. Cant we all just get along-- and then get away for a couple of weeks in the summer to be with the grrls? I have no pro-con argument I think both have weight. If men can have the movie fight club then women can have the festival and any other related drumming activity they choose. Slanty Eyed Mama is certainly there to re-present the udnerrepresented and festivals are a big ass part of that. We particulary enjoyed the little blonde girls clamoring for Slanty Eyed Mama posters and hanging with comedy legend Elvira Kurt whose running commentary on the play by play was as amusing as her rehearsed material. As charo once said to me some people got it, and she got it! Jane Siberry's decision to wear a bizarre half corset withe um, nothing else, was very very entertaining, especially when she tried to get the bandmembers of BETTY to take their clothes off on stage too. The Ziffs werent havin it but it was a delightful moment of naked calling to arms, and boobs. Why is the women's festival a lesbian festival? People look at me like I am totally RETARDED (please lay off the emails telling me that is politically incorrect I know, I know I am using the word as a double edged sword here ok? god)
anyways i get the "are you fucking kidding?" look and I still dont know the answer. Why dont other chicks want to go to the women, oops womyn's music festival. Do straight women just not want to hang out and camp and eat hemptofutahini and wear tye die and listen to music and go to a dildo workshop like everyone else? Have they been so colonized that they dont even want some safe space over the summer? I find that depressing and vehemently endorse the polypansexual gender bias of michigan. Gender politics are confusing. Jane Siberry is cool and I grew up listening to her gorgeous ambiguous humanity in Toronto. So here is a pic of us in michigan last summer signing autographs and one of me with Ms Siberry.

H/B/imbos are a life choice. The pursuit of shiny things.

Lyris recently made something very clear to me about my own propensity to chase glassy eyed after shiny thingspeopleclothesobjectscarsshoesblingbling -- something that has always secretly tortured me and made me feel guilty and like shaking a designer thai idol or hitting my very groovy gong or waving a beautiful 'feng shui' crystal around while dousing myself in some occitane aroma therapy chanting "i must detach from the material world" "i must adopt a non-caring attitude towards the things that don't last" -- you know the drill-- love, humanity, the children, these are what matters not whether or not I have a new pair of PUMA that fit my feet JUST SO or whether my date is the hottest person in the room. Shame on me I have worn a scratchy monk's shirt (designed by gaultier probably) in my imagination and rebuked myself over and over for being pulled awaay from all that is supposedly spiritual to all that is supposedly shallow. So for all you fellow lookist/snobs/designer clothing whores/materialists and wannabes here is a little wisdom from the mind of one rock star named Lyris Hung. She passed it on to me as I wailed on her couch about how I hold onto this idea of hotness wayyyyyy tooo hard. Like Nicole Richies claws wrapped around a fry on her cheat day.
In a nutshell: we are performers. We are artists. We are bon vivants actors comedians musicians all trained and working towards being in the public eye and making work and ourselves into work that is appealing to other people. By the nature of what we do, we care about what other people think .. (gasp appalled silence) yes we are in the business of caring what people think because we work to an audience. So then how do you go from sending your whole life in pursuit of that to a personal life where "it doesnt matter what other people think" I create shiny things as a life choice. And I am supposed to feel like an asshole because I want to surround myself with shiny things??!!
Is this why celeb couples abound and can switch around so much? is this why rock stars date models? Is this some kind of truth to the universe that Lyris has revealed. I dunno. But next time you see me wearing some hot fuckin shades indoors onthe arm of some improbably hot and probably shallow b/h/imbo. Dont sweat me. It's a life choice.

Crashing the In Style Oscar Party through the kitchen

You know I love to crash a party. I used to be a veritable expert on the subject in New York. Whether it was the shady photocopy an invitation on cardstock at kinkos ruse, or the enter the hotel lobby and check your coat before picking up a half finished drink and waltzing "back" into the party trick, or the follow a group of people you dont know past the doorbitch acting like you are in the conversation decoy, or the have some friend walk out with a ticket halfway through the night scam, it was always a good time. Partially because I am a big fan of finger food and partially because my flawed upbringing gave me a taste for defiance of authority. In a party dress. My all time fave party I ever crashed is a tie between the opening night of French and Saunders in London's West End where I literally was walking out of the theater with Hal down this narrow back staircase that the audience had to negotiate out to the street, wherupon I turned to Hal and went "I wonder where this door leads" walked through it with him and suddenly was in the VIP area of the opening night gala. I grabbed the half consumed cocktail made for a group of folks I didnt know and began laughing at their jokes while Hal quickly crossed the room and found a friend of a friend to legitimize us there. Celeb sightings that night included baby Spice, Members of the Young Ones, and of course my goddess Jennifer Saunders. Plus they had freaky hors doeuvres like suhi pizza and champagne shooters it was awesome. Twenty minutes later, the friends who had turned around to find us "gone" were ushered in by us holding friends of friends' passes and we achieved the coveted multi person party crash which is wayyyy harder to do than a single disappearing into a crowd. I hate party crashing in a group. There is always some lack of suave: you can't slip past security with one of your friends saying "WHAT IF WE GET CAUGHT" in a stage whisper, or with some lame-o pausing before picking up the cocktails to ask where the bar is and exposing the whole group as "not really already at the party". The pseudo crash is easier, when you have an insider with staff access. Like when Caroline waltzed us into wedrock (see below) or when David Ogden Stiers put my entire class at juilliard on a swanky fundraising dinner list at lincoln center. I am a big fan of mixing fabulousness with ghetto fabulousness. Here is a photo of me and Lisa with our inside man at the swanky Palladium oscar party (5000 bucks a plate people). Notice we are eating a divine filet mignon and truffles amongst the empty glasses and boxes of wine in the cater waiter area. This is also the entrance thru which we snuck in!! Lisa is resplendent in red gown. I wore a polka dotty gown (why didnt you stop me?? WHY??) to this event attended also by chaka khan, wyclef, several members of Dancing With the Stars, and other celebs who that night didnt turn me on enough for me to snap photos. Except the ballroom dance stars here that knew Lisa from the Stars show. Look at Lisa's boobs. They are 75 percent real.

party Crash Tip #2: If you find someone you know even a little at the party, glom on to them for a long while. It totally legitimizes you. An alternate version is to begin talking to people like you are their best friend. They will like you and protect you from security if necessary.

After this party which was quite fun with us running back and forth between the ballroom and the back room bottles, we went to the Ted Fields Party in beverly hills invited by Lisa's pal who wrote jokes for Jon Stewart and all his Daily Show cronies. In a word, this party sucked balls. Sushi and an open bar do not justify a room full of loud posers wearing seven jeans and versace shirts looking over each other's sholders desperately for a star or someone that might help them meet a casting director. Oh god is was fucked. Persian guys hitting on coked out blondes who clearly work in retail or as fitness consultants or jewellery designers. Unfortunately we left just as mickey rourke and pam anderson arrived which would have been slightly more amusing than having poser central looking through each other all around me. We didn't even get into the People mag party (ok there was 9 of us but 2 of those were the execs at the Daily Show fer chrissakes--but no jon stewart=no entree) so the night ended with me screaming out the window of lisa's SUV "Do you know who we are??? Do you know who she is ?? She is Lindsay Lohan's nanny! She did Shall we Dance and got the best reviews!!" as we tore off into the night. It was what a would call and okkaaaayyyyy night, but the best part of all would have to have been when I realized that hanging with my friend Julian picking food off of party trays in a back room with cater waiters was the best kind of fun there was.

THE PORN AWARDS

As Ocscar time approaches I remember the last time I was at a red carpet event which was the 2005 AVN awards in Vegas last year. Lance and I sat at a table with guys from Sex Z pictures and some people from hustler. Our pal and porn director Skye Blue had invited us to come to the convention and see the ceremonies hosted by great comic Thea Vidale. It was a long ass ceremony man, LONGGGG. There were awards for fuckin everything. No pun intended. There was an award for best oral (which Voodoo won and I am licking in the pic) best 3 some, best girlon girl best actor (!) best actress (!!) etc. Then the boring ones like best DVD menus, best cover art, best logos etc etc. Everyone looked hot everyone looked legit--i unfortunately did not go to the pornstar melees afterward (yes I can hear you kulturefuk fans saying what the hell is WRONGGGGG with you why did you even go to the awards if you skip the porno orgies.) Somehow after hearing that much dirty talk all night, all I wanted to do was go home and read a nice book. Lame. Funny that most of the big time porn stars I met last year while living in viagra valley (Tera Patrick, Jenna Jameson, Nicole Sheridan) were similarly into very very conserative lifestyles at home. Maybe they already partied hardy (obviously) Maybe going home to a white picket fence makes it ok to do gang bangs with ron jeremy. I dunno. Why am I even telling you this? Here are some pics this is lance with chichi larue and skye blue in the background. Then there is one of me and lance trying not to stare at skye's ginormous boobage. Just for fun up there is a shot of jenna jameson doing a porn kiss with the lovely Gina Lynn demonstrating the tongue play that subs for french kissing in porno films which brings me to a little friendly advice for you hornsters:
Reasons why not to date a porn star:
1. They do it as if there is a camera there the whole time, sideways looking over their shoulder in your taint, wherever the best angle is
2. Ditto the weird tongue kissing where lips never touch
3. They can't pass--in church everone notices the clear heels
4. You cant be inventive at home coz the only thing they havent tried in bed is reading a book


Reasons why it's great to date a pornstar
1. They always know where to get a pool boy the plumber on short notice
2. If you are drowning they come with their own inflatable devices
3. They are attracted to very average looking guys so if you are one you got a shot
4. Except every orgasm is fake. Which is good if you are a guy who doesnt care.
5. Everyone will think you are a rockstar/rapper/millionaire

more to come this is just off the top of my head. get it? head.

Party Crash Tip #9: If you are crashing a party filled with people who really want to be legit stars (such as porn stars) act like they are the biggest stars in the world.The goal of any good event crash or party crash is to stay for the swag and the free food and sometimes the performances. So making friends instantly is key. And making non stars feel like stars with intelligent adulation is key. No lame fawning (then you are a fan and they exercise their faux celebrity by flexing the condescending muscle. Which is super humiliating if you are on the receiving end of that from someone named Candii with two i's.) Speak with big words about what you like about their artistry. (this also works btw for picking up bimbos, male or female if you are so inclined.)

Hoochie fuckin coochie

So I am doing an interview on Q TV to promote The Naughty Show DVD--for those of you with a few bucks to spend on hilarity it is www.thenaughtyshow.net, anyhoo and the show is Queer Edge with Jack E. and Jackie who has a newly sprouted vagina, congratulations grrrrrl. The show also is being celeb co hosted by Charo (I nearly fainted when she showed up in a hot red holiday outfit and those bodacious tatas a swingin. For she is an icon. No ifs ands or butts about it.) So we do the interview and Charo is deliciously delicious. She shows me how to increase my bust size with a little chant that goes "Mirrohawa Mirroarrrrr on de walllll, make my teets a porty forrrrr" (I got points on set for accent accuracy. And then we start talking about classical training and how we both have it and then, god bless her, she says, you know "That is my heart. " (Meaning her guitarra, meaning her classical music) She goes, "I had to hoochie coochie you know, because we all gotta make money, you know what I mean? " And in her eyes when she says hoochie coochie the perfect combination of irony, sadness, pride and kick ass wont take no for an answer. And I did know what she meant, as I told yet another asianpussyfunny joke. I just found out today that a certain rival of mine will be doing a bunch of tv episodes in a drama series I love. And I sighed as I hoochie coochied my way over to the National Lampoon offices to tape some song parodies for their comedy shows. Mirror Mirror on the wall, give me the balls to get what I want.

They used to sell sperm oil in Australia. I like the picture. Coz it says sperm oil.

That Yin Yang guy isnt really asian

Um just in case you were wondering, just in case you were watching TLC late at night because "intervention" was preempted by some home makeoer show or you had already seen that episode of the Disc channel's freakshow (has anyone else noticed that Disc and TLC are turning into bona fide freakshows? My favorite so far is 'The Baby born with Two heads' and ' Face Eating Tumor' which by the way seems to have afflicted a family member of mine from Indonesia--some distant cousin from my clan who has a ginormous humungous huge fuckin tumor eating his face as promised in the title).. Anyways does anyone give a crap that the two hosts of the East meets West solves your problems show on TLC are white dudes. This one in the pic with me is the actual white one, not the one who is always there wearing yukatas and kimonos and marital arts headbands and any other asianny orientally (please insert weird tinkling chinky music here) exoticky accoutrements. My friend and uber comedienne Amy Anderson who shares my blessing slash curse slash oddity of being a visible minority with a whitey white name 9courtesy of her actual adoptive parents actually being white) anyhoo, she points out to me that she auditioned for the Asian part on the show which fell to aforementioned white guy in short kimono. I think Amy and I are gonna dress up as Aunt jemima and pitch a soul cooking show. I might put on a sombrero and do a landscaping show. Please read other blog for more detailed ranting, but seriously--you cant take the human being out of the culture you represent until the world is a lot more egalitarian and a lot more open to visible minorities especially in the media. There are no fricking asians on TV and now asians arent even allowed to do asian things on TV. is this that different from David Carradine taking Bruce Lee's role in Kung Fu? Or Mickey Rooney lisping and bowing through Breakfast at Tiffany's? Slap on the yellow paint and the buck teeth people--you might get a job hosting a show about acupuncture. Can a sista get an Amen? Or an Om shanti? Or an Ah-So?

Cabaret hybrid L.A. style

My pal and fierce dancer/choreographer/aerialist Miss Liza Rose is part of this urban slick jazz cabaret with dames called the Toledo show down in Santa Monica on sunday nights. Somehow when downtown comes to L.A. it gets cleaner and better dressed. I have always thought live music was the shit in L.A.... the bands are tighter, the chicks/dudes are tighter...everyone is bright and clean and slick -- even at the loft parties downtown. In NYC live music so erratic and often screechingly bad or just ill produced with condoms stuck to the bottom of your feet and you go like WHY? Why did I pay 10 bucks for this loud shadowy shit? So as much as I bitch about how everything takes five millions years in l.a. and no one goes out, and the only difference between rich people and poor here is how nice their TV's are.... I gotta hand it to the live musicians and performers. They're cookin' . And usually color coordinated.

Lucy Lawless is no Kylie Minogue (thank god.)

So I go to see my friend Michele Balan do her act at Girl Bar's Friday night comedy and cocktails thingy and wouldncha know it 2 comics don't even show up so like one of those slow motion things in the movie where everyone first looks sideways and then slowly turn their heads together, guess who gets asked to fill in last minute with gynocentric comedy that is inclusive yet true to the pansexual bon vivant I endeavour to be? Yup. I get up on stage in my silver leather jacket and culottes, now completely self conscious about my relative lack of makeup--why do i do this??? Why do I think- no one will see, no one will care, especially lesbians! And then always end up in a situation where just a little more attention to shading and color would have helped immensely. Who do I think I am in my neutral lipgloss when shit like this always happens? (please refer to my candid shot with Anna Nicole where I look like a fuckin benched softball player, or as my mom would say shrilly "A chinese cabbage you look like a cabbage!" I wonder why chinese cabbage and not polish or midwestern...anyways.)

Just so happens that this is Girl Bar's 15th anniversary and the very lovely and fabulous couple of Sandy and Robin who own the joint have thrown a doozy of a party. The far too sexy to be allowed to wander into places sans entourage Jenny Shimizu walks in way after the comedy, and I step to her because I love where she goes "I am a power lesbian of looooovvve" on the LOGO promo that runs every fifteen seconds when I am worshipping at the late night temple of Graham Norton. And I also love the gay marriage show on there it makes me cry and cry. Which isnt suprising given my own parents' "gay marriage" (bomb dropped let's move on.)

So anyway I have no business posting a picture of myself with la supermodel looking this aesthetically inept (rouge anyone? eye shadow? an angle or something????Look how me and robin are crowding in on js's perfect complexion- it is shameful.) But this is the kulturefuk blog so fuk it. There will be far sadder ones I am sure. Plus I have to say when L.A. people are actually cool and delightful to hang out with you gotta appreciate.

Lucy Lawless comes on the stage -- and everyone on the dancefloor comes in their cargos -- she is blonde now and quite fiercely attired in gold shimmery wife beater and jeans. I would like to say that she brandished the mic like a pro on herversions of "Sisters Are Doing it for themselves" and an original song about sucking the industry's dick called "On my Knees." (would I lie?)
I would like to say that she sounded awesome, but instead I will show you a pic.

Why oh why, why oh why is this sort of thing necessary? Why struggle? I suppose former soap star turned gay dance icon Kylie Minogue serves as inspiration for hotties like Lucy. But seriously. David Hasselhoff made this sort of thing fun, once. And only in France and Germany where they are used to being screamed at by drunk ass punk rock and metal bands with lead singers that look like they sleep in a can of coffee grounds. And Kylie has to act like and dress like a slut every waking minute to justify radio presence. Lucy is way too cool and of intense presence to get away with shaking her ass to sell candy pop. And she was singing a kind of 80s taylor dane rock with no taylor and no dane. sigh. "But Can They Sing?" um, no. Your whole show is redundant. And scary. And a reminder that charity events are supposed to relieve suffering not cause it.

Of course I salute Lucy for having the balls to get up and sing when she is clearly more of a weapon brandishing straight girl turned lesbian icon in leather gauntlets. And I salute all the Bai Lings and Morgan Fairchilds for putting their ahem, reputations, on the line to belt out a few bars. But this is only because I am a celebrity whore and want my fantasy family to be happy. In the real world we don't applaud when someone does something badly, but with heart. Except william hung. And Condaleeza. And tyra banks, hostess/improv actor. Ok maybe we do. But seriously we gotta raise the bar. And demand that our celebs do like everyone else and find shit they are good at, then stick to it. I am all for the stretching of actors and the murder of typecasting. This mini concert was an argument for typecasting and that is why amateurish outings like this must be stopped. For the advancement of human kind. And so that when someone who actually can multi-perform, like latifah, or jamie foxx or I dunno, ME, nobody is scared off by memories of Xena singing a blowjob song in a lesbian bar. This is why Anna Nicole (see previous post) is a beacon of hope. And why Lucy L. needs to a) get more training before she inflicts scary karaoke on us again or b) embrace her genius for ululating and acting ambiguously gay and fuckin give us more of that.

How dumb is Anna Nicole Really?

Not very. And not just because I have spent this whole week working on my hustle by day and acting like a sycophantic ultimate fan contestant by night. These things do not necessarily go together as any relatively unknown but highly ambitious e-junkie and art whore will tell you. It can be eviscerating to go out and see the superstars when your unpublished work of genius gathers dust on your agent's to do later pile, or while your fabulous acting chops go untested in the real world. It can kill ya to hang with Anna Nicole, but my spa day zenned me out enough to do it. And she was charming by the way.

If you show up for stuff, L.A. can be like a fantasy football type of tour of Universal Studios minus the funnel cakes. I got in on Friday after a short semi arduous flamenco dancing audition at Lincoln Center with Broadway luminaries Graciela Daniele and Michael John La Chiusa who are super hot talented creators of the last vestige of hope for the Great American Musical. And I did stomp and clap with the likes of Julia Murney thinking what the frick am I doing here???? Is this a good idea?

Got off a plane 6 hours later and into the car to drive to Palm Springs for a much needed one night spa extravaganza and show with my BFF Debbie. After the orange blossom detox scrub and massage we look at each other and are like "Holy Shit I feel totally different". And I did. And I do.

Drove back to L.A. where my friend and journo Caroline Ryder is brandishing 2 ticks to Wedrock and Avalon, the fundraiser for gay marriage lobbyists Freedom to Wed. We have press passes but somehow get mistaken for part of Kelly Osborne's entourage and end up with the pink celeb all access bracelets which we nonchalantly accept without a word proceeding to the photo sess where we run into the always efervescent Alan Cumming, and my old Juilliard pal Louis Schwadron, rock n roll french horn player (who will later tryst with Caroline and thus end her first lez phase). Also there are Bitch, whom I run into every time John Cameron Mitchell throws a do in New York, her GF Daniela C of the L-Word, Margaret Cho looking very fly in a women's health center hoodie with vagina embroidery, and whom I adore but always say something stupid to ( I think it is my destiny to act retarded around Koreans). Also there is Doogie Howser/ Neil Patrick Harris whose potential gayness Caro quizzes me on--who cares is my answer--ditto Pink who is up in balcony, and Andy Bell who sings his ass off and deserves his rock / electro god status. Nina Hagen brings everyone to their knees with a screaming basso goth punk rendition of Ave Maria and Kelly O does a very sweet yay for gay marriage and whoop whoop fuck the establishment speech.

We cap the night in the Spider lounge with Eliza Rose the fierce aerialist from Brooklyn whose show Toledo is cranking modern punk cabaret in Santa Monica on Sundays and she obliges all with a little pole dance. Caroline and Louis bewilder everyone by leaving in her car, which by default leaves me with Louis' L.A. producer slick in a t-shirt friend who drags me over to a club with "Playmates" who are totally played out, and all need boob jobs if that really is their chosen profession.

The next night is bitchy bingo at Hambuger Mary's which Lisa Ann is calling ("69 good time!") and which Anna Nicole Smith attends with all her gorgeousness and sweetness. Not as dumb as she looks on T.V. And I am not just saying that because I wish I was a blonde with big boobs . Drunky Mc Drunk? Yes. Inarticulate, no. Also she gives photo opps to about a zillion people in the bar and dances tango with her Arthur Murray instructor Anthony of Houston who is cute as hell. She looks good in every single one of those candid pics (damnnnnnnn you anna nicole!) and even though i look like i have eaten 2 pounds of MSG and am retaining so much water you could pierce me to create a live feng shui face fountain, i dont give a shit because my inner fag is screaming "This is Anna Nicole Smith!!! This is Anna Nicole" and I am in celebrity fucker, pop culture vulture heavennnnnnn. God that hat was supposed to look cool. I swear at some moment it did. Plus her entourage is very cool and gay and part canadian so all in all it is the perfect night of fag hagging/ acting out my inner gayguy. Everybody is always hating on Anna Nicole. Oh my god DBJ. She has recognized her talent. Looking good in photos and dancing like a stripper. What is the problem people? Do you want to see your high school gym teacher do that? Do you want me to do that? No I think not. The nation must be protected from the inappropriate old lady pole dancing for fitness classes and the sad studio photo with rose and piano in the vestibule after kids leave for college. Anna is keeping America safe by fulfilling her destiny. To get wasted in a fag bar and dance the night away posing for pics with the less pretty and enjoying her aesthetically gifted flow. I salute Anna Nicole for her general good mood and acceptance of her duty to go out and look pretty and get trashed without resenting the less cute who want to get a photo of themselves making out with her in a booth for a second.