I know I came here for something...

I went to Pavilions last night. Then I forgot why I went. This photo was taken at the exact moment that I remembered that I had still forgotten.

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Crack whores are like crab meat

I was walking to get the mail this morning and it occurred to me that crack whores are a lot like crab meat. Neither have a long shelf life, refrigerated or otherwise, and both tend to spoil rather quickly. So the thing is, with crack whores and crab meat, you have to get them fresh. I've never had a crack whore--that I can recall--but I have had crab. And I have had bad crab. And it's not any fun, let me tell you. So what they should do is stamp crack whores with an expiration date, which I imagine would be about 5-7 days from their first hit of crack. After that, it's probably like boning your dead grandmother.

Really Weird Magic

I went to see Penn & Teller the other night at the Rio in Las Vegas, where they have their own theater. I've always loved these guys, even the horrible movie "Penn & Teller Get Killed," and their stage shows are amazing: lots of libertarian hoo-hah  mixed with sex and gore and no-holds-barred humor. The production company working on the L.A. Bizarro-based reality show also does Penn & Teller's Bullshit on Showtime, so I got a sweet seat dead center about 5 rows back.  The show was mind-boggling. But that's not what my story is about.

After the show, I went out to the lobby to meet the guys (they rush out to the lobby to take pictures, sign autographs, and shake just about everyone's hand) and to buy their Bill of Right Security Card (go to www.securityedition.com from more info). I had them each autograph the card, then took a self-portrait with Teller by holding  the camera at arm's length (despite a room full of folks willing to take the photo), and then went and did the same with Penn.

Contented, I left the theater and checked out the photos. Both were there, along with one more--of Teller, smiling into the camera. Keep in mind he never touched my camera, nor did anyone else in the room, and I did not accidentally press the button. This was a medium close-up of Teller (and only Teller)  looking into the lens and smiling. I was floored. Where did the shot come from? How did he get it on my camera? Was this another one of their impossible tricks. I soon forgot about when I set my mind to losing some money at Roulette.



When I arrived home tonight, I showed Randi my metal Bill of Rights, along with the two photos of myself with Penn & Teller, plus the third mystery photo of Teller--except Teller has disappeared. The frame is still there, at the same picture number, but Teller is simply gone and the frame is solid black.


Either that was a good acid flashback or the best vanishing act i've ever seen. Or not seen.

Anyone care to explain it to me? I'm all ears....

Once More with a Modicum of Style: A Brief History of the All New L.A. Bizarro

12 years and a smattering of months ago, Matt Maranian and I were sitting on a plush couch in Chateau Marmont, surrounded by well-wishers like Bill Maher and Richard Lewis as our first book was launched with full-fledged fanfare. It was an ugly little morsel, both visually and materially, that was being met with nothing less than enthusiastic response. Within weeks it climbed to the #1 spot on the L.A. Times non-fiction list. Bookstores sold out as soon as shipments came in. Reviews--what few we received--were decent. Our mugs turned up on CNN and local news shows alike. Our mellifluous voices drifted from the radio.  

L.A. Bizarro had arrived.

Then, just in time for the holiday season, the book vanished from shelves. Printing enough copies for eager gift givers just slipped the publisher's mind. And the scarcity continued into the new year, until bookstores and readers alike kind of forgot about the strange little bastard and moved on to sleazier pastures. Nevertheless, over the ensuing decade, the book enjoyed more than 20 printings, and became a cult favorite. It was hard to run into someone in L.A. who had not heard of the book; some claimed it changed their lives.

Matt and I went our separate ways, partly because Matt was moving to Vermont and partly because I was either nodding off at our signings or slobbering on fans at our readings. I had to wear sunglasses on one early morning news show (at 5 AM) just to keep the anchorchick from bolting.
Live television is nerve-racking--unless you sleep through most of it, as I did, awakening only to blurt out slurred and obtuse observations about local abattoirs and poultry gravesites. On another show, the amiable newscasters gave up on me altogether and directed all their questions to Matt. Or was it the same show? It's all a fuzzy wuzzy blur.

So it should have come as no surprise that our parting was anything but amicable (a pattern I now realize has oft been repeated in my life, thus explaining my utter lack of friends). Unfortunately, I was completely oblivious to the fact that Matt was perturbed to be playing the straight man, and it took almost a decade for him to speak to me again--a decision I predict he will come to thoroughly regret.

Interestingly, Matt first had no interest in doing a new L.A. Bizarro. He had nothing but bad memories (aside from my misbehavior, we were burned seven ways to Sunday by numerous parties) and better things to do with his time than write another low-paying sequel. He gave me his blessing and said the the title was mine to do with as I pleased. Of course, I did nothing. The subject was dropped for a year or so, and in that time, Matt apparently warmed to the idea. The next time we spoke, he was up for an L.A. Bizarro update.

And that's all it was going to be at first. An update. Throw out the places that had closed, clean up our sloppy writing (which we found incredibly awful--our publisher didn't see the need for a copy editor), add a few new photos, and we'd be done.

Instead, we rewrote every entry in the book, added about 70% new material, took all new photos, and ended up with a book almost twice as long and four times as legible as the original.  It was a project that took almost two years to complete. Thanks to Chronicle Books (who is NOT our previous publisher), it's now available worldwide.

Though we won't be enjoying any star-studded parties at the Chateau (or anywhere for that matter), we're hoping for a reading/signing here or there if Matt can pry himself away from Boomerang, his Vermont clothing store and come to L.A. We're also open to the occasional plug on TV and radio--especially the latter since I'm agoraphobic (yes, it is ironic isn't it?)and it's easy to get us both on the phone.

You can find the book at many fine local L.A. bookstores, or order it online through our website , which we hope to launch in full bloom any day now. Currently the website only touts the book, but soon there will be a place where you can post your own bizarro experiences, read our blogs and new reviews, network socially, and buy vicodin from foreign pharmacies.

Just wanted to make sure you were still reading.

Sanitized for your protection

There's a brilliant cartoonist on the scene who is finally getting his kudos. His name is Snappy Del Rio. His unique style (which predates that of David Rees) combines intellectual existentialism with ontological solipsism, with just a dash of 4th grade potty humor thrown in for good measure. Here's his latest strip "Sanitary Adult Comics," published in the prominent trade publication, AVN.

Click on the strip to see it close up.

I Buy My Clothes at the Liquor Store

It's true. I buy my clothes at the crappy liquor store behind the shuttered discount bread outlet, just down the sidewalk from Sunny's Saloon, a noteworthy bikini bar. There's a high school up the street and a Carl's Jr. just across the parking lot. In the afternoon it's a great spot to watch the collection of zaftig teenage latinas, stuffed into their skintight stretch outfits like so much chorizo, as they meticulously apply mounds of eye make-up in the shade of the bus stop. Sure beats the pants off going to a mall, which is where they are undoubtedly heading.

I don't buy all my clothes at the liquor store. Only my shorts, men's mesh basketball and plaid surfer varieties that come just below my knees, which is how I like it. The shorts are displayed on a low rail that runs the the length of the ten-foot wall of bulletproof glass that separates the family of Korean owners from the rest of the world. These shorts aren't incredibly baggy kind or even stylish, but for $7.99 I'm not complaining; the elastic waist ensure a fit for even a fat slob like me. The size selection is hit and miss, as is the accuracy of the sizes themselves. I own an XL, XXL, and XXL of the exact same style of short, and there is very little difference between them--in fact, the XXL and XXXL appear to be exactly the same. (Note to Chinese clothing manufacturers: Putting more X's on the label does not magically make the shorts larger. You actually have to use more fabric.)

After buying a pair on whim, I tried to find them on the web, thinking I could order a gross from Amazon and be set for life. No dice.

And I'm kind of happy it turned out that way. Now, when I stop at the liquor store every morning for my 24-ounce Monster Khaos, I'm filled with the same kind of giddy anticipation I experienced as a kid on Christmas morning. What will be waiting for me on that rack of cheap Chinese wonders? And will it fit?

Make Mine a Double

Years ago, when I was much younger, I spent a weekend in San Francisco at the behest of a few friends who were involved in the yearly Gay & Lesbian Film Festival. It would be the first time I would meet John Waters, and salvage a discarded pack of his Kool cigarettes, which still hang, framed, in the home of my writing partner.

But that's another story.

It was the late 80's, and thanks in part to the movie "Cocktail," complicated mixed drinks were enjoying something of a Renaissance. So it was there, in San Francisco, after a night of very heavy drinking at a long-forgotten bar in the Castro, where I came up with a unique variation of the martini that I hoped (in my inebriated state) would become the next big thing not only for gay drinkers, but for middle-aged Chippendale hausfraus, and free-thinking alcoholics everywhere.

The drink is prepared in exactly in the same manner as any dry martini (I prefer gin, but vodka works, too), with a very special ingredient added at the end: after the drink has been poured in the serving glass, the bartender pulls down his pants and proceeds to "teabag" the elixir before popping in an olive and serving it. The teabagging doesnot have to involve full immersion--that could create a nasty spill--but the bottom half of the mixologist's scrotum should at least be glistening with liquor once the task is completed.

With the aid of a twenty dollar bill, talking the bartender into it was surprisingly easy. As he climbed up on the bar, unhitched his chaps, and straddled the dainty glass, the din of the bar evaporated into silence. It was over in the blink of an eye, but history had been made and everyone there knew it. Applause and cheers erupted in the room as if the clock had just rolled over into a New Year. My friend took the drink, examined it playfully, and, as he plucked a coarse black pube from the rim, asked me what I called this brave new beverage.

"I call it..."The Scrotini," I said.

He gazed at me with a mixture of pride and disgust, then brought the drink to his lips and took a long, slow sip. He gave me a knowing smile. "Not bad for a breeder," he said, and offered me a sip. When I politely declined, the bartender scowled. "Pussy," he muttered under his breath.

Soon the Scrotini had taken the Castro by storm.

Forget Tom Cruise in "Cocktail." You hadn't seen anything until you'd witnessed a bartender leap-frogging a dozen martinis, leather pants around his ankles, deftly dangling his jewels in each concoction, and, depending on his grooming habits, imparting a flavor described by many as familiar yet indescribable. In one BDsM bar, the mixologist went so far as create his own variation on the Scrotini, which he dubbed "The Flaming Scrotini." His gimmick was to light his sack on fire, albeit briefly, before serving the drink(s). He said this proved he had not skimped on the teabagging, but frankly, I think he just liked the feeling. Another bartender used a thick blue rubber band--the kind employed on broccoli stalks--to tie off his testicles until they turned a disturbing shade of blue. This, of course, was "The Blue Balls Scrotini." Soon there were more variations on the drink than one could imagine, some as inventive as they were unhealthy.

And so it came as no surprise that the perennial party pooper known as The Board of Health soon came down with all its weight on the Scrotini and all its variants, ending the trend before it had truly blossomed.

Still, in private homes across this great land, voyeurs can occasionally glimpse a familiar shadow on the wall or silhouetted against the blinds. The squatting man, the small gasps of joy, the clinking of martini glasses can only mean one thing.

The Scrotini lives on.