Following last week’s cum-spattered freakout celebrating Porn Star Karaoke’s second anniversary, last night’s event was comparatively low-key. Wankus was not there, ostensibly planning dolly and crane shots for the filming of UnFAITHful Secrets, negotiating the catering, the Star Waggons, and the extras casting for the Ampitheatre at Thermopylae scene, and working out logistics of the car chase through the L.A. Riverbed.
But Kristen, who handled things on her own last night at Sardo’s, recently voted “Best Nightclub in Burbank” by the L.A. Times family of newspapers and the Independent Fans of Gram Ponante, could barely contain the Fozzi Onslaught.
Fozzi, aka George Kaplan, is a man who makes most of his living writing porn scripts. This can actually be done. Sporting a newly-bald pate, Fozzi took the stage for “Hot Hot Hot” and proceeded to reduce the porn-hardened crowd to gibbers and sobs. Accompanied by Laundrea, whose ensemble made me wish I was Yukon Cornelius, and Jersey Jaxin, who fits neatly in my pocket, Fozzi sang so passionately that he broke the karaoke machine and needed to start again.
There is a picture of Fozzi in the linked gallery. Naturally I needed to lead with the photo of Angel Cassidy and Genesis Skye, however. I know which way my bread is buttered, for Christ’s sake.
Jersey Jaxin, whose belly button seems to be in the Dallas/Ft. Worth area (home of Tandy and the Realistic products), lamented that few people spell her name correctly.
“It’s not ‘Jackson’,” she pouted.
“It might be because you have a map of Texas tattooed on you but your first name is ‘Jersey’,” I offered. “It might make people confused.”
“Well, ‘Texas Jaxin’ sounds like it might be a poorly-thought-out comeback private eye vehicle for the likes of Chuck Norris or Bruce Boxleitner,” she did not say.
Outside stood my hero, Tia Brodie, with her friend, Sophie Dee, whose eyes registered alarm when I asked if she might have been offered a fake ID to work in the United States to comply with 2257 requirements. Tia is from Kent and Sophie says she’s from Birmingham (GramPonante.com exclusive: she’s from Wales).
If I had been thinking straight, I would have recorded Sophie’s voice, which is utterly incongruous with the picture you see in the gallery.
Sophie had no love for your pal Gram. I take this rejection harder than Lurk Ford, you see, because I lack the belief I deserve it. I am thinking she heard my name (“I doon’t knoo hoo yoo arrr,” she said) and remembered the Ponante invasion of Cardiff in 1504, when my forebears, commanded by Nostromo Ponante, stole all the vowels from the Welsh/Gaelic dialect.
That’s the only explanation I can think of. Naturally I already ruled out that her utter indifference was because I’m a huge asshole.
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