It was a fractious Porn Star Karaoke last night. I arrived in an otherworldly mood. Porn manager/squirt canvas Harry Weiss was talking with gadfly/renaissance man Wankus about a bygone era.
“We used to do this comedy show called ‘Giggles & Jiggles'”, Weiss said. “It would be comedians alternating with strippers. Like the old days. You’d think porn stars and comedy would go well together.”
“There used to be a porn star sketch show at the Improv,” Wankus added. “It got real blue real fast. But the management got kind of scared, even though the houses were packed.”
I thought about a time when that would have been possible and wondered if it would ever be again. My birthday is Friday and I will then be able to go to World Modeling and say things like, “I am twice your age.”
Underscoring my feeling of corruption and despair, Lurk Ford showed up. He started taking pictures of anything that moved. Cloud patterns, an ant, people trying to shop, people trying to flee.
He and a local woman are pretending to be dating. I know this because Lurk has abandoned his paparazzo weasel persona and adopted a publicist weasel persona, opening conversations with “We’ve been trying to make a Jewish baby.” This is like someone catching my eye across a room and saying “this awards show is not fixed.”
I was disheartened until Wankus broke into a rap.
Inside the place was calm, soon to be raucous. It was Black Widow Night so there were German Goo Girls giveaways. I have yet to watch a GGG movie. Perhaps I will bring one to the Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow. I will present it as a lost chapter of the Jamestown colony.
On stage, someone was singing “Ice Ice Baby”. Wayne Hentai suggested that other factions of the room start signing “Under Pressure”. This would be like the “Deutschland Uber Alles/Marsellaise” sing-off in Casablance. I was of a divided mind.
Aubrey sang a song, backed up by Kelsey Michaels and another woman. She has a powerful voice.
I talked with Sardo‘s impresario Seymour. He has only taken a few days off in almost three years (his third anniversary as manager is January 1, 2006). He and his staff of badass bouncers and hot waitresses with hearts of gold have always been very nice to me. Seymour himself is like a coffee-drinking Mr. Rourke.
I mention this because a friend recently said he had a great hassle getting into Sardo’s with his celebrity entourage one night. I assume it is because Sardo’s has a One Goofball policy, and I usually get there first.
I had three conversations in which I was chastised for not knowing the work of a porn legend. One person said, “Gram, she has appeared in over 1,000 sex scenes! How can you not know her?”
“I was gazing at my own reflection.” I am often content knowing that legends walk among us, even if I don’t recognize them. Isn’t it enough that they know they’re legends?
Two weeks ago I heard a guy who must be in his fifties say to a 19-year-old who didn’t have to drive herself to the party because she has a chauffeur now, “I can’t believe you don’t know who I am.”
I am looking forward to saying stuff like that at every opportunity. “Um, I suppose you’ve heard of the blogosphere?”
I needed to get bagels for my house full of women. I left after my blistering rendition of “Cracklin’ Rosie”. There was a woman in the parking lot whom I hadn’t seen in a year. She’s an Internet model back in town for Thanksgiving. I asked what she thought about squawstitution.
“I’ll do anything for stuffing,” she said.
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