So Let Me Tell You About a Tuesday LA Party...

I just got home. Worked the Chamberlain from 6 this morning until 1:30 in the afternoon. Then, drove to Chinatown to work from 2 until 1:30 this morning. Long day. And that’s saying not much. Oh, yes…and I’ll be back on the clock at 5:45 tomorrow morning, paranoid and helpless…spinning and depressed when that bitch of an alarm clock rips me from a dreaming slumber. One of forever love and a burn in the gut. Of a world that speaks poetic and spins fantastic…not yet.

Fuck tomorrow, sleep when you die. TODAY, I pulled enough coin to cover 20 nights in a European hostel.

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So this party was…how shall I stamp it? Dinner theater.

Or…performance art.

Maybe, porn. Maybe.

We went through 6 standing courses, each with a wine or cocktail pairing. And in between, the “talent” would perform for the audience as a compliment to the course. The night was tabbed, “a sensual evening of surprise.” And it didn’t take long for the guests to get it.

I know what you’re thinking. Creepy party, strange crowd, middle of nowhere Los Angeles. Why can’t your city just fall off the flat side of the world?

Of all the parties I’ve worked at the Marvimon House, this was the best crowd. Hell, Vinnie Chase’s cameo lasted the duration…and he only barely stood out.

With the Scallops and Sage Margaritas, the “talent” (2 top shelf LA model/actresses, 2 mid shelf, 2 feisty lesbian porn stars) dueled in oversized boots and swung from ceiling harnesses to electricified guitar.

With the Squab and Whisky Sours, the “talent” were 40% skin as they dangled and tussled from hanging outdoor vines to a glorified harmonica.

With the Steak and Syrah, the…they fed each other and engaged in what could only be described as, well…I quickly found out that “sensual surprise” meant orgy…at the front of the room…as the crowd sipped their red, tried not to choke on steak sandwiches and collectively duped conscience into believing they were watching art.

The brilliant thing about performance art, I’ve recently found, is that no two pairs of talented couplets express themselves in the same manner. Of course, certain pairings were more representational than others, meaning…not everyone took liberty in the provided glass stage ornaments.

But two of them...they certainly did.

I Ooze Sex...

Yeah, no…that’s worth repeating…

I Ooze Sex.

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I was working this party Friday night. A little place tucked outside the slums of Chinatown. Way back in the day, it used to be the city’s first car showroom. Now, it’s arguably one of the coolest living spaces in Los Angeles. Then again, Chinatown slum outskirts + coolest living space in Los Angles = debate.

Actually, you can check out the site. Nice visuals…www.marvimon.com

It’s known as Los Angeles’ “secret restaurant.” The owners invite chefs from the great restaurants of LA to cook for 50-125 people. Last time it was A.O.C, Providence, and Grace. This time…well, it was a Friday night instead of a Sunday. The lineup was distantly stellar.

Everyone tries to be someone in this city…which was the unfolding scenario on this fateful night. Not everyone can pull it off. It does, however, always help when you’re surrounded by a company of the like, where survival rests on your sleight of hand talents. It’s not like all of these people were stretching THAT far…but sure as hell, some were. When you’re pouring wine, you let slide the urge to throw, “Excuse me, who the fuck do you think you are? I’m endlessly curious,” for the sake of a smooth evening and a pocket of cash.

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Halfway through, a trio sitting on a far couch asked for my contact info. They were cool, and not for the direction this post is headed. Judgment immunity cannot be purchased, even through showers of praise. Since the trio will emerge from this post scathe free, certainly, they must have checked out. Why did they ask for my stats? Allow me to re-direct you to the title of this piece…

Welcome back. I gave it, we talked, we met...I got a call time for Monday, six hours ago…

Where I found myself driving South on San Vicente, trying to gauge whether or not the forthcoming photo shoot would hold aspects of sketch.

To my pleasant relief, it didn’t. Actually, I was the sketchiest dime in the shoot…certainly, no foreign territory would be tread. I came in scrappy style and rolled out of hair and make up into 50’s Hollywood. Right town, wrong decade. I shot with a dame made to look old school Lois Lane in front of a projection backdrop of Hitchcock’s, “Birds.” I clenched my jaw, wrapped Lois tight and tried valiantly to fuck that camera.

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I worry…that I listen to songs, read words, feel ideas where my mind implies that it owns understanding. But in reality, reality is something I’ve yet to understand.

It hurts, this ache. To own feet screaming a need to walk foreign lands. Like a craving that has never been met, never satisfied. And this heart…this heart that keeps asking the same question over and over…

Soon enough I’ll figure the response, where silence follows…

At least for a little while.