Thursday Nite by Dino Dinco

First off, thanks for all the nice comments and emails to everyone out there. 

I woke up this morning on my couch, my dog’s wet nose smearing all over my face, wearing the clothes that I had worn all the previous day.   I had washed my sheets yesterday, but by the time I got home last night, a little drunk, I had zero interest or energy to pull the sheets out of the dryer, walk up the stairs AND make the bed.  I remembered that there IS an upshot to sleeping in your clothes, and that is: you’re already dressed and ready to start the next day for when someone calls and says, "Let’s go to breakfast."

Last night, I dropped by April Napier’s "Bloomsday" party, commemorating the single day on which everything in James Joyce’s novel "Ulysses" takes place.  I’m not much of a traditionalist, but it’s nice that gatherings like this have been taking place on 16 June for over 100 years now. 


As was quoted from the book on the invite, there was something about getting fucked in the rear-end "on that soft belly of yours….like a hog riding a sow."  When I got out of the cab (car still in the shop), I wasn’t sure what to expect walking into April’s beautiful house, but I was hoping to leave the party with some shots of soft-bellied sow riding.  (Hope springs eternal.)  Oh….the cab ride.  My driver was this rugged, kinda foxy guy – probably late 30s, maybe Armenian. Cropped hair.  Strong nose.  White t-shirt over a white undershirt.  Even though she lives on the other side of the hill from me, we had to drive around for awhile as I forgot what little road led to the other little road that ended in April’s cul-de-sac. Inside the big yellow minivan, the driver’s face was underlit only by the screen of his center console navigation system, not unlike the flashlight scene in the "Blair Witch Project." 

He had turned off the music the moment I got into the van, so the ride was very quiet.  About every quarter of block, we would look at each other through his rear view mirror.  I was thinking, "I wonder what he’s thinking."  Then we’d drive another half block or so.  Then again, we’d look at each other.  I thought, "Does he think I’m famous? Or that I’m going to jack him for his money because I have a big gun on my t-shirt.  Or maybe he’s looking for a shadowy part of the street because he wants to mess around in the back of the shadowy van…But wait…there’s going to be soft bellied sow-riding at April’s house…"  Alas, we found the house, I didn’t steal his van (I’ve been accused multiple times of car theft in my life, and I stand by the fact that I always made some mentioning of "borrowing" the car or I at least left a note), the driver and I exchanged nothing but money and a receipt, and on I went.


When not designing costumes for films, tv spots, and music videos (dressing rock stars like Trent Reznor), April can be found in her kitchen, encouraging the youth of America to read more books. 


Out in April’s backyard, I was looking for some soft-bellied sow action.  Instead, I found video director / photographer Todd Cole and photographer Katrina Dickson, both of whom have washboard stomachs, like myself.  This is the first time I’ve seen Katrina in over a year, when I borrowed her sewing machine so that my grandmother could make curtains for my windows.  We’ve never been in the same place at the same time in over a year, so essentially, I kidnapped her machine and have been holding it hostage. (Notice the holes in Katrina’s clothing. I feel awful.)

The lovely Lisa Storey, one of my favorite make-up artists ever.  Lisa tricked out a young Russian model for me, giving her the five-star East LA once-over.  Shot for Tokion magazine, it remains one of my favorite pictures I’ve done.


My phone rang — my friends were waiting outside.  I said goodnite to April and regret not stuffing a pillow case filled with all the gorgeous food she and her friend had made.  Instead, I grabbed a set of car keys (I think they said "Porsche") and jotted down a quick note saying that I’d bring it back by Monday, when my car was fixed…) 

Vaginal Davis was hosting a BUTT magazine party downtown, at Little Pedro’s, as part of ongoing club, La Polla Loca.  When we arrived at the kitschy Mexican bar-taurant, there was an all-male, Go-Go’s cover band, called The Gay-Gay’s (or something), playing what seemed like every song The Go-Go’s had ever recorded…ever… ("…last night, a DJ saved my life…")


It was a nice mix of people — as in, a mix of the people that I see all the time everywhere, and total and complete strangers.


Artist Dean Sameshima giving major inflamed nostril.  Dean asked me, "Can youuuu give meee a riiiide hoooome?" before he even said hello to me.  To deflect his query (I didn’t want him getting sick all over  "my" new Porsche), I said, "Dean, I love you."  He replied, "Ok. Can youuuu giiivvee meeee a riiiidee hooome??"  You can contact Dean directly through the Butt-head section of BUTT online.


Sean de Lear used to be the lead singer of the excellent punk band, Glue.  I hired Glue to play a show at the tiny college I attended in Los Angeles.  Of the 30 people who attended their show, 8 of them had gender re-assignments by the following semester and took on the last name, "de Lear."


Oh, Saul…so much to answer for….


Tiny dynamite, herself, Ms. Vaginal Davis, towering over graphic & performance artist, Ray Lopez aka Readymade Chola.  I helped Vag glue on her Corey Haim photo cut out earrings moments before this was taken.


My homeboys, my escorts.  (L to R) Photographer Donato Sepulveda; his boyfriend, heart-of-pure-gold Greck Cannon; and Juan, who, while waiting for drinks at the bar, kept making me stand with my pelvis pressed up against his serious behind.  He claims it was just to gain more "body mass" for the bartender to notice him, but I suspect he wanted the experience of my physicality.


Claro que si, quey?! ? Y que, cabrona? !!!


I hadn’t seen BUTT’s own Gert Jonkers for ages!!!  Shakin’ LA like the earthquakes, babbeeee!!!

– Dino Dinco (ready for bed, dressed for tomorrow)