Clouds in Los Angeles are typically a novelty item. Sometimes, we’ll go for what seems like forever without seeing a decent cloud. I had the fortune of riding in a convertible the other day (I returned the Porsche that I “borrowed” from one of April’s guests, so you can stop leaving me “I want my car back” voicemails), and here are some of the clouds that were running around…
Later that night, I went to a dreary club called “Spit” at the sometimes-fun bear bar, The Faultline. For those of you translating this into other languages — or bleak, unidimensional heterosexuals — this does not mean that I drank a few beers at the zoo.
“Bears” are traditionally chubby hairy homos who enjoy the carnal company of other chubby hairy homos. (Minus the “homo” part, they essentially look like my dad.) All bears own a personal deep frying machine, because if food is not battered and deep-fried, then it’s just not food.
Recently, I’ve been noticing that my bear-ish father enjoys asking me awkward, trying-to-be-snide questions about “the queers,” not because he’s a homophobe, but because it’s guaranteed to annoy me and force me to call my father a “cocksucker,” which makes him laugh even harder. He was stymied when I explained that he, in fact, personified this chubby hairy facet of the homo world. I said, “Dad, go stand naked in front of a full length mirror and say to yourself, “I am the physical ideal of the homo bear world. Woof! Then go deep-fry something.” How else should I have celebrated Father’s Day with him?
Afternoon “bear beer busts” are often very jovial, sun and beer drenched occasions, however, to an outsider, I imagine they appear to be a Spartacus version of what Jane Goodall observes with gorillas and chimps.
The night was perilously lacking any kind of energy, humor, sex appeal, fun. The moment we were about to leave, an MC announced to “please welcome, Jackie Beat.” Some of you may know Jackie from seeing her live, or from her part in the movie, “Wigstock,” where others may have woken up next to her, covered in a fine dusting of Pringles crumbs and dog hair. Regardless, with Jackie onstage, I wasn’t leaving. Her material is always funny (and it survives the test of repeated viewing), always live and very smart. She’ll rip apart a pop culture icon one minute…then wander into the audience to do the same to an audience member. I find most drag to be stupid and stupid and boring and stupid and boring and I never understood why “the queers,” as my father would say, were so into it. I guess any lady who fake farts when bending over in a skirt struggling to stay on her body is all-right in my book. check out: www.jackiebeatrules.com for more.
Channelling Cher and her daughter, “Chasta-titty.”
I think there were some bears who weren’t giving the love that Jackie was looking for, and she yelled, “Oh, come onnnnnn….enough with the fucking sour puss faces. We’ve ALL been molested…”
This is a good shot of Jackie with my dad.
After Jackie, the bad music resumed but I liked what they were projecting on the concrete walls…
I wanted to stick in a few more images, as the scale of the imagery was really good, however it doesn’t appear to be working and my eyes are crossing from too much monitor time. yuck. 4 A.M.