Just a good ol' boy, never meanin' no harm, who don't beat all you ever saw, though I have been in trouble with the law since the day I was born. So it's in keeping that en route to my next personal exploitation, I cannot open my car's passenger door -- recently replaced after being hit by a LYNX bus, but I won't go into that -- for my companion, Tony.
"Can I jump in the window like Bo Duke?" he Daisies.
"Why, sure," I Boss Hog.
And so with the aplomb of a plum, he jumps in. Genius. We're headed to the questionable cockfest of the glorious Parliament House for some climactic indulgence involving a themed happy hour, a service-industry viewing of the Weekly-touted Rigfried and Soy, and then, gulp, some karaoke. You can see where this is headed, right? True colors. Yep, they're shining through.
Weekly copy editor Jessica Young has gifted me with a packet of Jamaican "cock soup," which provides enough laughter for most of the journey. Then we left-turn into an odd (and completely unrelated to soup or editing) discussion about how when people become deeply involved with something, they often become terribly obnoxious. "I'm working on an installation, I'm working on a screenplay, I'm working on my ass via a mysterious means of gothic Pilates," and so on. We're all going to hell. Drunk. So shut up.
But now it's time to drink. Immediately upon entrance at the PH, I'm approached by an old friend who offers a summation of this very paper in some choppy ellipsoid prose: "Hate the new format ... column's good ... your other writing is even better." Phew. Quickly escaping more discussion of format (or my ass, or Pilates), I immerse myself in the goings-on in the here and queer.
Taylor's Funhouse is the Wednesday theme hereabouts, and seeing as I've known Taylor for a coon's age (we've shared a number of boyfriends, although he insists it was always I who got second helpings on the cock soup, the liar), I'm quick to fall into the SKYY. But I've never known Taylor to be wearing caked-up green face makeup, á la Rob Zombie in a pile of misused guacamole. He's scary, and that's the idea. Awesome. All of the sudden, there's a foghorn noise and a megaphone, rattling the ice in my plastic cup.
"Thirty-seven!" screams one bartender, also caked. "We're looking for 37!"
What's really going on is some unhealthy drink-count madness involving little tickets you get with each drink you shouldn't have drunk. There's a giant wheel -- not quite as large as Regis and Kelly's travel twirler -- that a lucky contestant gets to spin for, you guessed it, another drink. Choices include "well," "shot," "pucker," and all of the other things your mother warned you against when you were wearing Daisy Dukes. Best part is, the person with the most drink tickets at the end of the night gets a free room. Which, in a way, is philanthropic; but, considering that many rooms at the Parliament House involve people pressing their penises against your window in that Mick Jagger lip-and-steam kind of way, a little bit sinister, too.
"You get to spin the wheel and your head gets to spin!" I think I'm funny. I'm not.
Whatever. A minor crisis ensues when everything shuts down (not just in my head) while the "37" guy screams, "Would the person with the red car and the white dog with the black spots on it please come and see the person with the red hat?"
"The red what?" I fall apart. I'm color-blind, at least temporarily.
Everything falls back into its desired libidinous effect with the pumping of Pulp's "Common People," and something similarly British and disdainful by New Order.
"Someday I'm going to be young and fashionable so that I can look down on everybody, too," Tony clearly describes the gay bar credo. Someday, I'll be young, too, I quietly shoot myself.
I ditch Tony and head for the show, where I'm submerged in the most fabulous vat of Oldsmobile Delta 88 nostalgia you could possibly imagine from two people portraying unemployed clones of the currently wounded and out-of-service Siegfried and Roy (two, count 'em, two Journey songs are included). Turns out their third ensemble-mate, the perpetually drugged Celine Cry-on, who is actually named Gerard, has been chosen for a new reality bullshit drill called "American Superstar" or something. So there it is, something actually worth reading in this column, huh? Some news. There you have it.
"So let's see what celebrities we have in the audience tonight," quips show star David Lee. "Liza? David?" Then the mohawked bitch glares over in my direction. "There's Billy Hanes with a faux-hawk." he mistakes me for underwear. "He's here to 'write' an article. I mean, drink."
By the time karaoke kicks in, after the show and my sedatives, I'm plumb ready to make an ass out of myself. I try with deserved futility to get a go at "Islands in the Stream" with my bartender friend Taylor. Instead, I opt for the obvious.
"I'm doing 'True Colors,'" I slur to my hairdresser friend, Mychael. And yeah, the 'y' is intentional.
"You should do it as some sort of performance art piece." He pulls me back to installation/screenplay land. Damn Pilate.
The everpresent Miss Sammie pops up with a tube of lipstick and proceeds to tell me how to use it; like I don't know. Jesus.
So, there I am. On a stool. In front of the wheel of drink. Drunk. "Joo wich yah syad hawt, don't be discoooraged," I ruin my life. Brilliantly, I pull out the lipstick and start smearing it all over my face like Robert Smith or Annie Lennox might, but certainly not Cyndi Lauper.
"Don't be afraid!" I scream, a mess of booze and makeup squished into one moment of ridiculousness, "to let them shooowwww."
No. No, I'm not. But thanks for the advice.
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