Freaky douche bags in Hollyweird love the Chyna Doll

So I gotta tell you that Chyna the wrestler is a really really fun girl. Woman. Sex symbol. What fuckin ever. She is a good time even when she is crying and holding her arms close to her bod so you cant see the cuts. I am spitballing ideas with Lisa Ann about Chyna's upcoming pitches for a reality show—things involving redemption, exploration, having the Chyna go and be with all her people meaning people who share some of the troubles she is so vocal about right now: eating disorders, dysmorphia, feminist perspectives on gender, the limelight, the ex-limelight, surviving physical abuse, surviving scandal, cutting, drug use and abuse—she is a rolling blackout of issues and thanks to surreal life and the Anna Nicole movie coming out she's in the media. And I love her. Coz she is open and honest and always a good time no matter how much she suffers she doesn't make you suffer and that is a generous kind of person you see.

So anyhoo, what I wanted to recount is actually just about the reactions we got to the girl herself. Never since the night I briefly hung out with the Anna Nicole have I seen what I saw with the Chyna: drooling, speechless living dead. Whoda thunk it? I have been adjacent to several celebrities from the a-z list and even the minor celebs in their own inner sanctums where they are GODS (John Cameron Mitchell, Alan Cumming, Julie Atlas Muz, various drag queens, and foreigners you don't know) anyway, I have seen all manner of fawning and autograph hounding and picture taking but this freaky vibe I only saw with Anna Nicole and now Chyna. Let me describe it: so we are standing around talking about the ice sculptures at Jeff Conaway's house (please refer to next blog) and how weird it is that they are basically two triangles of ice, in fact one square of ice cut in half and placed on tables. Weird. Anyways we are having this lively art connoisseur meets zamboni conversation and I start to notice that at about 15 paces from us are three different guys and one girl all standing and literally staring, with their mouths all droopy, with a singularity of focus usually reserved for weird old guys in itchy suits at porn conventions or at the autograph table at a car show. But these dudes and the one girl are normal looking. People with jobs that don't involve answering surveys online for free ipods. People who look like they shop at Trader Joes for toffurkey. People who have been to several nice restaurants and known what to order. So what the fuck. They even have product in their hair ok? And nice shoes. They are not wearing cutoff tshirts and bandanas that say no muff too tuff. And here they are in a semi circle around our little conversation sort of dripping into the concrete. I think , oh maybe they know her. Or maybe they are being polite and waiting for a break in the conversation, but no. Slowly, eerily one by one they pick an awkward moment to kind of hurl themselves over the gap of 15 paces and say in hushed creepy voices: "Um I just wanted to introduce myself." PAUSE PAUSE PAUSE "Um you are really beautiful" PAUSE PAUSE PAUSE "I just uh can I take a photo with you?" PAUSE PAUSE "I mean, I just wanted to say hi and everything." PAUSE DROOL SHIFT. The girl too. Everybody. I was like What the hell? This is Chyna! Star of such great films as uh, none! Maker of such great music as uh, WHAT? I mean I like a celebrityfuk moment as much as anyone but drooling on your nice Cole Hahn shoes is usually not necessary—maybe if you are a fag with no parents who knows how to breakdance and you are meeting Madonna, maybe. But these douche bags (and I say that because they became instant douches when their freakish fetishy erection beamed them out of an otherwise normal life to suckle at the perceived goddess bosom of the Chyna) were zombified with no real justification. Chyna says it happens all the time. And I saw it at least 5 more times before it became too distasteful and I chose instead to watch a very yoga fit looking Marilu Henner shepherd her kids around the pool area and pause briefly to tell us about the love of her life, husband number 3 whom she had known in college and who called her upon hearing of her divorce from number 2 to ask her out. Awwwww. Cute. What does it all mean? Who cares. But Chyna. Yeah. They see something in her that they want, nay need, in a medieval primeval base kind of way. Submission? Power? Gender fuck? I dunno. But now I am fascinated, and definitely think we need to make the show.

A hicky from Knicky is like a hallmark card Jeff conaway gets the Temptations to play in his backyard. Coz A hickey from Knicky is like a hallmark card.


I can quote many many lines form the 1981 movie version of Grease. I used to annoy my friends when we watched it by doing it under my breath like a rosary or a tantric meditation. Grease is the WORD. So of course when Lisa Ann and Chyna were like let's go to Jeff Conaway's housewarming party I was like oh hell ya. Even though we all witnessed the Celebrity Fit Club melt down 2 seasons ago when he basically spewed hangover bile all over the other cast mates (who were they? Cant remember? See what I mean! Knicky rulz) Anyways it was not lookin pretty back then with Jeff hazily running into walls and living in the backyard of his girlfriends place and alternating herbal Chinese medicine with street drugs. We wondered if the house warming was gonna be in the back of someone's car or in a Home Depot shed erected in the backyard of some in law's house in Pacoima. Oh how wrong we were. Seems Jeff got a nice little settlement (or perhaps he was watching the secret and willed himself into a better house—who knows--- only the bald genie who looks like the Rock and talks to the lady with the Australian accent) anyhow. Greeted by valet service, 2 green parrots and a manager called Freddy who had the list we swept into a gigantesque unilevel sprawl in Topanga with backyard pool hottub grotto waterfall thing and multi level patio. It was saint patty's day so the buffet was corned beef and cabbage (only the white half of me was amused by this) and there were two triangles of ice (a sculpture, a statement on the demise of the rhombus—I just learned rhombus on are you smarter than a fifth grader, answer NO) and Marilu Henner's middle school aged kids running around a crowd of semi hip pseudo well dressed young men and women in smart casual wear. I had on a smart casual silk top and jeans, Kristen fared better in a black wraparound, Chyna could have been wearing a burlap sack and it would have been formal (see above blog). Lisa was cute as always. It was a'ite. I didn't want to talk to Jeff or his super cute girlfriend because this was their night and I defined random at their party. But I did photograph the ice geometry and went to lick it as an act of performance art. The point is that the Temptations came onto the little backyard stage at about 1130. They just appeared, in their matching blue suits and deft hand foot choreography and harmonies. All the screenwriter looking white guys with horn rims nearly shit themselves. One kept screaming in my ear "it's the Temptations! Temptations! Temptations!" which was kind of exciting. Everyone was like is it REALLY them? And after a lot of heads jerking around to see what the consensus was, yes indeed it was them. Lisa said Jeff must have spent his entire settlement on this one party. It was surreal to quote the VH1. They did papa was a rollin stone and I was ecstatic. You can see it in my eyeball in the picture. Jeff gets on stage for My Girl. Marailu's kids were roaming and pausing to look at all the old dudes in suits sliding and floating on the tiny backyard stage. One redhead actress was grinding everyone near the tiny stage and sort of whooping the way only a forty something who still has great hair and who really remembers the songs can whoop. Chyna was nowhere to be seen and Kristen called her mom to tell her we were in a backyard with the Temptations. This is the opposite of New York. Nothing makes sense. There is too much money. There is too little money. People get a beat down in a casino and buy a house with two parrots in it. You are always a voyeur because nothing seems real here. In NYC you are the list. Here when you are on the list you get to watch the thing happen and then blog it because no one would believe it and you wont even remember it in the morning when something else bizarre happens. I like it here too but it seems like a really extended play version of Surreal Life Fame games. Non famous people act famous, famous people want to be something else, there are ice sculptures and parrots and the Temptations and no one knows how they got there or who is their friend. Just reporting it. Wondering at the end if I even had fun? I should have licked the ice for real. Just to see if it was as cold as it looked.

Midget strippers on New years Eve

Actually midget burlesque dancer is the correct nomenclature for the lady in the picture with me. She often shows up at Earl’s parties and events and this New Years Eve at Joes Pub it was a good rockin time with Slanty Eyed Mama, Penny Arcadde, Mike Albo, The Dazzle Dancers and many more. I fuckin lovelovelove the city I call home and it is mostly because this is where I can wear a gun holster corset and get my photo taken on New Years Eve with a midget burlesque dancer. I know this exists in other cities. I know that the drag scene in Raleigh NC is kickin and that the girls at Jumbos Clown Room in Silverlake work the stage like no one’s business and that Atlanta has Blondie and that Toronto had El Convento Rico, the finest nightclub salsa drag cabaret in the world and that the Rock N Roll on sunset strip is LIVE and that private clubs in London has better fashion and more cool than a room full of Velvet Underground, but…still….in New York you don’t have to really go anywhere special to be in a special place. You don’t have to make reservations or get in a car or show up on the right night or have a reduced admission pass or be on anyone’s list. Honey if you are here, you are the list. And everywhere you look, someone is pulling the art out of themselves like a string of cum covered pearls with a strawberry on the end; everyone is participating somehow in the collective project of surviving and staying in a good mood and enjoying the rush of 10 million people who are proud to be part of the loud brash genius of this place. I love it so much. I bring it with me wherever I go. Everyone is always like, are you from New York? And the Torontonian, Melbournian, North Sumatran in me says YES. Because it is the truth.