New York Tranny Freak legends trump LA losers.

Another wonderful weekend to ring in Spring Fever. Beginning Thursday night Weimar New York the sensation of the Spiegel Tent and home show of such NYC legends as Justin Bond (kiki of kiki and herb) who did me the honor of demonstrating a porn kiss after the last show, Meow Meow (transcendent cyber cabaret star) Julie Atlas Muz (well deserved winner of Ms. Exotic World Burlesque championship in Vegas) Tigger (Mr. Burlesque world, and ditto) and Taylor Mac (you have to see to believe the totally bizarre and stunningly beautiful juxtaposition of Mac in full androgynous retro alien clown drag singing about the war to a ukelele. I can't explain it, but it is truly a sight to behold. So lemme see. On Thursday I did the show and Tigger did his signature naked splits at the end of a number where he dressed up as a french lesbian and danced to a parisian electroclash mix about loving Harley Davidsons. Julie Atlas Muz got inside a giant acrylic baloon and stripped naked to Moon River before busting through it. Here's a link coz you gotta see this. Taylor played a song and everyone cried. Penny Arcade, one of the foremost performance artists in America (look her up all ye pretenders to the avant garde) ranted about how much she loves LA and hates the vagina monologues. my vagina is not wearing a hat either penny, kudos. Well maybe a snood. But not a rainhat. I did a quick number from chinkorama and Lance played piano all night and sang one of his songs. There were Pixie harlots, a gypsy like troupe of gogo dancers who also strut in 8 inch stilettos and outrageous only in New York Fuck you gowns and grotesque accessories designed by soon to be unbelievably famous Machine Dazzle (also of the Dazzle dancers.) Friday, shake and repeat. Followed by the cast descending on the 101 cafe in hollywood and being totally stared down in their glitter sequins and the ocassional tassle-less nipple popping out over chai lattes and egg white scrambles. Saturday, prince showed up but alas too late. We did go to an after party in the hills at one of the producers' houses, a transparent blonde with delicate features whose ethereal dandy style seemed to fit his occupation as model slash novelist. I bought it. He looked like a tallish blonde cat, quiet in a crumpled 1000 dollar suit and tussled locks in his Hollywood studio with a giant pink neon sign that read "Optimism is the product of sheer terror " or something like that.

Dita Von Teese was there, perched on a chair like a crow on a tombstone, waiting to be noticed in her little 40s black suit and tilted fedora with feather and ultra red lips. I was kinda like F-You Von Teese. Your fake german name doesn't hide that you were the dork goth girl at school writing insuffereable poems between bouts of cutting and sulking with no friends. In this room of NYC performance artistes and history makers, and your friends, you certainly could afford to, I dunno, like, clap after they spontaneously bring down the house, r i dunno buy a ticket to their show or at least get a little happy to see em in an after show performances which was requested for you and your cunty LA dilettante poser friends. Did I mention she pissed me off sitting there and NOT clapping or smiling or like even talking. F you!

Saturday we drove to the other producers pad in Malibu and ate chicken and salad overlooking the ocean for no particular reason but it seemed logical. Sunday post show there was a lot of naked Pixie Harlots jumping off the rail at the beverlywood motel (ew!) into the slightly grimy pool leaving a trail of glitter and sweat that I am sure will clog the drains for awhile. Justin told a delightful story about getting bj's from his neighbor and 69'ing in snowsuits when they were mere boys, and Julie read a poem I wrote out loud before passing out on a cocktail of courvoisier and peppermint schnapps. It was like all the best things about college keggers with the added bonus of being old enough to know better and young enough not to care.

I cant really relate how everything sacred and profane about new york is so different than the LA sacred and profane. I think in LA there is no sacred profane. Perhaps no sacred, because Fear is such a motivator. And as I looked into the shifty eyes of Von Teese whose income I would venture to say is much much more than any of the fabulous and one of a kind pixie harlots, and whose parasitical international fame (at the moment) trumps the sublimely talented and edgy Atlas Muz, and the rest of the LA zombies in their crumpled D+G vintage sort of leaned into things and tried to look cool before returning to their snacky brand new luxury cars to return home and look for photos of themselves on TMZ and gawker like desperate freshman pledging the sorority that is Hollywood, --I saw, beautifully, genuinely, grimily, joyfully the unabashed exuberance of my new vaudevillian friends from NY, sharing their music and their sometimes awkward raw talents, cheering each other on and debating the finer points of tassle gluing and german crooning, and i saw that OPTIMISM. Right there in front of me, slightly sweaty, probably broke as hell; stuffed into suitcases at the Grody Beverlywood where the pool could give you a rash; bummed like a cigarette from Penny Arcade who said, "hey kid, i'm 57 and I'm just getting started on this new thing"; in Lance's feverish banging on the piano behind an increasingly frantic Justin Bond singing about shaving asses in a studio just behind the Magic Castle; in Julie Atlas Muz's current obsession with growing the longest pubic hair in the world; in Earl dax, the producers' accidental trip and fall into a kiddy pool at the club and crying and then sayin "well I needed to cool off anyways". In all of it. optimism. Life. Terror, is actually just terror. I see it every day in H-Wood wearing designer shades and saying nonsense things into its bluetooth. Taking meetings and pretending to feel good about having a parking space. and It is why I will leave soon enough. But optimism, you can't buy it or schmooze it or find it in newsprint. You can live it. Love it. And be it. Because art is supposed to be fun. Life is supposed to be fun. And lemme tell you, kids. If ya ever have a chance to follow around a group of New York gypsy performance artists, do it do it do it. You'll never feel poor again.

Party crash tip #23: Follow the cool people back to their hotel. Just keep talking and acting like you are having a great time. Offer to drive or buy more beer. Offer anything you think they need, pay for a cab, buy cigs and say you will bring them over. Just keep moving and assume you are going. Don't make the amateurish mistake of ASKING "Hey can I come with you guys?" unless they are making out with each other. IN which case you just keep following without a word until you get a cold stare or are actually told to go. Most times you can just keep going and waltz right into the hotel, and who KNOWs who you will meet then.