Incoming Missile: Hired As Fleshbot Editor

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Did you notice anything different about me? Not the hair. Nope, same boobs. That’s right — I changed my job. I know, I wanted to stay unemployed for as long as possible, but some sexy Italian guy made me an offer I just couldn’t resist. Now, if you go to Fleshbot, you’ll see my name on the masthead under Jonno’s, as “Assistant Guest Editor!” Wheee!

So — surprise, surprise, my job is to look at (or rather look for) porn all day. Again! Truthfully though, we’re going to see how it goes with my schedule and talents, and if all goes well, I might have the “Guest” removed from my title and assume the role of Jonno’s right-hand girl in the Fleshbot Empire. Which is not a bad place to be, I’d imagine. His boyfriend is ho-ot!

It’s an interesting development for me, seeing as how the rough book deadline/Marching Band/David Byrne experiences last week sort of shook up my perspective. Then, on Sunday I went to the SRL shop, we had a crew meeting about our upcoming show (stay tuned to the SRL website because my lips are sealed), and then I pulled off a BBQ in the rain, in honor of Hunter S. Thompson. Of course, with the SRL crew in attendance the BBQ fire was entertainment for an hour, entertainment that singed someone’s eyelashes off (not mine; I know who to stay away from when they have an air hose in one hand and lighter fluid in the other). fire.jpgWe all watched “The Crazy Never Die” on Mark’s big TV, a documentary that the Mitchell Bros. made of Hunter visiting the SRL shop and coming to one of our shows. Mark regaled us with crazy stories of Hunter’s mini-bar and pill station he set up in the office (by the couch I sleep on during shows), and how he was so unpredictable, fucked up and crazy that he actually had to be watched pretty closely with the 10-barrel shotgun (duh!) and the hand-held flame thrower. Thompson said some really amazing things in the video about the Regan administration using the book of revelations as some sort of sketchy guide to running the country, and Mark and I each drank a shot of Bushmills to Thompson on that point — that it’s just as true for the regime running the country today.

Vale was there, and he slipped me a copy of J. G. Ballard’s Quotes (I missed the reading due to Extra Byrne Action), which is a pretty cool thing to have surreptitiously slid into your jacket — from V. Vale, nonetheless. I had woken up that morning really feeling like I didn’t have a job; kind of scared. No regular income, no health insurance. Life in a savagely, self-righteously wealthy country, disconnected. At the shop, there was my family — subversives with hugs and kisses, dirty shop monkeys, and most striking of all, I knew where everything was. This may not seem important. But when I needed a small flathead screwdriver to loosen a staple, I walked to one of our big tool chests, opened one of the dozens of drawers — I knew right where to find it. Not like my life at all. Driver, found; me, lost.

I went home and listened to David Byrne music on my iPod. I watched him sing every night for three nights, and every night he sang and played every fucking note with passion, intense passion. His arms were open; you could tell his heart was open to the world when his music came out of him. The incredible lightness of being, personified. Later at the after party, he heard a local band and asked them to play with him sometime, and he experienced every piece of art in the space. Some artists, they just get old and lame, or they just disappear, or they gate their minds shut and live life in a perverse act of mindless consumption — and some open every door they can find, and keep going.

I cried a little because I know where everything is at the SRL shop, and I’m tired of deadlines, and I have two books I have to finish now that aren’t me. They’re someone else’s ideas, and I’ll make them my life and my blood and they will *become* me, but they’re not from my skin. I went to bed and read the Ballard Quotes book, and read what he said about writing Crash. Understand that Crash is a lot where SRL comes from, that Ballard and Mark are friends, and before I knew any of that, Crash was the first book that I masturbated to while reading. Ballard said that writing Crash was like being helplessly tethered to a computer that was tracking an incoming missile. That’s where I need to be.

If you’re still with me, and you were hoping for sex, I’ll share the sex dream I had on Monday morning. I have to wonder if I’ve been watching too much Eddie Izzard:

It starts when I am in a hotel room with a fireplace, and I have a rubber sex doll on the floor beneath me, a RealDoll. I put a double dildo in my pussy and it feels good to fuck her with it; I imagine I have a dick.

One of the Marching Band horn players come in the room w/no shirt on, but he’s not the only one. There’s another cute Marching Band boy in the bed with no clothes on. I want to fuck them both. But one of them demands personal attention in a very fun and flirty/sexy way, not pushy, and we’re laughing, so I say, okay, meet me at the club.

I am earlier than he is; it’s some kind of sex club but there’s nowhere to sit or do anything, just a few people gathered here and there. Sparse. I don’t have the right top on for this sort of thing, but luckily there is a rack of fetish clothing for sale near the front door. I start going through the selections, they are awful crap and nothing will fit me. I see the Marching Band boy walking over, and he is in drag. I’m not into sex with men in drag. He has a god-awful red wig on (I’m thinking), and a hideous pink shift of some kind that he thinks is a dress but just looks like he ran though someone’s guest-room curtains, got caught, and said fuck it and tied it with a sash. edinaandvampwillow.jpgI am very angry that he dressed himself so poorly. The first thing I do is rip off the wig with a yank, and he looks much sexier in makeup but short hair, and he looks like he deserves/enjoys my wrath. I rip that stupid dress off of him, pushing him down to the floor as I do it. He’s wearing fishnets underneath and no panties, high heels, and nothing else, and he has a huge hard-on strained by the tight netting. His makeup is smeared. It turns me on. Before I wake up I’ve ripped open his fishnets and am rubbing his cock all over my panties, hard.

Hmmm. Maybe I’m not getting *enough* Eddie Izzard. Or perhaps it’s my friend Chriso‘s bad, bad influence — the picture on the right is his birthday party I managed to go to in the middle of all this, a “come as your favorite TV personality” party. He actually shocked me by dressing as Ab-Fab’s Edna. Then I shocked myself when after everyone left I yanked down his pants and birthday spanked him while his boyfriend filmed, and Hornboy and a hot leathercop watched. Can you guess who I’m supposed to be but not pulling off at all with my $9.99 wig?

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Byrne blogs the show

And interestingly, links to my video and mentions my involvement with SRL, though does not connect the two… His description of spending time with Extra Action is really perfect. “Sexy utopia.”
http://www.davidbyrne.com/tour_journal_04.php

I have decided that I want to be a combination of David Byrne and Hunter S. Thompson and Ballard when I grow up. More on that next — it’s raining and my cat is outside, so I have to find him…!

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Je m’appelle gin-soaked girl

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I didn’t get out of the Fillmore last night until around 1am. The entire band, and David, and David’s band had left, and I counted out the merchandise with the Fillmore staff, finally exchanging hugs with the big, mean security guards on my way out — they nicknamed me “baby-doll.” When I finally made it to the after party, I was beat from three nights of 7-hour work for the band, gallons of beer, and gleefully dancing until I was sore (every chance I got). I walked into the party, famished, exhausted and thirsty, and all the food and beer was gone. A man was opening a bottle of wine at a table, so I sidled up to him. He turned, looked in my eyes, and smiled, just smiled. We’d seen each other and exchanged smiles many times over the past few days, and finally we were saying hi. I grinned and said, “Hi, I’m Violet.” He popped the wine bottle, took my hand, and said, “Hi, I’m David.” Later, the band played, we all danced, and I got home at around 5am.

I loved every minute of working for Extra Action, even when a waitress dumped an entire large-sized gin and tonic on me last night (it was cold; soaked my shirt, skirt, left shoe, and my hoodie that was on the ground). And even when I got kicked out of the empty VIP seating area. I made it to my horrendous book deadline last tuesday, for the really, really incredible Best Sex Writing 2005, which happened to be the same day as Horboy’s birthday. The book is an astounding collection of bizarre-but-true tales from journalists and writers about collisions between sex and life (examples: a woman who works in a sperm bank writes about sucking off guys in the sample rooms and the insane staff, a woman spends 24 hours in an all-prostitute Mexican town, Carly Milne illustrates the collision between porn life and “normal” life, etc.). But I shut myself off from the world to edit, and edit and edit, and once I was done, I just wanted to completely lose myself — and how perfect to find a way to work for Extra Action for a really big gig.

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David Byrne actually contacted them a while ago, but even though i was excited beyond myself, and Hornboy was coming home with music to Burning Down the House that David had sent, I was expressly forbidden from letting the cat out of the bag. Apparently this was a very, very small tour for Byrne (New Zealand, Australia and here in SF), and he contacted the band to play with him for his only American show — and no one else, just Extra Action. Which is so fucking cool. And I could tell how much he loves the band, besides the fact that he danced and drank until 4am with all of us last night. At each show he’d play for two hours — lots of Talking Heads songs — and then introduce EA, and he’d sort of hide offstage and watch them play. Then he’d come on and play Don’t Fence Me In with the drummers, and then everyone would play Burning Down the House. But then EA would take over the stage and audience (don’t forget there’s 40 of them), and David would stand in the back by himself and watch and dance the whole time, every night, clapping and smiling with a big, open-mouthed smile like a shiny happy little kid in a big angly body. But last night the flag girls (and boys) had had enough, and they pulled him onstage and gave him pom-poms, and danced with him, ran him around the stage, crawled all over him — it was one of the most joyful things I’ve ever seen.

I didn’t get any pictures (these are by Biata). Thursday night someone got their camera confiscated, and the Fillmore staff was really watching last night, and I didn’t have a photo pass (next time I have to pose as press or something), so I just danced and enjoyed myself instead. And while I considered it, I didn’t snap any pics of David at the after party because, well, it just didn’t feel right. We were there to have fun and relax.

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Back to reality, whatever that means. I’m doing my best to stay unemployed, but I’ve been getting some seriously juicy offers since I quit my day job. I also quit a freelance job — part of the blow-up doll copy writing gig — because that kind of writing is fun for like a minute, and the bosses are so disorganized and high stress that it just takes the joy out of describing satisfying love holes. Because deep down I believe in my heart of hearts that when there are three holes, I should just be feeling, seeing and smelling the love, and feel like I’m making the world a better place with the J-Ho Love Doll, not delivering landfill unto the world at a breakneck speed.

Okay, I’m tired and digressing. Time for hair of the dog before I have to face the ten million deadlines I have Monday — a piece for Playgirl, a book jacket quote for a new Alison Tyler book, a piece for a New York lit journal about public sex. I know there’s more; I’m in post-party denial. But I’m excited about a few near-future things that materialized for me this week. For sure and SRL show in April at an undisclosed location — let’s just hope the volunteers can keep their mouths shut and not blab to their friends so we can keep it secret long enough to actually pull it off. And my super-happy news: I’ve been asked to speak at Dorkbot SF again! I’ll be giving a lecture/demonstration on Teledildonics on March 23! W00t!

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Letting the days go by

* here’s last night’s entry: I fell asleep waiting for video to upload!

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It’s about 2am and I need to go to bed — I’ve been up to a lot of mischief, but I just want to share a few tidbits with you before going to bed. I will explain later — first, at 5pm I walked into the Fillmore auditorium this afternoon and walked into this (small video); then it magically became this (long video). Yes, that’s David Byrne and the Extra Action Marching Band. Later, it looked like this (short video — ran out of memory). I know, I know about the quality, but no cameras were allowed and I wasn’t even supposed to be there. Although I was stoked to be working for the band, and when I told a few horn players that I walked out of GV, they told me the Marching Band should have played and marched me on outtta there…!

Sleep now, then lots of fun news and cool stuff going on. Book deadline survived, Hornboy’s birthday celebrated, I finally slept in like a good unemployed person, more soon.

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Delusions of expediency

DEL2.JPGMark emailed me this morning about Thompson, and SRL shows:

>We already did that. It was delusions of expediency show in 1987. HT
>came to the shop and show and the Mitchell Bros shot several scenes
>of him… (comment witheld) and running machines. They also used footage
>from the show of him watching and commenting.

Update: More form Mark, “BTW the name of the doc is “The Crazy Never Die”, Produced
>edited and directed by the mitchell bros.”

“Some may never live, but the crazy never die.” Hunter S. Thompson, quotes.

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SRL mourns

Holy shit — I just found out over the SRL wires, Hunter S. Thompson shot himself, and is now dead. Perhaps our next show will be a la Fear and Loathing. Goodbye, uncle gonzo.

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New Maria Beatty

347_.jpgI sidetracked myself from editing for a minute and checked on one of my favorite-est porn S/M filmmakers, Maria Beatty — and I’m tickled to see that she has a new film out that turns me on just to think about it. I must get my hands on a copy of Ecstasy in Berlin 1926.

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