Black and White (Welcome to the Party)

I see there are many who are new to the shortbus, and I welcome you earnestly. I am a published fiction writer, not a journalist. This is my scrap-board. Currently, this story is a warped, but realistic view of AFAN’s wonderful Black and White Party 2011. Three postings back is an introduction and pre-party commentary. Two posts back is about the bus ride to the Fashion Show Mall, and the last post was about the one-plus mile walk from the FSM to the Cosmopolitan Resort. Mind you, the temperature for the day was 108*F.

We’d made it to the Cosmopolitan in one piece. My wife and I had never been there. Just like on the bus, we were out of our element. We were dressed quite fine for the party that was coming, but we were not properly attired for the casino. We were not the only fish out of water; many of our like-partiers had arrived–only not as sweaty and haggard as we.

After a quick stop in the restroom to freshen up, it was time to find C-Jane’s friend. Since C-Jane and I are strangers in this strange land, it often feels like we have been abandoned here on the island of Las Vegas. As silent proof of this fact we have only one friend who lives locally. I shall call our friend ‘Friday’ even though she is not a native to Las Vegas. If you don’t get why, that is okay, not many people read Daniel Defoe anymore.

If you do get it, I applaud you for knowing something that isn’t on TV.

We’d never been to the Cosmo before, and it is a huge casino. We were to meet ‘Friday’ at the front lobby, but what way in this place is front? We found Friday, and then together we went up to will call on the fourth floor. It was a little difficult getting around the hotel. AFAN had plenty of people to hold signs and to guide us, but one person either gave us bad directions or we didn’t listen correctly. Either is equally likely. But after walking in circles on the wrong floor, we finally found the way to the party.

C-Jane was the star photographer for the evening, she took all the pics for the night. This one is a good pic. This was the welcoming committee, this is Piper Champagne.

I saw the girl in the martini glass, and thought she was very pretty. I also thought, “God, I’d hate her job.” How long is she expected to sit in that giant Martini Glass? Sure, she is smiling — or is it a grimace of pain, her poor knees. Hmm, well with that said, at least she isn’t the dirty Mickey Mouse pan-handling on the strip over by the Bellagio.

See the two women in the gold dresses. Of course you do. They looked 10-feet tall in real life, but they stood on stools under their dresses. I’m just saying they may have tricked some people, but not me. Nope, not really 10-feet tall.

Two very handsome and shirtless men were handing out champagne. C-Jane looks like a photographer for Playgirl, click- click- click goes the shutter, “Stop and pout you dirty boy! – gimme more pouting – good, and good!”

But look at this pic. I said, “Take a picture of Hamster Girl.” And look at this shoddy pic by comparison to all the others. Can you say, ‘passive aggressive?’ Hamster Girl did yoga in the ball on the pool. It was very cool to watch — well, I thought so at least. Oh well.

Tilt your head for Kettle One. See, free booze. My cup was filled plenty o’ times here at this wonderful presentation. Maybe a couple times too many.

Like this pic? Giant Ice Penis. Take notice, C-Jane’s sexy new boyfriend wears a big smile in the pic.

Rum, not mother’s milk flowed freely from these fine breasts here. “Thank God,” I said. Two years ago they had a hollow ice-cock that they poured the rum through. I’m pretty open-minded, but the drip-drip-drip made me a little nervous. Clap on, clap off …

So, as you can see, it was very wise we took the bus and then walked a mile in the heat. Clearly, we got our drink on. Next post – “Big J’s drunken stupor.”

Black and White (Almost There)

This is a continuation from the last two posts. This is my experience leading to our participation at AFAN’s 2011 annual Black and White Party. Knowing that we (my wife and I) were going to drink our fair share of free booze, we’d decided to take the bus, and then walk from Fashion Show Mall to the Cosmopolitan Resort. It is 1.5 miles in-between those two points. It was also 108*F at the time we’d left our house.

We had to hurry. A friend of C-Jane was to meet us in the lobby of the casino, and thanks to our recent hostage situation we were going to be late. Treasure Island was on our right, and the masses were gathering for the 8pm pirate show.

“Arr May’tee, a real knotter ye be!”

I’m freaked out! Before me is a sidewalk overflowing with people waiting for pirates to lip-sync to some (lame) song and do (lame) battle in a man-made puddle. Body after body is pressing closer and more and more people are huddling onto the walkway in our way. It is as if Paul McCartney has turned 20 again, and the Beatles are giving a free show, but it is only a fake pirate sing-a-long. It is too much for me, I cry out, “Run C-Jane, before it is too late!”

Luckily, she wore flats instead of heels and we made it, but just barely. Geez that was close! But as it appeared we got by, in my best pirate slang, I announce “Thar b’fore me, is the plum-mad Cap’n Jack Sparrow.” He saw us, but some tourists gang-rushed him insisting a picture of themselves aside the famous Cap’n Jack Sparrow. Fate, it seems, has spared us twice. Hmm, imagine that, especially after all the sh** I’d spat two posts back.

And then we found him! Elvis is alive!

But as we get closer to the Bellagio, the world goes really coo-coo. Some blasphemous Disney nightmare is developing here. Posing street-side are two man-sized ducks, and immediately I recognize both of them. It is Donald Duck’s nephews, Huey and Dewy, but there is no Louie. Where is Louie? A couple paces further we pass Mickey and Minnie, but they look soiled and dirty, before them is a bucket for tips. Wait a second! Mickey and Minnie must have foreclosed their dream home in the Magic Kingdom and now they are homeless. Having lost all their money in the stock market, they are now destitute and begging for tourist scraps here on the strip. How sad. That really isn’t as funny as it sounds.

But the card-snappers are the true parasite on the Vegas Strip.

Card-snappers in Fabulous Las Vegas are the scores and scores of non-English speaking people who were lucky enough to smuggle their wife across a border and pop out their very own American citizen. In their hands they snap business cards to get your attention since they “only speak Canadian, eh.” Damn Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds movies!

Hundreds of hands are pushing past my wife’s face to hand me a card informing me that my “Dream Escort” is guaranteed to come within 30 minutes after my call. Damn you, illegal Canadian transplant! Just because the Toronto Blue Jay’s farm-team is here, you’re now bringing all your problems and your smut here with you.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m all about legalizing prostitution. We would have a less-violent population if we’d just let people get some good ole fashioned pay-n-lay. Think about Dick Cheney – okay – now imagine how great he would have been if he’d just gotten laid a couple times in college? Maybe he’d even smile once or twice, but he doesn’t, because prostitution is illegal.

A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do, right?

But my wife and I are walking on the sidewalk, just trying to get to a party, and that is our sole focus. Don’t clothes-line my wife to hand me a flyer for a “Private Entertainer” *wink-wink* coming direct to my hotel room. Now you’ve just pissed me off. So I grabbed the guy’s arm and gave him a little shove. It really wasn’t even that hard, but his heel caught wrong on a sprinkler-head by a palm tree and he fell over backward.

He fell out and into the street sliding on his shoulders, his scared eyes peering wide. I’m shouting, “Dude, don’t act so dramatic, I barely touched you!” and then a cab hit him! Like really hard and the tire rolled over his arm. A geyser of blood was spraying everywhere!

What did I do? I ran – F***-ALL-THIS – I got a party to get to! Hurry up C-Jane!

I’m just kidding. As, I’d told you yesterday, I write fiction for a living. But seriously, those A-hole card-flickers should get life insurance policies so their souvenir American-pups can cash in on the American dream when someone who isn’t a wussy walks by. Dumb people place too much faith in the tolerance of others.

But we finally made it! We arrived, dehydrated and salt-crusted; we walk into the fancy-pants Cosmopolitan Resort. Now all we need to do is find C-Jane’s friend and the party can begin.

The party is huge; it may take two more posts to get everything.

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(DISCLAIMER- If ye be a pyrate, and this funnin at yer expense shivers ye timbers, don’t have this scurvy-dog keel-hulled. I’ll pull a’cork and spill me finest rum wit ye. Less ye be a trouble-seekin Canadian pyrate, them seadogs be a tight rougher than I.)

Black and White (The bus ride)

Aid for AIDS of Nevada throws one hell of a party every year and they call it the Black and White party. Restaurants from all over the city provide tastings from their menus. There are several other businesses who are involved, a huge raffle with many swank prizes, and there is free booze. If you are interested in whom all the vendors were, I suggest going to this site here.

My writing is purely experiential and experimental. Although my work is not journalism, I am a writer and this is my penchant. Although these events have occurred, my stories are not ‘the truth.’ In a symbolic way these stories are factual, but not absolutely. I am a creative fiction writer, it is my job and this is my free scrap-board.

So, the story begins on Saturday evening. C-Jane and I were waiting at the bus stop, dressed sharply and ready to go. The cuts and folds of the dress hold C-Jane in all the right ways. She wears a tailor-made party dress, form-fitting white and cut above her knee, with a hundred printed black-profiles of Queen’s ex-singer Freddie Mercury marching every couple inches across her body. Mercury died of AIDS in the 90’s. It sounds grim, but in truth her dress fits the occasion perfectly, this is a celebration of life when not too long ago the only way out for someone with HIV was an ugly and lonely death.

I stand next to her, dressed in black except for my Nike’s, which are white and black. It is 108*F, so both my shorts and T-Shirt are made of light material, both for breathing well and style. Both items accent my features, creating a physically powerful aura. And standing together waiting for a bus-ride, we catch the eye of every passer-by.

Yes, you heard me correctly, the bus. We took public transportation to a big and very fancy party. We intended to drink, not a little but a lot, and I’m not driving. C-Jane can’t drive drunk even if she thinks she can, but no – just no. Riding the bus would be an adventure, — oh, and what an adventure.

In Europe, Public Transportation is the way to go. It might be a tad more expensive than Stateside, but it is convenient, swift and punctual. I wouldn’t use those words to describe our bus ride, but ‘interesting and sad’ might be words I’d use. It certainly had more personality than any bus in Geneva or Amsterdam.

We may have well been covered in radioactive glowing dust. Everybody on the bus looked like they belonged and this is their routine, but now we’ve arrived and made their day different. Fish may have come flopping out of our pockets by how obviously we were out of our element. The woman beside me looks like a million dollars. I feel like a bodyguard at first. I, looking like 200-pounds of pure muscle, and asking, “How much is the fare?”

 But everything is cool. The driver replies to my question, “Two dollars.” We pay and go sit down; I offer C-Jane the inside by the window.

It isn’t just here. I really don’t fit in anywhere, so this ride, although at first a little strange, is no different than any other odd scenario that has formed my life. Up by the ceiling of the bus is an advertisement calling for human lab rats for strange and undisclosed sleep experiments. I wonder what volunteering for that could be like. Why do scientists only inform people who ride the bus that they need experimental human rats? Is the bus rider in Las Vegas so destitute that this is an option out?

Half-way to our stop, a younger man gets on with his girlfriend. They aren’t dressed for a night of partying, at least not like us. He, who we shall call ‘Shouter,’ shouts, “Anyone got a dollar!”

“I need a dollar!” he yells again. The bus sits, its driver’s foot is on the brake and the doors wait open. Shouter’s girlfriend wags her shoulders, her knees are pressed together. In her cubby face, dumb and unaware eyes look out. Shouter barks again, “Anyone have a dollar!”

BigJ, this is not your territory, just look out the window. It isn’t personal; this is his hustle, just leave it well enough alone. Shouter doesn’t look any brighter than his lady. A life of items taking by force or constant hand-outs is all this guy knows. I see his sense of entitlement in his eyes. It is a great unknown and indefinable quantity. Finally, someone concedes, and give the punk a dollar. Mr. Shouter and his Lady get a discounted ride by being obnoxious. Here is the top of the food chain.

As soon as we get to the Las Vegas Strip, we only have a couple miles to walk to the Cosmopolitan Resort. Chapter 2 will be the next stage of the adventure. Please savor and relish all parts, I will post daily until the story is finished.

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(DISCLAIMER – see the second paragraph. I ain’t got time to spell it all out for you, I got deadlines to reach!)

Bombville, USA

(I see people keep coming to this site, and I haven’t posted in almost a week.  Shame on me.  [Aid For AIDS Nevada] AFAN’s 25^th annual Black and White Party is in five days, there will be plenty to write about because this will be the big event of the year, or, until whatever I call the next big event of the year. So here is another old post that was fun. My apologies to my subscribers, nothing has been going on, at least nothing worth writing about.)

 

Every once in a while, a subject appears that could touch many Americans the wrong way. As Americans, we love bombs. Bombs are sung about in our national anthem, and every year we explode rockets high in the air to celebrate our violent separation from imperial England. I will admit, I love the 4^th of July, blowing stuff up is cool. I am a man, and I am American.

 

All of the above things stated, I was a little creeped-out driving through Hawthorne Nevada. Watching along the road before entering town, I thought – “Oh look, our national colors, how patriotic – painted on bombs – WTF!” Heading south, on the right, are several bombs buried nose-cone first and painted red white and blue. So we pulled over at the rest stop beside an American flag on a fence with anti-aircraft cannons in a park. Also in the park were ‘bomb pinwheels’.

 

Right beside where we ate lunch there was an exhibit named something like the ‘bomb-and-other-things-that-explode’ museum. As much as I like to destroy things, Hawthorne, Nevada has made itself a shrine of it. If I had known that Calamity Jane, the ever vigilant anti-bomb pacifist, was as super-excited about seeing the wall to wall of bombs, I’d have gone into the museum. What could have been in there? Could there have been statistics, like, how many people have bombs killed in the last hundred-years? How many buildings have been exploded with bombs, or how many limbs severed, or livestock turned into red goo. Hell yeah! Now there is a museum to see.

 

Anyhow, there is more. I FOUND THE FEMA DEATH CAMPS! Not really; I’m just kidding. There are Army and Navy bases close by Hawthorne with forty or fifty large cement buildings with no windows or doors.  Also a little creepy – but rumor is, they keep bombs there. It is kinda why Hawthorne is such a bomb happy place, I guess. Perhaps another visit is in order to set my facts straight.

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(Do I need a disclaimer for this one? Hawthorne Nevada, please don’t blow me up, I’m just funnin’ with you. I mean you no harm. Besides, you have explosives, and Mama said ‘never taunt a man with dynamite strapped to his chest, it can’t end well’.)