After a rather late goodbye dinner in Palm Springs I was off to LA to gather my traveling buddies, Scott and PD, and begin my 5th trip across the US. I was a little hungover today and was not looking forward to the physical activity or the night driving, but I did it and have been looking forward to hitting the hay. Sorry no pictures yet. I promise to make up for that very soon.

During a plane trip last month I encountered a most unexpected, annoying and consequently enlightening travel experience. We’ve all had our time in travel hell, but in this particular time I was lucky enough to come out of it learning a valuable lesson and getting to my destination relatively close to the originally promised time. Like the experienced traveler I am, as soon as I arrived at the airport I checked the departure screen for my flight and discovered it had been canceled. The screen also revealed that there were no other flights to Palm Springs near my original departure time or any other for that matter. It didn’t take me long to get to the ticket counter and find other people on my flight already harassing the agents there. The reason for the cancellation was not divulged, but the airline offered to pay for hotel rooms for us all since the next flight would be on the following day. Oh, hell no! Besides having to pick PD up on time, the thought of a night at the airport Ramada was too horrible even to consider.

It seemed logical to me that if they were willing to pay for a hotel perhaps they would pay for a rental car in LA instead. That way I could at least drive to Palm Springs and spend the night in my own bed. When I asked the useless woman behind the ticket counter if they would take care of the car in lieu of the hotel she shrugged her shoulders, paused for a moment and said I would have to ask customer service. Taking a deep breath I abstained from saying what I was thinking as she pointed to an unmarked black phone hanging on the wall behind me. I thanked her for her half assed attempt at a resolution and picked up the phone. After explaining, again, what I was trying to do the representative told me that I needed to ask the agent at the desk. When I told him that I was just there, in fact I was looking right at her, he stood his ground and told me in the same tone that only she could help me. When I relayed this information to the unhelpful girl I was met with the same vacant look and told to go another service desk in another part of the airport. As I walked down the moving walkway I hoped that my bag will make it to LA because my keys to everything were in my checked baggage. There was nothing to do about that now, so I marched onward.

At the new service desk I encountered a small team of present, helpful, lucid English speaking people. After I explained my situation and request I was told that they did not do that sort of thing and then I was asked if I wanted to be put on the next flight to PS. I was a bit confused but still managed to utter a “Yes, please!” As I was getting my mind back I was given my bag ticket and told that I might want to hurry since I had to exit the terminal, re-enter the terminal and go through security again. I expressed a heartfelt gratitude and before I took off like Mercury I asked why the dolts at the other counter hadn’t offered this option to me or the other passengers. “They suck over there” said the leader of the group, who were all college kids. She explained that because United was partnered with several airlines my ticket was transferable between them – something I could have learned much, much earlier had the first agent been worth her weight in fiberglass insulation. The lesson learned is that knowing which airlines your carrier is partnered with can save your bacon. The minor lesson is to always carry my keys because the next time I might not be so lucky.

I spent the week of Thanksgiving in Southern Florida going between Miami and Ft Lauderdale. There is a strip bar called the Boardwalk in Ft. Lauderdale where Chi Chi and I headlined from Wednesday to Saturday. I was not the only one there. I shared the bar with 5 great guys from FabScout Entertainment:

Aside from my little number and Chi Chi’s music I counted about 25 different guys dancing around the bar, stage and wherever they could find room. Some were straight, some were gay and there were a couple of them that had the most enormous dicks I had ever seen; it must be in the water.

The guy dancing to my song was straight and from Venezuela… I heart-ed him… I have no idea because he is SO not my type. Chi Chi took the camera from me and asked, “Why do you like that?”

At any rate, I drank too much, stayed out way too late and had way too much fun. This post will make more sense when the video is finished. I went a little crazy with video during that trip!

This is where it began to get sticky. I had just enough time to get my stuff on the hotel bed, take a piss and get downstairs to meet my ride to the “event”. I was feeling way overextended, emotionally, and I was beyond hungry, not a great combination. As I walked into the “athletic club” I notice a pool table covered in plastic….”it can’t be” I thought to myself as I was walked to my quarters.

It can be and it was. I knew I had to do a small strip tease prior to the blessed event, but I did not know it was going to be on a pool table. To make matters worse the music, or should I say lack of music was painful; it came from a source beyond my ear shot and spat out indecipherable pitches and beeps and was no where near danceable. As I began to reluctantly move and sway to the beat in my head, I began to move down the table only to nearly have my head impaled by a sprinkler head hanging out of the ceiling, directly dead center of the pool table. The other end was where the lube and towels were so I couldn’t dance there, oh yeah, he added some strawberries as well. I don’t know if he hoped I would use them in some naughty antioxidant-rich sort of way or if he put them there because I had nearly fallen over from a severe glucose deficiency 20 minutes earlier. I forgot to mention that not only was there a sprinkler jutting out of the ceiling but as it was, if I were an inch taller, this little show would not have happened. I literally had about an inch between my head and the ceiling. You can say that my space was limited but it would be like saying Global Warming is really nothing more than longer summers.

After that was done I retired to my room before the next and final installment of Johnny Does Toronto. I was fetched from my room shortly thereafter and just as we walked out of the room, the “promoter” if you will, mentioned casually that he had some really good classical music for me to dance to. I laughed suspiciously while telling myself “it can’t be.”

I walked in to the small room and got up on stage and looked over to see a small boom box sputtering sounds of strings. I really thought this was a joke and even said, as I stood there in my underwear, “you’re kidding right?” The patrons found this to be very humorous and laughed heartily, I think though, they laughed more out of embarrassment and pity for us than amusement.

I never get bitchy and I am always, always accommodating, but this was not going to happen. I told him he had to change it. He told me that was all he could find. He had a month to prepare for this, he had all day. HOW HARD IS IT TO GET A CD OF DANCE MUSIC? I had no idea how this happened. I stood there with my hands in my head clearly and intentionally showing my frustration, aggravation and extreme irritation as the knobs on the boom box were being turned. It wasn’t even a CD….it was the fucking radio. I was supposed to dance, and masturbate, to the sounds of quartets, commercials and announcers.

So there I stood as he turned through the channels, Spanish, metal, talk radio and lite rock squeeze out from the bright orange radio annoying me further. Finally I told him to just shut it off and leave the room. He left me in the silence of my irritation and the sounds of the audience; I pulled my hat down further and thought of how this was going to happen. I decided then, that the strings were the best it was going to get considering the alternative of silence. I called him back into the room and told him to put the classical station back on.

I looked at my audience… sort of… and told them that I knew they had paid to watch me dance before the deed, but it was not going to happen. With that I pulled down my underwear and began to do what it was that I was inevitably supposed to do. I went to that place in my head that all good “performers” have. It didn’t take long before I was through; another really good skill one must possess and thank God, I do very well. I wiped off and told the gentlemen that that was by far, in all my years, one of the most difficult things I had to do. They applauded and cheered. I bowed, left the stage and ate pizza.

On a not-so-recent trip to Toronto I ran into a “sticky” situation and almost did not make it back.

I was there on a gig, a jack off gig to be exact. My time there was due to be brief since I had Ma Hazzard waiting at my apartment in West Hollywood. Everything started in customs the minute I arrived in Toronto. They asked me the usual line of questions, marked my claim form with a big red mark and sent me on my way, or so I thought.

I began to follow everybody else to the exit when I was stopped by the attendant who directed me left through a very quiet hallway around a corner to a large, sterile room with 10 or 15 other unsuspecting visitors. We all clutched the papers in our hands and wore expressions of general frustration and annoyance; it had now been nearly an hour since I walked off the plane. I understood though, that because I was here for one night with no checked baggage that I was a bit of a red flag so the inconvenience was tolerated.

I proceeded to the little gate that was attended by a serious little woman. She asked me the same line of questions except she dug a little deeper and asked me who I was there to see and where I was going to eat and what time and what hotel. Luckily I had been scrolling through my e-mails on my Blackberry waiting for the first interrogation and took notice of the hotel and a list of nearby restaurants so I was prepared. She was expressionless as she marked my piece of paper …again….. once again I was ushered away from the masses into another large room except this time I was the only one there.

I took my bag up to the stainless steel table and began to answer the same questions by yet another guard. This one was young, younger than me and he seemed to be weighed down by his security costume. At this point I was annoyed. I was even more annoyed when I was asked to put my bag on the table for search. He began to empty the contents. It was at this point that I was SO HAPPY I did not bring my 8×10’s and some choice DVD’s; can you imagine? I had to also empty my pockets handing over my wallet. I, still on my Blackberry scrolling and surfing, was trying not to pay attention to the fishnet briefs and thong underwear that were now in full display on the table in front of me. He moved to my wallet and began to empty all my receipts and cards out on the table. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him pick something out of the pile of papers, not thinking anything of it, I resumed my texting spree.

“It looks like you forgot something” he said. I looked up to see him holding between his thumb and index finger a roach, not a cockroach, but the butt end of a joint. My inner voice screamed FUCK!!!!! My outer voice mustered out a “O my God… I had no idea that was in there, I’m so sorry!”

As if I could reason my way out of it by saying that I was sorry. I had no idea it was in there! If my intention was to bring some pot across the border I would have brought some fresh stuff hidden much more discretely. OK, I really just wouldn’t do it in the first place. After my defense speech was complete his response was, “I have to read you something… you have the right to say nothing, you have the right to counsel”….yadda yadda.

He asked me again if I wanted counsel and I told him that I didn’t know what to do here, this sort of thing had never happened to me before. I asked for his advice. He told me I was not going to jail, but I will have to pay a fine and miss “my party.” I said no counsel. My phone, meanwhile was ringing every 30 seconds because my car waiting, wondering where the hell I was off to. I asked him if I could answer it, he said,” No” and took it with the rest of my belongings. He did leave me, however, with my Wine Spectator magazine and my pillow. I sat there reading about Manchego and St. Emillions for the next 2.5 hours. He came back after what seemed like an eternity and handed me a piece of paper. I asked him “So what do I do now?”

“You leave and go to your party and check your wallet next time you cross the border”.

I was dumbfounded and beyond grateful. I do not remember if I asked why I was being let go without fine or charge but he told me that because it was not willful, the amount was negligible and this happened in customs that I was being let go. I did not ask for clarification. I took my Wine Spectator and hit the road. My car was long gone, but luckily they were not far and returned in 20 minutes, long enough for me to catch my breath and call my mom to thank her for her angels. They definitely earned their wings today.

My evening was only beginning.