Saw Ricky Jay and His 52 Assistants last night at the Geffen. Just see it. It’s worth whatever groveling you need to do to procure yourself a ticket- if only to people watch in the audience. Watching Ricky deal poker hands from a stacked deck is a mystical experience.
I wish I could start my life over again and be a card sharp. Maybe because my daddy was a gambling man before he went crooked and took his talents to Wall Street. Sadly, I have to count on my fingers to add the tip to a check. And I suck at cards. But I’m proud to say that I do appear in a deck of cards (Annie Sprinkle’s Post-Modern Pin-Up Pleasure Activist Playing Cards).
Here is the trailer for Watch Out, the terrifically sick movie I had the privilege of acting in. Steve Balderson is brilliant and is also possibly the only real independent filmmaker left. We shot it in Wamego, Kansas- home of the OZ Museum (don’t think I wasn’t there every day). I play a double role?the prozac popping prostitute and the pop diva. Watch the trailer all the way through to catch a glimpse of me. I?m the blonde taking her clothes off. Quelle surprise.
Watch Out is based on the controversial novel of the same name by Joseph Suglia.
“Watch Out is the story of Jonathan Barrows, a man who falls in love with himself, literally. He is secretly attracted to his own body, carries out an erotic relationship with a blow-up doll that resembles him, and takes pleasure in rejecting the advances of his many admirers, both male and female. He descends into a world of carnivorous priests and Prozac-popping Polish prostitutes and eventually assassinates the world’s most popular pop-diva. “You strange creatures,” Barrows declares, “you are nothing more to Me than a meal at the fast-food restaurant of life.” But who will end up being devoured?”
The cast suite at the Simmer Motel was a hotbed of debauchery. Check out the impromptu video we shot the night before I was filmed deflowering a virgin in while his parents look on and munch popcorn. This stars Timmy Red, Amy Kelly and me.
Scott had his annual bowling party with Ricky Mahler. They are fellow Cancers and longtime sworn bowling enemies. Here is a picture of some of our friends at Montrose Bowl, a jewel of retro Los Angeles, somehow not yet torn down to build live/work lofts.
The blur in lower left hand corner is Clash Peters. He pretty much looks like that in real life, too.
We spent July 4 communing with the ghost of Elvis, who incidentally died on my birthday. All the moms wept into the Carvel cake at my fourth birthday party.
Don’t let anyone tell you that Graceland isn’t worth the trip because it’s fantastic. Scott maintains that we can’t name the child we’re adopting Elvis because the baby might be a girl and either way will definitely be coming from Ethiopia. He said the same thing about buying the miniature Elvis jumpsuit in the gift shop of the Peabody Hotel. He thinks it’s a faux pas but he’s wrong. The jumpsuit is now living in my hope chest along with lots of hats with ears and a onesy I got at Wicked in New York.
The fireworks that night hung in the sky like streamers and made the Mississippi shine. We strolled through the drunken throngs back to the hotel and visited the famous Peabody Ducks in their rooftop palace (which isn’t very palatial). I got all sentimental about William Faulkner hanging out there in the 30s, looking over the city on that same stretch of river.
I loved everyone I met in Memphis. One favorite was a homemade-arm-gauntlet-wearing blonde goth named Phoenix, whom I met while standing in line for barbecue at the July 4th celebration in the park. He classified everyone he talked about with a label that included the following: their choice to side with Good or Evil + their religious affiliation (optionally add the instrument they play). It went something like this…I grew up with an Evil Born Again Mother and a Good Athiest Father and my sister Leanne, who is a Good Pagan Accordionist. I’m in a band with my buddy Ed, an Evil Satanist Drummer, and my Girlfriend Misty, a Good Former-Christian Wiccan Bass Player. It’s really handy, actually. Feel free to use it.
On July 1 Scott and I flew to Memphis and then drove to Mobile the next day on a pilgrimage to buy some snake oil from our medicine man and faith healer of choice- Tom Waits. I’m using the oil right now to grow my hair and to straighten my spine. I don’t know why snake oil gets such a bad rap because it’s working just fine.
We drove off the main road through towns too poor for even McDonald’s to care about them but apparently not too poor for Jesus to care about them because there was a church every ten feet or so. Trailer churches and churches in clapboard shacks and, my favorite, those neat, bright white boxes with steeples.
Road trip tip: When in small southern towns, check out the gas station for a home cooked meal.
Pulled over to fill up in West Point, MS, where we found the best fried chicken we’ve ever eaten, with fresh beans and greens and fried okra and blueberry cobbler on the side. Scott swears those chickens were raised on cake.
We saw Tom at the Saenger Theater in Mobile, courtesy of tour manager extraordinaire Stuart Ross. Tom kicked up clouds of Fuller’s earth and donned a mirrored bowler cap. As if he needed the hat to shoot beams of light out of his head. He sang “Singapore” and “Make it Rain” and “Cold, Cold Ground’ and “Cemetery Polka” and “Lucinda” and led an “Innocent When You Dream” sing along.