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The Sexual Proclivities of Monkeys In Space
by Thom Fowler

I’m writing this under a painting of a monk pointing at his crotch in the Buzz café in West Hollywood.

Even though it’s Sunday and I shouldn’t be working and the crust on this apple pie is undercooked and the coffee came in a paper cup when I explicitly said, “for here” to avoid throwing just one more piece of paper away, I’m in a good mood.


Fookin’ A – we’re a totally right on species.

I just finished reading Sex Terror by The Queen of England himself, Mark Simpson. So it’s a tired old Mary, Friend of Dorothy kind of a joke, but everyone has to have a tag line. The ones the press has given him thus far are brutish. A soccer hooligan wuts read books. This collection of essays reveals someone with a remarkable and somewhat academic perspective on queers as outlaws and outsiders interacting in the pop arena and in society, at this moment in history. His erudition isn’t just a show. It seems he’s read all the transgressive philosophers and applies that framework to everything from Porn to Pirating Music.

I haven’t felt the call to find myself in all the gay writers I’m supposed to, like Foucault, White, Vidal … but I did read quite a bit of Wilde when I was a wild, reckless teen. He fueled my decadent, opium laden bohemian fantasies. I always liked the subtle, sneering subversion of Wilde. He was destined to end in tragedy to fulfill his divine imperative and become the platonic ideal that manifested for us as Matthew Shepherd. Wilde was “tragic”, Shepherd “an outrage”. Wilde’s death felt cleaner because it was all part of “the system”. We rewrote the laws but public sentiment still seems to be in favor of the death penalty for sodomites and now Vigilantes take on the mantel of moral outrage to purge society instead of Magistrates.

But now that performance artist-sex advocate and all around fabulous diva Annie Sprinkle has a Ph.D, I feel a little bit safer. Dr.Ruth would never show you her cervix.

Nothing much else to report. But if you read the next part, you get Sex! Celebrity! Controversy!

The new Standard Hotel in Downtown LA opened with a pajama party and a performance by neo-cabaret burlesque troupe, Velvet Hammer. Barbara and Vera Duffy as the twin maids dutifully depropped and dusted the passel of delightfully novel characters, like the Spider Woman, the Snake Woman and the Ann Magnuson as the Super Woman who set the narration for the performance with a song about titillation through the ages. “Remember the decadent 80’s, when we all spoke with a fake German accent and sniffed cocaine off the floor in a pool of our own vomit?”. Ewww, that’s not sexy! Did she shake it? Hell yeah, she did.

Tobey Maguire looked beefy cute in a white tee and yoga togs. Heather Graham wore pajama inspired day wear while I had to change into some hideous ensemble provided by the hosts because I pretended I didn’t know it was a pajama party and wore my usual. Black on Black. I sleep nude. What was I supposed to do? Roman Coppola showed up while his new film CQ opened nationwide. He happily provided T-Shirts to wardrobe for the many who also “forgot” it was a pj party.

Dave Navarre of Jane’s Addiction had an impromptu Jam Session with Billy Morrison of the Cult (who was recently married by Robbie Williams, preumptively becoming a man of the cloth, in an LA ceremony) and Matt Sorum of Guns and Roses. He’s still pretty damn hot, even without his eyeliner. The hotel is downtown, where there is nothing. The rooms are boho funky fresh with a retro 70’s Space Lounge vibe. The perfect place for Coppola to spread the word about his new film.

My favorite are the showers. The wall separating the loo from the room is glass. This is the ultimate hotel for looks obsessed, spectacle driven Los Angeles. I loved it. You can open the curtains and give half of downtown’s office workers a shower show. And they could probably use one right about 3pm. That’s one way to challenge public decency laws. Line the showers up with porn stars and open the curtains. With the proper PR you just might get newscopters to collide on the way in for a close-ups.

This is Thom Fowler reporting, your eye in the sky. There has been a flagrant breach of public decency in what appears to be a publicity stunt on the part of the Standard Hotel in Downtown Los Angeles. Nude men and women are showering in full view of thousands of downtown office workers who AREN”T EVEN PAYING FOR IT! Surprisingly, there have been no phone calls made to authorities but the world has screeched to a halt and packed itself against the windows to take a peek.

The next day’s headlines read: Downtown Becomes Pervy Peepshow: Radical Change in Public Mores Has Vatican Scrambling for Even More Controversial Press. Bishop St. Germaine is quoted as saying, “Buggery in the confessional has gotten us more ratings then the same willful pandering flaunted by museums in cities across the world. Who cares about a naked bum unless it comes wrapped in a crucifix giving a muscly lad the what for right up the old poop chute.”

Nibbly bites faux pas – Watermelon cubes with herbed goat cheese. Enough with the adventurous cuisine already.
Nibbly bites coup – ahi sashimi wrapped in a delicate pastry. The ahi was slightly warm from (no doubt rapidly) cooking the pastry but still ocean fresh and served with a Barbados lime and chives dipping sauce. Oh. My. God.

I felt so outré (I’m just a’litterin’ this ditty with all kind of potatty headed francolisms.) in my pj's that I didn’t even bother chatting up the cash cows for quotes. Which was a shame, because, hey, Tobey Maguire. He’s been masturbatory fodder for like, weeks now. And I gave Coppola such a glowing review of his film that I should have planted one more kiss on his plane weary ass and made him my slave for all time. Yeah baby, you know who to talk to.

I had a photographer in the service of the all mighty public eye give me the strange moment of the night. There is always one tiny incongruous, unexpected and absurd thing that happens every time I go anywhere. I don’t know if it’s that whole “media” thing that causes people to suddenly throw themselves in your path and engage in bizarre, attention getting antics so you’ll mention them (when the only thing they are giving you is a story about … well, that.) but it never fails.

I was sitting on one of the many (IKEA inspired couches with actual fabrics, like wool, instead of Dacron) watching the Velvet Hammer show and crowded about by people who kept doing things like walking up to Heather Graham and rubbing her back and then sitting back down. The photog comes up to take the picture of the smart set surrounding (suffocating) me, and contrary to Hollywood wisdom, I lean out of the frame. The photog was noticeably shocked, maybe a bit shaken, slightly stirred. An hour or so later, he ran up on me and snapped a few. I undoubtedly had that tabloid “what’s going on, I’m going to punch you” look on my face.

So it’s true, you just have to act like you are somebody, and you probably are. I wasn’t there to be the story. Although I probably was the secret star of the party.

I’m not worried about the photographer, I don’t show up on film anyway.

link directly to this feature at https://www.hollywoodbitchslap.com/feature.php?feature=579
originally posted: 05/27/02 18:57:01
last updated: 05/27/02 21:03:06
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