So off I go to piercing night at Cell Block. I've been thinking of having my septum pierced, so I thought I might get the lowdown i.e. how loud am I going to scream? Etc. I must have got there early as there was a distinct lack of body jewelry. So I wandered into the Male Hide store at the back and asked 'the leather activist behind the counter who shall remain nameless,' "Where are the piercings tonight? I was going to take some photographs for Windy City Times.' Being a helpful sort, 'the leather activist behind the counter who shall remain nameless,' unzipped himself and said, "Photograph this!"
Then I heard a woman's voice, "Are you photographing women?" I said, "Of course." That's how I came to take a photograph of the pierced nipple of my favorite African-American political activist.
So, I got to thinking ... wouldn't it be fun to do an exhibition of GLBT activists', bar owners' etc. "naughty bits" ( no names, no faces ) and raise some money for charity.
OK, I know, most of those people are too "important and full-of-themselves" to flash their hot stuff for the camera, but it WAS a good idea. I mean, I'd pay $50 for a split-beaver shot of Judge Tom Chiola. Who wouldn't?
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I live with a big guy, so when I read about the Bear Pride fundraiser at Charlie's a couple of weeks back, I had to go along and see the great cuddly ones. I've never been to Bear Pride, and I'm wondering if Great Lakes Bears are going to invite me to take photographs this year ... Hint! Hint! I'm not a Bear though, or even an Otter ... I'm more of a ... well, I'm more of a Gerbil really.
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Yet again Fausto Fernos pulled together a bizarre collection of freaks for the Feast of Fools cabaret at the Hot House at 31 E. Balbo—the venue for many a queer event these days. This one was called "Yo! My Momma Dresses Me Way Too Sexy."
I managed to catch the very talented and oh-so-cute Anthony Willis before the show and drag him into the bathroom for photographs; bathrooms always have good lighting —that's my story and I'm sticking to it. I went to the show with my friends, the poet Jason Schupp and ex-Las Vegas Mafia whore Simplesse del Rio; the latter healing up nicely after her recent Jeff Stryker dildo accident. ( Darling, you're supposed to put the other end in first. ) God bless her, she's never been the same since she woke up in a ditch outside Des Moines with her panties on her head and her wallet missing.
It's difficult to say who stood out in this show, as everyone was excellent. Scott Free performing as white-boy rapper T-Cell was astonishing. Scott's 1997 album Getting Off Scott Free is still one of my favorites. He hosts Grinder, the Thursday night 8 p.m. Queer words and music series at the Coffee and Tea Exchange at 1100 W. Thorndale.
To really appreciate Silky Jumbo, the stilt-walking drag queen, singing In The Ghetto, accompanied by Joseph Ravens puppets ... well, you had to be there. The audience was on the floor laughing. It was a jaw-dropping experience.
Diana Parker is the scariest woman I've ever seen on a stage. Her quiz show—was it a quiz show?—I don't even know what the fuck it was, but somehow she turned the whole audience into her victims. Speaking as someone who started out writing scripts for stand-up comedians, I think Diana Parker is nothing short of a comedic genius ... and a creepy one at that.
Finally, there was Fausto's real-life mother, flown in from the Amazonian rainforest, and singing a breath-taking audience-participation song. I'd say she is the coolest mom in the world, but I think she shares first place with Lynda Licina's mom.
I was once driving out to a drag show in the suburbs and Lynda Licina's mom and Fausto were in the back of the car having a serious discussion about the prices in the Dolly Parton Wig Catalog, which Lynda's mom treats as a Bible. But that's another story ... .
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Sukie's Hot Book of The Week
Here's a good one for all those Physique Magazine collectors out there. Muscle Beach; Where the Best Bodies in the World Started a Fitness Revolution, by Marla Matzer Rose ( LA Weekly Books Paperback $16.95 ) , is a book about that stretch of sand on Santa Monica's Pacific edge that many people believe is the birthplace of the modern fitness movement; where women first wore two-piece bathing suits, musclemen struck those famous poses, and everyone stood on everyone else's shoulders to form pyramids in the sand.
The author has sought out and interviewed some of the old guys and gals who gave the beach its reputation.
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I have to share this e-mail from my friend Martin in England: "We have to fill in our census forms next week. One of the questions is about religion and there is a call out for people to put Jedi in the box. If more than 10,000 people claim to be of the Jedi persuasion then it has to become a recognized religion in the UK. It will mean people can demand single religion Jedi schools for their children, etc. What fun we can have with that—guess what religion I am going to put on my form next week!!"
