Month: June 2007

I admit it. I’m not reading blogs anymore. I haven’t been reading for six months to be quite honest. I’m reading Dostoevsky with some more Hemingway on deck. But. There’s a but. Isn’t there always a but?

The man who taught Economics classes that changed my life has a blog. And I’m reading that. And you should too. He’s also writing a book that I can’t wait to buy.

http://givingupcontrol.wordpress.com/

A Photo Tour through the South.

Babe’s Chicken Dinner House, Garland, Texas. I got the catfish, and the sides were “all you can eat.” I’m not good on the all you can eat type of fare, since my stomach fills up after three kernels of corn, but I did good! So did Patsy and Patsy’s husband. I wore my eatin’ pants! While we waited for our third helping of creamed corn, the best green beans ever (they may have been cooked in soda syrup,) and mashed potatoes, these chicks did a little dance.

“And Ya Do the Hokey Pokey, and That’s What It’s All About!” The next day, I left Texas. My departure had nothing to do with Babe’s or the Hokey Pokey though.

There’s the Mississippi. This time, I was headed east though. Back when I was heading west, this blog was still dead. I think it came back to life in Dallas as a matter of fact…thanks Patsy!

No. Mississippi is definitely NOT like coming home. My home has yuppies and lots of straight blonde hair. And pearls. Don’t forget the pearls.

Again, why the false Advertising? Alabama is about as beautiful as herpes. The only saving grace for this picture are the bikers milling about.

There are still a few things in the south that you won’t see anywhere else. Take for instance, this 2 door pickup truck.

How many non-Greencard holding Mexican border jumpers can you fit in the backseat? Apparently, four.

Aah the south. Where you can get all the sweet tea you want and where NYJER seed is somehow written up by the store clerk as “NIGER” seed. Yes, I know the war isn’t over for you rebels, but do you have to wear your racism on your sleeve? It isn’t hard to see where they were going with this, even though they spelled THAT word wrong too. How apropos. They could argue that the seed comes from the country Niger, but it says plain as day: Packaged in the U.S.A. Yeppers.

Here’s what I did, in one sitting. It took 16 hours and I only had one taco and one red bull in the whole time time on the road.

There are two dogs who hate me right now, by the way.

You know, everyone jokes around when they are on vacation and the crazy friend joins them in the debauchery. But seriously, if I had known that this weekend, only half way over, was going to be like this, I would have rested up…or something.

The magnitude of our first night out at Roosters was somehow lost in my drunken post. From sober eyes, the insanity of two men punching it out in pretty vicious bar fight that starts in the middle of the bar and somehow ends up on top of the table you are sharing with some friends and a very horny lesbian is still unfathomable. Add to that the round of beers you just ordered being casualities of the drama with bottles flying everywhere and beer landing on all of us. I was only somewhat joking with K about this being a weekend to put the bail bondsman on notice. But the jokes have stopped and I’m effectively eating my words with a side of Aleve.

Last night we planned a thorough round of Scottsdale barhopping. But that quickly came to a halt after our first stop at a Biker Bar. Forward my mail everyone, I found my home there and never ever wanted to leave. FK made me hit one other place then we grabbed a Rickshaw taxi instead of hoofing it back.

Back at Biker Bar Extraordinaire we sit at the bar and I put some money into the Megatouch machine. I’m an addict. It’s a throwback to my days of waiting tables in Connecticut and sitting with the girls into the wee hours of the morning matching tiles for Tai Play. At some point, K leans over and whispers to me.

K: You may want to join this conversation I’m having with this guy next to me.
Velvet: Why?
K: He’s a pornographer. He shoots porn for a living.

I turned to the couple on the other side of me, rapt with my agility at tile matching, and said, “Knock yourselves out with the remaining money, apparently there is a conversation I need to be a part of over here.”

We grilled that guy about everything. He told us how he shoots amateur, how a girl in her mid-twenties is considered “old,” how Jenna Jameson allegedly “ruined” Scottsdale with her underhanded tricks. I refuse to believe anything bad about Jenna though his accusations beg the question – she’s a pornstar, did you expect her to have high morals? Come on dude, she sucks cock and takes it in the ass for a living. He explained how they rent a hotel room and bring some artwork to hang on the wall to make it look more legit, how once they rent a hotel room the hotel is “tainted” and they can’t go back, though I’m not sure if it is for an artistic reason or if the hotel gets wind of it and bans them when they see his Irish ass coming to the front desk. Then we get to the question of money. K was sadly in the loo for the early part of this conversation.

Velvet: So the chicks make like $2000 for 2 or 3 days work, right?
Pornographer: No way. They get paid hourly. And it’s not that much.
Velvet: How much are we talking?
Pornographer: Depends on the girl. Pick out a girl in here and I’ll tell you what I would pay her.

I’m hard pressed to find many females in this bar. Finally I locate one who seems decently attractive but he says he wouldn’t hire her. “Man face” was cited as the reason, and she was disqualified.

Velvet: Okay, that girl over there.
Pornographer: How big are her tits?
Velvet: Tough to see them, I’d say a B or C cup.
Pornographer: I’d give her about $140.
Velvet: An hour? Jesus. Okay, well, I’ll just ask. What would I make?
Pornographer: You? Are those a C cup?
Velvet: Yes.
Pornographer: How big are your areolas?

Yes. He really asked me that.

Velvet: Uh…normal sized I guess.
Pornographer: Are they light or dark?
Velvet: Light.
Pornographer, with eyes lighting up for some reason: I’d give you more than that other chick then.
Velvet: Who knew the money was in the areolas?

As the conversation wears on and shots are poured, something else distracted my eye and garnered my full attention. I heard little yelps from FK of “save me,” and “help,” but there really wasn’t a lot I could wanted to do. I was distraaaaaaaacted. Apparently the pornographer had been asking her to go back and see his studio and the world famous adult bookstore where he worked. When she rebuffed his advances, he said, “Damn it. I knew I shouldn’t have told you what I did for a living!”

As friendly switches into creepy, K and I were happy to be kicked out as the bar closed.

Then, as if the above madness wasn’t enough, we somehow ended up with more derelicts in tow with conversations of jealous girlfriends, obvious homosexuality, and my staking a claim on the best bar ever…evidenced by the fact that I climbed, in cork heels, on to this sign.

A night at Roosters. Mesa, Arizona.

***

When the fight broke out, I didn’t think the two cowboys would finish by throwing punches on TOP of our table. Fucking Frecked K. Brings all the trouble to town. The cowboys were both real pissed off, each retreating to his own corner – one looking for the lens to his glasses and the other being placated by his man-faced girlfriend with the mega fake tits. I would have sided with him had it not been for the fact that he wore his Wranglers way too high.

***

V: Hey, that guy in the straw hat looks like Willie Nelson.
FK: That’s the guy who asked me to dance when you went to the bathroom.

***

Going to pee. Pubes on the toilet seat. Who still has pubes after the 1980’s?

***

FK did get hit on by a girl. Just in case anyone was keeping score… I think she said something to FK like, “I fall in love easy…”