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public bestiality:
your ticket to '90s success
In a nutshell, for those of you from points elsewhere, this Jack Davis guy, an openly gay and notoriously "outrageous" political consultant who is generally believed to have gotten the last two S.F. mayors elected and whose current client is the 49ers, who are trying to get the voters to approve a bond initiative to finance their new stadium, had his friends throw him a 50th birthday party that was attended by a slurry of big polyurethane-headed politicos in smart little suits and ties. The party, replete with multi-sexual go-go sluts and a glory hole wall, climaxed with a guy named Steve Leyba getting a pentagram carved on his back and being pissed on and sodomized with a bottle of Jack Daniel's by my old friend, vampire/lesbian/dominatrix/Satanist/ Leyba calls himself the head of the United Satanic Apache Front, and the questionable act -- a "literal metaphor of alcohol being forced on us (Indians, by the White Man)" -- was supposedly based on a traditional Apache ceremony. The upshot of this fiasco, so far, is that the real Apaches have publicly announced that they don't want anything to do with Leyba and wish that he'd grow out his mohawk and not disgrace their tribe in public like that anymore, and Davis has had to issue a lot of apologies, and every journalist in the Bay Area has had a field day for the last few weeks, finger-pointing like a bunch of sugar-blasted fourth-graders on the playground where a kid just wet his pants, hopping around on one foot and screaming "Eeeuuuu! Eeeuu!" with hysterical glee, replaying the action in excruciating detail for anyone within earshot, and Danielle Willis is more famous than ever. I worked with Danielle Willis on her one-woman show, "Breakfast in the Flesh District." She's been loudly doing this kind of thing for years. If you're going to let an infamous superdeviant like Danielle, a person who is really better known for regularly drinking cups of fresh blood with her transvestite phlebotomist boyfriend Violet and has surgically implanted fangs, entertain at your party, well, then you really must have some idea what to expect. There are even better stories about Danielle from when she worked as an exotic dancer at the Mitchell Brothers' O'Farrell Theatre, which involved sending the late Artie Mitchell to the hospital by beating him unconscious with the spiked heel of her shoe and performing breathtaking acts of nether-contortionism by slipping condoms over other strippers' feet and you know the rest. She is a really fine poet. But her expensive personal habits dictate that she needs to make a few bucks, and her belles lettres aren't exactly flying off the shelves. So naturally she's going to find some filthy little performance niche and fill it. Satanists are naturally opportunistic, like viruses, and that kind of thing pays nicely. What people don't understand is that gross-out sexhibitionism today is the costume of ambition itself. A friend of mine, an L.A. studio musician of notorious ability, told me about a woman I'll call Mandy, who recently came to his studio flanked by a couple of A&R flunkies for the purpose of trying to woo him into making her a record. "She was a complete bimbo -- essentially totally naked. She was wearing a micro-mini with no underwear underneath, sitting with her legs spread WIDE, showing me EVERYTHING, with a boom box sitting next to her. She was saying, 'I'm a Biiitch, I'm a cu-u-uunt, I'm a whooooore,' all through the conversation. I was terrified of her. I pulled the A&R guys aside and I'm like, 'Get her out of here!' So she ends up working with my friend Shingles (not his real name). He ends up doing her record for experience or whatever, and of course ends up fucking her. But during this time he's keeping these incredibly detailed diaries of what a horrifying slag she is in every way. So Shingles goes out of town, and Mandy breaks into his apartment and ends up reading ALL that stuff in his diary." Three things strike me as being important about this story. First, the idea that if you want to work with a man, your best business strategy is to first show him your vagina. Second, the question of what Mandy did after reading that Shingles thought she was a talentless sow -- did she feel shame or self-pity, or did she react like Teflon because this is the kind of thing she confronts ALL THE TIME? And third, the upshot of the story, which is that her ludicrous record is a HIT. She has a chart-topping single. What she did WORKED. L.A. is always quicker to grip these human trends than anywhere else. There is a very important movie out right now that should shed some light on this whole topic for everyone: Bob Flanagan's "Sick." I saw it at the Museum of Modern Art, but it will be in the cult section of most video stores soon and should be required viewing for every thinking human in the world. Bob was an artist who lived his entire life with cystic fibrosis, a nasty, demanding bitch of a cureless disease that essentially makes you drown in your own body, the discomfort from which turned him into an incredible masochist of the hanging in the closet with a freshly driven nail through your penis variety. The movie documents his 15-some-odd-year true-love relationship with a dominant named Mistress Sheree Rose, who kept him happy by beating the shit out of him in weird ways until he died. There are plenty of gratuitous shots of various sharp objects being pounded viciously into Bob's scrotum and nipples, but the really moving aspect of the film was how this drastic S&M lifestyle really kept him balanced and happy in a body that was essentially a torture chamber. He was one of the most twistedly well-adjusted people you've ever seen, with a natural charisma and appreciation of life that was enviable from any standpoint. It was all out in the open for Bob -- no unhealthy repression, no secrets, no ugly Republican actions of making your lawyer burn all the black latex Donkey Kongs and vinyl boot-up-the-arse videos in the closet after you die before the family sees them. It made you think, "Hey, this kind of scary bondage thing has a PURPOSE." Perverts are just another special breed to be reckoned with in our everyday lives, like Olde English Sheepdogs or Motivational Speakers, and it's time we got Over It. There are only so many things you can stick in so many places, and only so many effluvia to spray it down with. So the point I'm trying to make here is that violent body invasions with foreign objects may not be your cup of tea, but this kind of stuff goes on all the time and can be quite beneficial. We as Americans should really become inured to it and get over our immature shock, so that our news organs can talk about something important for a change.
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