Shiny Pink Fuck Me Pumps

Shiny Pink Fuck Me Pumps

My wife’s quite the science fiction fan, so when she heard that the great Ray Bradbury was having a 90th birthday party at a science fiction bookstore in Glendale, she had to go. Place was packed with science fiction fans—a weird mesh of young hipsters, old hippies, bookish nerds, weirdos who talk way too much, completely normal looking people and at least one person in a fairy costume. Well, some kind of costume, this time it was an upper twenty something chick in a tinkerbelle-esque get up, that is a form fitting micro mini, green nylons, shiny pink fuck me pumps and bright green hair. Oh, and wings…big dayglo fluttery glittery and rather gorgeous wings that in the crowded store kinda brushed against everybody. She was chatty and  terribly cute, leggy even, and she was from Texas. I heard her say that to three different guys. Me? I’m from Texas. Can’t you tell?…and she’d giggle a sexy giggle, lashes a-flutter, wings a-quiver. Of course, those pumps gave the whole thing away…this chick was trying like hell to get picked up, and picked up by a science fiction dude. It was hot and sweaty and crowded, there was wine, and I’m sure she succeeded. Which means that somewhere that night some science fiction fan got his nerdy brains fucked out by a nutso chick in a fairy outfit, complete with wings and those shiny pink fuck me pumps.

What a strange town this is.

Shiny Pink Fuck Me Pumps Again

There was a lady in the lobby here. Selling something, she and some normal looking type at a folding table with signs and stuff…. Not sure what it was as they were taking it all down and put it away. Actually the normal looking girl wasn’t normal looking at all, she was quite pretty. But you didn’t notice her. What you noticed was the other lady’s shoes. They were an insanely brilliant dayglo pink. I mean a violent pink. An eye hurting pink. A glow in  the dark like a lighthouse pink. And they were high. Way high. You have to look up at these shoes. The stiletto’s could castrate with one glancing blow—and probably had. Teetering atop them was a tall, white—way white even—woman, thin, short black hair dyed an intense black, her face like alabaster, with gorgeous eye make up and insanely red lipstick. Her arms were covered in a delicate lattice of tattoos. This chick screamed sex, wild, sweaty, insanely positioned, kinkily done, hours long, crazy loud sex. She was this wild splash of x-rated sexuality in the lobby of a Walt Disney office building. She busied herself putting things away, quickly and decisively, and giving rapid fire instructions to the pretty little thing assigned to her. The people walking by made wide detours around her, thoroughly intimidated. They said nothing….but all eyes were on those shoes. You couldn’t help but look at them. They were either the most ridiculous shoes in history or the greatest shoes ever. You looked at her shoes and in that odd part of your brain you think my god she must be wild in bed. She must be the wildest. You hate her, or you’re scared of her, or you want her. Shoes are power.

And Shiny Pink Fuck Me Pumps again, even. 

There have been no shiny pink fuck me pumps again, even. Would that there were. Then I could finally finish this goddamn story. Because everything comes in threes. Pairs, three pairs. Everything comes in threes which would make three pairs of shoes. Not six shoes. Otherwise everything would have to come in sixes. And nothing comes in sixes. Omne trium perfectum.

Epilogue: Finally, some Shiny Pink Fuck Me Pumps.

I was at Café Nela this past Saturday and there, slowing making their way down the steep driveway to the beer garden in the back (that’s where the coolest of the cool collect, that beer garden) was a truly outrageous pair of hot pink fuck me pumps. Tall, way tall, and a vivid pink, they were the fuckme-ist fuck me pumps I’d yet seen. Almost a parody. But they were sadly harmless. A man noticed these–they virtually glowed in the dark–and then noticed the woman wearing them was modelish, but her shoes weren’t intimidating. They weren’t even especially sexy. They were just tall and pink and gauche. A distraction. You looked at this pretty girl and saw her shoes and she became a tad less pretty. Besides, she was very sweet. Quiet and sweet and unobtrusive. Amongst the huge egos and personalities endlessly talking in the Café NELA beer garden, she was just a beautiful wall flower in some outrageously pink shoes. And though I’ve been waiting years now for that third pair of hot pink fuck me pumps so I can finish this goddamn story (an unfinished story can drive a writer mad) I need them worn with a vengeance. The kind of woman who struts into a room teetering atop some hot pink fuck me pumps and owns the room. Someone worthy of Shiny Pink Fuck Me Pumps one and two. This sweet pretty lady in slightly ridiculous shoes was not it. Damn.

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Playmates and a beauty queen and oh the humanity

(2011)

Playboy Jazz Festival was a good time as usual. People always ask about the bunnies, though. That’s what you all want to know about, the bunnies. People just love Hef’s girls. And they were there, Hef’s girls. They get the very frontest table, as close to the stage as you can be, and make a late entrance. Hef in his yachtsman cap, and a string of blondes. Beautiful blondes. Tight everything. The audience cheers. Hef gives a royal wave.  The bubbly flows. The girls beam. Chosen photographers circle and click. The unchosen use telephoto lenses. Fun and jazz in the sun.

The press box is maybe thirty feet back, about as close as you can get without being one of the one per cent who can afford the tables at the very, very front. That used to be a reflecting pool and swans glided to and fro as orchestras played. Jimi Hendrix wrecked everything when all the kids waded in to be closer to Him. All those cables and microphones…it might have been fried freaks. No one died but they filled in the pool with concrete not long after and let rich people sit there, popping champagne and talking through the music. I sat there once, at that very table Hef sits at, swilling two buck chuck and eating a picnic dinner. The rich people ignored us. My wife asked for a beer. Wrong kind of bubbles. Later Sergio Mendes sent out a parade of girls in feathers and spangles who shimmied and samba’d and shook themselves silly all around us. Men’s eyes popped and the wives laughed. It was a perfectly terrible show, but the girls were nice. I’ve never been in that pool circle again. I never will. Lightning strikes but once in a lifetime.

But I sit in that festival press box every chance I get. All you need is the pretty yellow ribbon that says the magic word “Press”. Ushers point the way. Security leaves you alone. You sit down and pull out a beer copped from somewhere and enjoy. It’s a great life. One year my brother and I situated ourselves in there with a bottle of wine. Wayne Shorter was on. This was not the Weather Report Wayne Shorter. This was not the Wayne Shorter who plays sappy noodling soprano sax on Brazilian pop records. No. This was Wayne Shorter lately. The Wayne Shorter who plays out, way out, way way out even, and doesn’t give a flying fuck if the audience likes it or not. Most didn’t. They talked and passed the food and drank and laughed. Scattered here and there were devotees, but you couldn’t tell if Wayne cared or not. He just kept blowing, and had an awesome quartet, and  it was one of the greatest things I ever saw at the Playboy Jazz Festival. My brother and I sat there drinking wine all alone, and not believing how cool this was. But I bring this up not because it was such an incredible jazz moment, but because there was a scurry of people and suddenly, in the box next to us, was Miss California. This was the year that the first Miss California said such awful things about gay people–she really didn’t like them–and felt the whole weight of the internet on her pretty little shoulders. They tore that sash off her so fast, and she went on Fox News hissing and grumbling and threatening lawsuits and being perfectly awful.  The Miss USA people found a runner up and declared her the real Miss California. Outrage and hysteria ensued. Well, this new Miss California was ushered into the box next to us. Photographers circled like hyenas. She looked overwhelmed. She was terribly pretty and very classy, quite dignified. She sat next to me. An equally pretty friend joined her, and two very handsome dates followed. The guys sat as far forward in the box as they could get and watched Wayne Shorter with an intensity you didn’t see a lot of around us. After each piece they applauded loudly. Either these two were serious jazz fans or all the weirdness surrounding the new Miss California had driven them into an appreciation of Wayne Shorter at his most avant garde. Whatever the case, I was impressed. Maybe the champagne they were provided with helped. Like everyone else around her, I couldn’t help myself and leaned over the partition and spoke to Miss California. I can’t remember what I said, but it was something to the effect of how she was handling this with so much class. She smiled and said thank you.. She said that to everybody. She had to. It’s her job.

After twenty minutes or so the handlers came and took her off. I saw her later giving her umpteenth interview of the day, unflagging. You wouldn’t think you’d need to feel pity for a beauty queen, but I did a little. I heard some idiot reporter ask her if she also opposed gay marriage. She answered gracefully no, she didn’t. The idiot reporter had a follow up. He asked her if she supported gay marriage. She replied gracefully that yes, she did.

But this past Saturday they were no beauty queens. Just former Playmates. That was their designation, former Playmates. George Lopez gave them a shout out, the former Playmates. No names. Not even months, just formers. They filled the box like rambunctious kittens. They wore matching pink outfits, little pinks shorts, little pink tee shirts. Former Playmates I think the tee shirts said. I think the socks were pink too. Photographers hovered like gnats. They do know how to pose, those former Playmates. They’d see a camera pointing at them, freeze, smile, get a thumbs up from the photographer and exhale. This went on for hours. Sometimes they’d dart up to Hef’s table. More pictures. They gamboled about and giggled and posed and seem to be having a helluva time. Later they slipped into the press room a couple at a time to escape, and eat and act like real people. Then back out to the Playmate box to work.

They seemed like nice girls. One was older, sort of like a den mother. A beautiful den mother. It’s a different world, theirs, those former Playmates. I wondered what they did for a living. Were they secretaries or executives or work with handicapped children? Do they still like chocolate and long walks on the beach?

Once in the press room a few years back I was trapped by Crystal Harris. This was before she was Crystal Hefner. Or before she was almost Crystal Hefner, then just Crystal Harris, and then Crystal Hefner. It’s a complicated story. I wrote about the moment here. Me and a bunch of idiot reporters and television cameras and a big floppy pink hat. Pink again. Always with the pink, these former Playmates. Amid the excitement an entertainment news reporter inadvertently shoved her vast breast augmentation into my face, nearly knocking me out of my chair. It was like being pummeled by the Hindenburg. By two Hindenburgs. Oh the humanity. This never happened at other jazz festivals.

OK, there you go. Playmates at the Playboy Jazz Festival. And a beauty queen for good measure. Now you know. You always ask about the Mansion, too. Yes, the press conference is at the Playboy Mansion. Yes, it’s beautiful. The pool, the grotto. The private zoo. But no bunnies. None. Not a one. I looked. But even the bartenders were dudes.

Crisco

(2012)

Back when Silver Lake was leather heaven all the corner markets had lots and lots of Crisco on the shelves. I never thought about that until I saw a totally leathered out guy my size at the liquor store getting  ready for a party.  Snacks, beer, booze, cigars, breakfast cereal (coco puffs, I remember that 30 years later), milk, juice, donuts and every can of Crisco on the shelf. Like eight cans worth. The poor kid working the counter looked absolutely horrified. The leather dude was loving it.

There are none of those guys left in the neighborhood. I bet 90% of them died. They sang I Will Survive and then died. Their bars are straight, their houses full of hipsters and irony. Chaps aren’t just for gay boys anymore. The plague came through and destroyed that whole civilization. It laid waste the land, leaving Silver Lake barren with breeders. It’s raining babies now. But those were the days, the survivors sing. Those were the days. What a party. A man was a man and Crisco wasn’t just for frying chicken.

Nightstalker

Once, at a nice little cocktail party in town, I met one of the women who’d proposed to Richard Ramirez. The Night Stalker? Yes. Why? He was nice, she said. She’d written him lots of letters. He’d written some back. He was into pentagrams, she said. She was pretty, quite sweet, a little off, but not so off that you’d imagine her wanting to marry Richard Ramirez. I didn’t say anything. You’d be surprised how tongue tied you get when someone tells you they want to marry Richard Ramirez. Of course, he’s long gone now, and the woman who did marry him–breaking this lady’s heart, apparently–is a widow who for the rest of her life will have to explain why she married Richard Ramirez. I doubt anyone will understand.

Well, Charlie Manson’s wife would. He’s going on 80, she’s young enough to be his great grand daughter. She loves him. Manages all his social media sites, and even cut an x into her forehead to prove it, though it’s just a little scar now. She doesn’t believe a word about Helter Skelter. He had nothing to do with killing all those people, she said. He doesn’t manipulate anybody. The only thing that he’s trying to manipulate people into doing, she said, is planting trees and cleaning up the Earth. Charlie is nice to everyone.

Richard Ramirez’s wife said the same about her betrothed. We don’t know the real Richard, she said. He’s kind, he’s funny, he’s charming.

I didn’t ask the lady at the party anything about Richard. I got a bad vibe and snuck off to the other side of the room. Everyone was eyeing her. She was pretty, after all, with very nice legs. She was striking in her black dress and lace and raven hair. She was crazy. And she’d wanted to marry the Night Stalker.

Love is a beautiful thing.

Beautiful young things

Beautiful young things still come to our door by mistake almost daily. Well, two or three times a week. Our street is a beautiful young thing magnet. They come up the steps looking at their iPhones, confused, peer in through the front window and see me. Now there’s a sight. Bravely they knock on the door. Sometimes they ask for so and so in a hip New Yawkese. Sometimes they have tiny little English accents. This one the latter, cute but très hip. As always I was very polite, if unshaven. I smile. Upstairs, I suggest. She thanked me and took delicate, teetering high heeled steps back down, and I watch and wonder how one gets so old. Twenty five years in one pad. How many cats back was that? How many jobs? Bands? We moved in scarcely older than she. I would jump the two flights of stairs two and three at a time. I moved the furniture in myself. The boxes of books and records. Now I hobble up and down, arthritic, from jumping all those stairs, perhaps, or maybe falling down them, and I watch too much TV. Grown men, Canadians mostly, are brawling, and young things come up the steps like poetry.

Laundromat

I recall the time at a laundromat in Hollywood when a man was washing women’s underwear. They were drying, pink and violet and black and lace going round and round. As he plucked each dainty out of the dryer he’d try it on. Well, the brassieres he tried on. The panties he held in place in front of him and gazed in the mirror, seeing something we couldn’t see. Then he’d fold each item carefully and slip it into a bag, return to the dryer and start the performance all over again.

Laundromat

Laundromat

Hells Angels

(2009)

We used to hang out in a Hells Angels bar, the Canby Sweet. Van Nuys chapter. This was back in the 80’s, there was a record store around the corner that would book all kinds of cool shows. We’d smoke pot in someone’s van parked out front, coughing and giggling, but if ya wanted a beer you had to go into the Angels hang around the corner. We always wanted a beer. The dudes were mellow, huge and almost laid back. The women were insane, tight jeans, tighter tees and violent tempers. Hot, scary hot.

I really liked the place. We never got in anybody’s way, and they tolerated us just fine. Only time it ever got a little tense was when the women were tweeking. At the pool table they’d wave the cues around wildly, and they’d slam their empties on the bar and demand another. They always got served immediately. It was never fast enough for them. They’d grab the fresh beer off the bar and chug a lug, yell something at somebody, and stride across the room, their asses like sculpted marble.

Angels.

Their women.