Blab October 2001

Blab October 2001
Platinum Oasis, the performance event of the century (so far), continues with various bizarre acts on the stage that has been erected between the pool and the jacuzzi in the courtyard of the illustrious Coral Sands Motel in the heart of Hollywood. The co-host of the event, with Vaginal Davis (who, incidentally, is currently on tour opening for comedian Margaret Cho), is a large East Los Angelean lesbian from the ghetto named MC El Cholo, who does a Tupperware-like demonstration of all her various battery-operated dildos and electric tit-clamps and whatnot, rapping all the while. This is followed by an all-male synchronised swimming act in which the participants wear tuxedos in the pool, a melancholy number by the lovely performance artist Ann Magnuson, and various other sexually deviant routines.

Meanwhile, back in the Redrum, Steve and I have finished the snuff photo shoot with the penultimate Puerto Rican porn star, and reward ourselves by dropping the E's. We're now supposed to enter phase two of our little performance, which entails charging the public five dollars a head to enter the room and pose for a polaroid on the bloody bed with their choice of machete or shotgun. We will take two snaps of the victims and allow them to keep the one they like the best. I don't figure too many people will honour our offer, but apparently I underestimate the sick nature of humankind. After some initial hesitation, a few people lingering outside the room pay the fee and strike a violent pose, and soon word catches on and there's a line-up up the down staircase.

Steve takes the money and keeps the camera loaded while I position the public on the bed, both of us tripping on E, coke and beer. It's strange to see couples arguing over who gets to be the murderer and who gets to be the victim, or, for the solo posers, to observe whether they want to be represented as a homicidal maniac or as a bloody corpse. Whole groups of people start to pile onto the bed for an orgy of gore. Being on the love drug, you'd think that this might be the recipe for a bad trip, but the effect is quite the opposite: I haven't had this much fun since I snuck into a London cemetery to shoot a scene for my last porno movie.

Everyone seems to be taking the Redrum in the spirit in which it is intended: a kind of do-it-yourself slasher movie/carnival house of horrors experience. Only a few people freak me out, such as the creepy woman in a taffeta dress who starts raving about how much blood turns her on sexually and writhes on the bed like Linda Blair while exhorting me to take her picture. Or the conservative looking gay couple who argue bitterly over whether or not they should pose in my evil room, the larger of the two sitting on the red bed and patting the empty space beside him as the little one lingers at the door sullenly shaking his head. I, for one, was positively grossed out. But overall, it seems to be a rather cathartic experience for most people. Apparently word has spread throughout the event and beyond about the very interactive Redrum, and people continue to line up for three or four hours until we run out of polaroid film and both Steve and I are spent.

Everyone seems to be attracted to the scene of the crime. Friends I haven't seen for years stop by, as well as various celebrities of all persuasions. Guinivere Turner, co-star and co-writer of American Psycho, appropriately stops by to pose with her sister; hot dyke model Jenny Shimuzu gets ready for her close-up with hot Tribe 8 member Leslie Mah; super-talented Canadian art director Kenny Baird reluctantly allows himself to be shot in a mutual suicide pact with designer/club impresario Michael Schmidt, who just dressed Madonna in her bondage outfit on her current Drowned Girl tour. Other luminaries include the illustrious DJ, former D-Generation and current Danzig member Howie Pyro; a newly svelte JJ, the Vancouver entrepreneur, who berates me endlessly for outing him in this very column last year as a heroin addict, which precipitated his family to put him back in rehab. (What he was really mad about was me referring to him as "dumpy," which he obviously took to heart because he's looking good now, thanks to me, I remind him.) And of course various beauties like Kembra and Ms. Magnuson poke their heads in to say "high."
Unfortunately, our room is so labour intensive and interactive that I miss a lot of the other events going on right around the corner, but this excerpt from the Platinum Oasis press release gives you an idea of what we both missed:

"The maze of choices are endless. You can enter Bruce LaBruce's live and projected photo session and pretend you're in a snuff flick with Kevin Spacey as costumed by Joel Schumacher in the good ole days; get a psychik reading by saucy soothsayer Dame Darcy (who will also perform); have a one-on-one with euro art sensation Franko B; or prove there's muscle in them thar pectoral implants and metabolic steroids you've enhanced yourself with by taking on the Tekken Torture Tournament, but don't forget to sign your liability waiver just in case you get hurt. There's a pan sexual public play room, vomatorium, Divinity Fudge's Funky Nail Salon, bear/otter message studio and silicon gymnasium, a love hut, and for you tired death rockers, Ogre from Skinny Puppy will unveil his new video bank. Yowza! From eight to midnight you can get your party action on with funky latino thrombone DJ Frank Rodriguez (Club Sucker/Fat Ass) & his cheesy chorizo Crew, then after the BlairWitching hour you can ease into the underwater underground antics of osseus labyrint, a poetry slam sling, experimental classical muzak jam sessions and ‘private genitalia' parties. If all this doesn't float your boat nothing will."

After our blood feast, Steve and I wander around for a while and socialise a little with the rest of the sexual deviants. As the sun comes up we try to get a little shut-eye, but it's difficult with all the drugs and excitement and people still wandering into the room looking for another fix of gore. We only get about an hour or so of rest before we have to start cleaning up the room like Lady MacBeth. It takes us a couple of hours to remove the wallpaper and the plastic and scrub everything that got blood-soaked. It's not as bad as we thought it would be, but the carpet is kind of a write-off and the toilet's busted. Actually, Steve does most of the cleaning up. I just sit there on the bed and talk to him while he's doing it.
Outside we hear some commotion, so we walk out onto the second floor walkway and observe the dregs of the evening still going hard at it down by the jacuzzi. There's some cholo kids rapping, and a few lost souls walking around like zombies. Miss Davis is still holding court. She gets up on the stage dressed as her Southern gospel faith-healer character, Miss Salicia Tate, all dressed in white. She starts preaching to the perverted, including her speciality of speaking in tongues. It is a wonder to behold. Then a gospel band she's hired gets up and starts playing old spirituals while Miss Davis baptises people in the jacuzzi, submerging them in the murky water full of cigarette butts and used condoms. It's very spiritual. Ron Athey sits in his speedo in a lawn chair with his mondo tribal tattooage displayed like the royal king reincarnated from a lost great civilisation that he is. He and Miss Davis are both emitting white light from their faces, having just presided over an already historical event with grace and aplomb.

I'm so tired I can hardly lift my arm to wave good-bye to my sweet Redrum. Now I know how Sharon Tate must have felt. Steve has to practically pour me into his truck, and then he drives me back to Billy's, where I fall into a slumber party massacre. It's all too heavenly, creatures.

Next month: More Fun with Kembra. Plus: A Horrible Hollywood Porn Agent Yells At Me On The Phone

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