Bar Sin, Fuer Immer & Ever

This weekend burned to blazes. So goes my heart and health. Embers of the former wholes burn like eyes in the immortal river Lethe. But that's neither here nor there: let's talk about Hallowienerschnitzel. 

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Every time (or rather: all of the two times) I go to Bar Sinister in Hollywood, I get dressed up in something black or other and run to the door and then: stop: three steps back: this is Hollywood: drinks cost your future baby's future virginity: go to the kitchen: down as many shots of whiskey as possible before my ride gets antsy: good: fast forward: bound out the door and into the darkness. Let that river of consciousness serve as a disclaimer for ye-- that's how both my experiences were prefaced. And, for the record, the procedure works rather well every time. 

So, by the time I got to the little lair on Saturday night, nestled into the ass crack of a Hollywood Blvd. side street, my peripheral vision already had the consistency of cotton candy. On Saturday, as on the Friday prior, I felt exhilarated by the initial atmosphere. Waiting in line in front of me, there was a charming little wheel-chair bound goth-- or maybe he was dressed up as Marilyn Manson (the resemblance was frightening)-- I clasped my fist to my breast: "Oh, how darling!".

I dressed up tastefully, as an SS-officer, complete with leather bra, iron cross necklace, and military pants sheared to short-shorts. I donned a heavy German accent as well (as the night wore on, and the libations flowed..) and introduced myself as Ilse. Only upon waking did I realize how truly horrifying the idea of a German emigreé dressing up as Nazi truly was. 

I'm not sure whether the tolerance towards my character was due to the coddling fetish-club womb or the sun-baked blas L.é. attitude, but, anyhow, nobody gave me a hard time. Some people tried to give me their hard ons. Some people tried to get me to rough up their girlfriends. But everybody believed me. And, I think, the general consensus was that it was hot... One guy who I befriended told me, "My lady friend really wants to play more with you, but she's afraid that the language barrier between us might result in some unfortunate misunderstanding/dismissal of an English safeword." It kinda made my night. So, ya hurd it hurr ferst: there is indeed a host of Nazi sympathizers/moaners roaming the chalky streets of Hollywood.   

Ok, enough about mich. 

I mean, Bar Sinister, in isolation, is not an extraordinary scene; but, compared to the other sullen alternatives (Sanctuary, Threshold), it is a whole lotta fun. Sooooo, it doesn't really have a good play space, and the duder man in charge of the meager supplies (suspended cuffs, two whips maybe) was a total jerkoffface. He was all like "I'm not gonna judge you on your accent, but you seem a little intoxicated, and we only allow perfect execution of flogging skills". Something like that, but much less articulate. It's a fucking fetish club for fuck's sake! That's when I knew I had to return to the Mutterland, where the cocktail of torture and ethanol is widely encouraged. 

BUT, DICKWAD DUNGEON MASTER NOTWITHSTANDING, I still think Bar Sinister is a neat little spot, if only because of its liveliness-- there are people there! So many people, that you might even have to nudge them aside periodically to resume your intended trajectory! I have spent so many minutes thinking to myself, "Where do the young, beautiful kinksters in LA play? Well, Bar Sinister is definitely one of probably many more loci I am not aware of. 

So, for me, Bar Sinister is more like a munch where you get to dress up all cray and ogle the go-go dancer in the goat head. 

Although, funny enough, the only guy I ever reconnected with outside of the bar turned out to be vanilla. 

I told him, "I'm not really so much in the scene" on our first and last date.

"The scene? What is 'the scene'?" He replied. 

Ahem. 

First Verse, Worse as the Hearst

What the ef are you supposed to do with a blog you feel compelled to write, but want no one to read? And by you, I mean I. And by no one, I mean a few people-- mostly strangers or my artsy facebook friends who might get a kick out of the weird things I get up to. How can I explain this phenomenon...When you live a double-ish life, the occluded half sometimes gets lonely and wants to surface, to nestle up to the sun from which all things derive their life-blood. Except blind cave newts. Those things worship only Satan. #El diablow

Recently I came home to roost in Los Angeles, which may very well be the best damn nest on the Americas. Here in LA everyone walks around with crud and gold sparkles in their tear ducts. When I ask the barista what she does, she tells me she's a lion tamer. When I ask the bus boy what he's doing on his break, he tells me he's memorizing lines for a play he's writing/directing/starring in. When I ask the movie director what he does on his off days, he tells me he roofies 16-year-old girls. It's really great. I love it here.

So I'm not so much unlike my friendly neighbors, Barista, Bus Boy, and Lecher: I have two jobs just like everybody else. I get paid for one of them just like everybody else. The only difference is that I work two crooked jobs, instead of one, like most of the other townies. I.e., today I worked on my web series that I'm trying to actualize and tomorrow I will work in a modern-day dungeon, devising torturous scenarios for overpaid, overaged professionals. That's right mami, I'm a real bad bitch. I'm the one who whips your boss while he's wearing pink, satin panties after a long day at the office. You know, that day where he insinuated he thought you looked fat in your pencil skirt.  

Ahem. Anyway, happy Labor Day!