Help! I awoke this morning to the realization that the fetish party at which Jonno and I agreed to perform is this Friday, not next Friday. And of course, being the professional procrastinators that we are, we haven’t the vaguest notion what we’re doing. I mean, yes, we know that we’re in charge of the “doghouse” room, but, well, we probably need more than just a couple of dog bowls and collars lying around, don’cha think?
The good news is that the party’s held in the glamorously run-down Audubon Hotel, which was formerly inhabited by aging junkies and prostitutes. (Actually, that’s the way it still is, more or less.) Management kicks guests out of the second and third floor rooms and turns ’em over to people like me and Jonno who have to redecorate ’em with a theme. Cool setup, no?
The bad news, of course, is that it’s a fetish party. Fetish parties may sound exciting and interesting and all, but as many of you know, in the end they rank among the dullest events you can ever attend. Why? Because after a while, as Perry Farrell once said, nothing’s shocking:
“Look, hon. Another flogging.”
“Yeah.”
“You know, Bob’s getting branded on the second floor. Wanna go watch?”
“Nah. I went with him to get his dick tattooed. I don’t like the way he moans when he’s in pain. Too fake.”
It’s a bit like preaching to the converted, you know. You think the idea is to shock partygoers with displays of wanton debauchery, but it’s pretty hard to get a rise out of anyone with more than 12 clit piercings.
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