"It's called Chartreuse,"said the tattooed punkster behind the bar at the 540 Club in San Francisco's he pushed a shot glass full of bright green spirits toward me, and another toward my buddy Ace. "We drink a lot of shit here," he added, pouring himself a shot of the absinthe beverage as proof.
"Here's to you, Bobby," Ace toasted with a grin. "You finally made it out to see me!" I was only in town for one night, and I could tell he intended to make it count. So far, so good. I'd barely been off the plane an hour and already he'd filled my lings with a clound of Kush that rivaled the fog rolling off the Bay and was now forcing shots of strange Freanch liquers down my throat. All he needed to do now was get me laid and we'd have ourselves a trifecta.
I'd met Ace about five years ago whenhe came to HT to visit a former editor. He and I have alot in common - we're both rock DJ's, comic dorks, rampant heterosexuals and gonzo journalists. For the past 16 years, Ace and his crew have traveled the country filming the coolest people and parties imagainable for their undergound cable show Reality Check TV. From erotic balls to sci-fi convetnions, from porn stars to professional wrestlers to Malcom Mc Dowell to Metallica.
These guys have covered it all. I've been in a few episodes of RCTV myself - such as the show about the 2006 AVN Porn convention in Las Vegas, and their farewell to CBGB/Circus of Power reunion show in New York last September.
After a few more drinks and some dinner, we donned our blackest atire and headed over to the Glas Kat supper club for the Bay's legendary fetish party, "Bondage a-Go-Go." Ace had first made his chops as a DJ at BaGG over a decade ago, so getting in was not a problem. Upon entering, my first sight was a shirtless fat guy chained to a wall, being flogged by an even fatter goth chick in black latex. We walked past them, then past a drove of drag queens and glamor boys, and headed downstairs to the main floor, where we claimed a small table next to one of the foxier pole dancers.
"I just wanted to say thanks again, brother," Ace shouted in my ear as we ogled the plump schoolgirl gyrating beside us, "for the best birthday party I ever had."
Ace was referring to the last time I'd seen him, back in May. He's decided to celebrate his 45th birthday party back in his hometown of NYC, so I'd offered to host the party at my weekly rock night, Contact High. The two of us took turns spinning tunes, and a bunch of his cool musician friends came out to play: the Mynx, Vulgaras, guitarist Richie Scarlett, Baptized by Fire (with Dee Snider's son Jesse Blaze), and the She Wolves, featuring Donna SheWolf (formerly of the 90's cult band Cycle Sluts Form Hell). At the end of the Wolves' set, fellow Slut Raphael (a.k.a. Queen Vixen) joined Donna on stage for a surprise rendition of their MTV hit "I Wish You Were A Beer."
The next dancer to mount the pole looked like a vampiric crackhead. I found myself wishing she was a beer - or better yet, a shot of Chartreuse - and took her arrival as our cue to relocate. The timing was perfect, as apparently the main event was about to begin: monthly "blood wrestling." A bouncer in a referee shirt dragged an inflated kiddy pool to the center of the dance floor and filled it with a few inched of fake blood. Then, pairs of deliciously dykey young ladies in bikinis and fishnets took turns stepping up and throwing down, sadistically spaying the nearest bystanders (Ace and I) with blood.
After the spectacle was over, I went for a beer and came back to find Ace missing. When I finally tracked him doen, he was lip-locked out front with some chick he'd met at the bar. By now it was nearly 3 a.m. and my "a-go-go" was pretty much "a-gone-gone." Nevertheless, I assumed my postion at Ace's wing and took shot at his chick's friend - a cute tattooed blonde with obvious attitude. The conversation was going okay until I pulled out a joint and played the HT card.
"I don't smoke weed and I can't stand stoners," she declared snobbishly.
I lit the joint and took a deep draw. So much for the trifecta.