Porn Valley is Crying. Or Maybe It’s Just a Light  Drizzle.

Hunter Bryce.  If the name sounds familiar, perhaps you may have appreciated the erotic  intensity the performer brought to over seventy adult movies with titles like…hold on…um….well, do the titles really matter?  When it comes to getting cheap blog-laughs , spouting porn titles is akin to  shooting fish in a barrel. A very small barrel. With a sawed-off shotgun.

Yep. Whether you knew Bryce Hunter or not, the  name elicits an instant sense of familiarity. The dyslexic might easily confuse the name with  Price Hunter, the smartphone app for hardcore cheapos,  or maybe you just confused Hunter Bryce with this guy. Wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened.

Whatever you thought, it doesn’t really matter now, or at least not to Bryce Hunter.  She’s dead.

The 30 year-old performer was discovered  the evening of March 12th in her modest home, located (where else?) in Porn Valley, AKA the endless stretch of L.A. suburbia called the San Fernando Valley.  Though preliminary investigation has so far ruled out foul play, we couldn’t help but be a tad suspicious by this bit of reportage (note: emphasis is  our own) from Peter Warren of Adult Video News (AVN):

“News broke of Bryce’s passing by way of a tweet Wednesday morning from male performer Tucker Slain, which read that Bryce “was not doing well personally,” and that “her roommate told me she was found dead this morning.”

Thanks, Twitter!

Now, if this were broadcast news,  right about now we’d say “Let’s rewind that” and go back to the part where the name “Tucker Slain” is mentioned.  And we’d do that about twenty times in a row. Tucker Slain? Are you kidding us? It’s bad enough to have your demise announced with a measly Tweet, but from Tucker Slain? Call us paranoid, but if we had names like Dick Death or Mikey  Murderer or even Tucker Carlson, we’d probably put the death-tweeting on hold until after the funeral at the very least. Then again, with a name that obvious, being the first to tweet about her death would be a move that could only be called clever.  Clever like a Foxxx!

But no one’s accusing Mr. Slain of having slain anyone. Certainly not us and certainly no one  sane that we know of. Apparently Hunter Bryce was unhappy, which is an admittedly rare state-of-mind for porn stars, and had turned to the bottle (again, very odd), and was thirty years old, which is normally something to cheer about, but being a 30 year-old woman in porn is  like being a 90 year-old broad in the real world. Christ, these days if you’re over 23 in porn  you’re lucky to to get a role in a gonzo  MILF vid. Cold comfort now, but Ms. Bryce was not the only unhappy thirty year-old woman in the San Fernando Valley who was hitting the bottle too hard. And being a porn star in that neck of the woods is about as common as being  a lobbyist on K Street.

At least AVN showed Ms. Bryce a little dignity in death by not printing her real name, thus sparing her family and friends the unnecessary and ill-timed exposure that comes with the revelation that your daughter/sister/Christian camp counselor was a porn star.

No, the honor of exploiting the death of the late Ms. Bryce as an opportunity to print her real name goes to what many in the industry consider to be the “Shasta Cola” or “tissue-stuffed bra” of porn reporting, a publication whose real name we shall not mention here out of respect for dead.  Well played, gentlemen, well played!

To give you some idea of how brightly Bryce’s star shone in the porn constellation, her death was nowhere to be found on the front pages or top stories of the two adult trade websites  less than 48 hours after the body was discovered. In the amount of time it takes to write, cast, shoot, edit, and distribute a porno movie, the memory of Ms. Bryce was shuffled to the back of the pack to make way for bigger stories like the impending release of the much-anticipated “NOT MANIMAL: THE PARODY,” hot pix of the newest starlet in town Roxxxie Floxxx, and lastly, an announcement that the ” Mister Mambo Mystery Rabbit”  features vibrating beads, a taint tickler, PLUS  ”a rubber rabbit that can sense  a woman’s orgasm,”  and when he does he “pops out of the base of the vibe and dances a lively a  mambo to Perry Como singing  Papa Loves Mambo. Currently available in teal only.”

Time marches on. Hunter Bryce does not.  Ciao, bella!

In all seriousness, we offer our condolences to the friends and family of this lovely performer, whose real name you will have to go elsewhere to find. Depression is a serious illness–and that’s no joke.

Unless something goes horribly wrong (and when doesn’t it in Hollywood?), cameras are set to roll this July on the big screen adaptation of L.A. Bizarro–or at least the harrowing adventures the book’s authors endured in writing the new edition.

“It kind of just came out of the blue,” said co-author Tony “Anthony” Lovett. “We received a phone call from a production exec at Hudnut Films, took a few meetings, and the next thing we knew the project had been green-lighted. It all happened so fast.”

Reached at his remote woodland estate in Vermont, co-author Matt Maranian was still circumspect about the production. “It definitely feels like a dream,” he said, “and if there’s one thing I have learned from the entertainment business, it’s that dreams rarely come true.”

Indeed, more than one obstacle stands in the way of the July 13 shooting date currently etched in stone. Like casting.

“We’d like Matt and Tony to play themselves,” said Lloyd Levy of Hudnut, and the man who has championed bringing the underground cult book to the silver screen. “They’re both fine actors in their own right, but there are concerns regarding their lack of name recognition as well some physical traits that have to be carefully assessed and perhaps adjusted.”

What kind of “adjustments” does Levy have in mind? “Unless we’re going for that John Candy/Zero Mostel kind of thing, Tony will probably have to lose some weight. Well, a lot of weight. I hate to say it, but most filmgoers have a hard time accepting fat actors as the leads, unless they’re that curly-haired guy in all the Apatow flicks, or Tony Soprano. And while we know that cute BBWs like Anna Nicole Smith test well in the upper midwest, last we checked, Tony is still a guy,” Levy chuckled.

Matt presents a different problem to the producers. “He’s very shiny,” Levy said. “Normal make-up doesn’t cut it. So we’ve been testing some new stuff based on–believe it or not–spray foam developed by the military for riot control. It seems to be cutting down on his sheen, but not as much as we’d like. And although it worked for Al Jolson, one of the greatest entertainers who ever lived, blackface is apparently out of the question,” Levy admitted with a sigh of disappointment. “The good news is we easily can solve his height challenge with six-inch platform shoes .”

Levy has also not ruled out the possibility of having “real actors” play the writing duo. “Judd Nelson and Kevin Branagh have each expressed interest in the projectit, but they’re both a little too old,” Levy says. “Ideally we’d like to get Bob Downey to play Tony and Ed Furlong for Matt. Damon and Affleck would also work well. The possibilities are endless, but we have to act fast.”

Indeed, with boffo bio-pic screenwriters Scott Alexander and Larry Karaszewski working on the final draft, and German indie import Ulli Lommel set to direct, time is running out. “I think we’ll make it, but just barely,” added Levy, noting that the shooting date could not be moved due to “contractual obligations” with Circus Liquor in Burbank, where most of the movie will take place.

So how do the authors feel about having other writers adapt their work, much less the possibility of being aced out of playing themselves on screen? Truth be told, both seem rather nonplussed by either notion.

“Writing is hard work,” Lovett said in a recent interview. Digging into his second bag of Peanut Butter & Chocolate Bugles in 15 minutes, he expressed relief that Alexander and Karaszewski were tackling the screenplay. “Look what they did for Ed Wood. He was basically a talentless alcoholic tranny loser. Other than the stockings and angora thing, Wood and I have a lot in common. So if they can do for me even a fraction of what they did for Wood, I may able to get into Musso & Frank again.”

We caught up with Maranian, an avid fan of nude chainsawing, dressed only in rugged boots and stretch cap, as he was about to take on a thicket of bothersome pines on his back forty. He seemed equally at ease with not having to play himself on screen. “They even proposed that Tony and I play each other, but it seemed too gimmicky. I wouldn’t mind playing myself, but I won’t be heartbroken if they go with someone else. Frankly, I’d like to see Rebecca Black tackle my role, and that woman from Drop Dead Diva play Tony. Now THAT would be a twist!” he said with a laugh as he donned protective googles and started the chainsaw.

A relative newcomer to the Hollywood scene, Hudnut Films has already created a quiet reputation for picking winners, including last year’s sleeper hit, Log Jam, and 2009′s Golden Globe nominee for best documentary, Shemp: Not Just Another Pretty Stooge. The fledgling studio has high hopes for the L.A. Bizarro project, now tentatively titled A Tale of Two Guys and a City. “We’re proud of everything we’ve produced so far,” Levy boasted, “but we believe this project is going to put us in a new league. Hello, Oscars!”

Hello, indeed.

Are we crazy, or is Josie Cotton morphing into a raven-haired Angelyne? We dug her early 80s hits “Johnny Are You Queer” and “He Could Be The One,” and her bodacious glamor-girl style beat the shit out of the grunge gals who soon followed, but watching her latest video “See The New Hong Kong” makes us wonder if we’ve ever actually seen Josie and Angelyne in the same room.

Josie:

…and a 2003 Angelyne video, “Alien Contact”:

Zsa Zsa Gabor, sole survivor of the famed triplets and perhaps the most glamorous Hungarian nonagenerian in all of Hollywood, has not been having a good year. In January, most of her right leg was amputated due to complications–including gangrene and severe hammer toe–following hip surgery. She was released from the hospital and was recuperating at home when she suffered a relapse on the first of February. According to Gabor’s suitcase pimp, part-time husband, and former Chico and The Man star Frederic Prinz von Anhalt (also know as Prince Frederic von Anhalt, Freddie Prince, Freddy Glue-Eyes, and “that naked man handcuffed to the steering wheel”), Gabor was not watching Jeopardy! as originally reported in the press, but was in fact “engrossed with Glenn Beck as he drew parallels on his chalkboard between President Obama, Eva Braun, Vince the Shamwow guy, and the original Broadway cast of Hair. That’s when [Gabor] started coughing up blood and mucus from her mouth.”

At first, van Anhalt said he thought nothing of the incident, since many people, including himself, “spit up blood or bile or other fluids while watching Glenn Beck. It’s part of his appeal.”  However, van Anhaltsaid he soon realized something was truly wrong with Gabor when the 93 year-old bombshell didn’t stop vomiting blood. “She just sat there, bolt upright in bed, her mouth agape, with blood spewing from it like a fire engine hose,” claimed Prinz. “It went on for more than five minutes. I had no idea she had that much blood in her or I would have sold it.” van Anhalt then became emotional as he continued, “It reminded me of the fountains of Trevi in Rome. My god, what a beautiful city. I love it in the fall, particularly. There is nothing quite like sitting at a cafe on the Via Veneto and sipping an espresso while inhaling the exhaust of a thousand Fiats and Vespas. Also, I once had intercourse with Rula Lenska in the Roman catacombs. It was extremely musty and uncomfortable and tourists kept taking pictures of us, so obviously I was very concerned about Zsa Zsa and the blood and stuff.”

Gabor, who will be 94 on February 6, was rushed by van Anhalt to Dan Tana’s restaurant in West Hollywood, where van Anhalt said he enjoyed “an aperitif, followed by a delicious veal chop and a small salad.” van Anhalt dined alone, he said, “because Zsa Zsa preferred to rest in the car where she could spit up more blood in private.”  According to a source who was not at Dan Tana’s that night but has eaten there before, van Anhalt finished his meal and then  joked with the waitress by exposing his penis to her and telling her to “keep the tip.” He then attempted to get everyone in the restaurant to do the chicken dance before a panicked valet rushed into the eaterie and told him that there was a “bruja” vomiting blood all over the interior of his car. “That’s when I really became concerned,” van Anhalt said, “because bruja means ‘witch’ in Spanish, and I did not recall driving a witch to the restaurant. Fortunately, the witch had left by the time the valet brought the car around, but Zsa Zsa was still there.” Van Anhalt said he then immediately drove to Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center “at a leisurely pace, no more than twenty miles an hour” because he had been “drinking heavily” and was “ankle-deep in blood.”

“Plus,” van Anhalt added, “Zsa Zsa was no longer continuously spouting blood from her mouth, just coughing up a half-pint here and there. That’s when I noticed she was very pale and I became really concerned.”

Responding to allegations made by conspiracy theorists on a Glenn Beck fan page (www.ismellarat.com) that Gabor had staged the hip fracture, leg amputation and blood-spitting as a publicity stunt to revive her flagging career, van Anhalt angrily claimed that “the blood vomiting was the real thing,” and that his wife “is not Debbie Reynolds.” Van Anhalt admitted that in the past, Gabor had been known to perform what she called “The Crimson Yawn,” in which she would “upchuck gouts of blood as a party trick to entertain guests, children, and other simpletons.” Van Anhalt added that Gabor learned the technique from “an old kung-fu gypsy woman” in her native Hungary, and had “impressed many a studio mogul” with the feat when she first came to Hollywood. “That’s how she got her first break,” claimed van Anhalt, adding, “and showing her tits.”

Van Anhalt also denied that Gabor suffers from a sexual fetish in which one derives pleasure from having one’s limbs amputated, as alleged on another Beck fan site, www.sociopathsluvbeck.com. “That’s ridiculous,” van Anhalt huffed. “If we wanted that done we would have gone to Tijuana like Bob Crane and Dick Van Patten!” Van Anhalt claimed that he and Gabor were not into “the kinky stuff, other than scat,” and that Gabor agreed to have her leg amputated because “it was green and blue and oozing pus and really stinking up the place, like when a Filipino cooks fish in the microwave.”  Van Anhalt said that they decided to keep the leg in their freezer, “just in case.”

Gabor did not recognize her husband when he visited her room, though she did recognize “The Count” from Sesame Street when the Muppet dropped in to help her count to 94 in preparation for her birthday. Gabor also recognized photographs of Kiki Dee, Ron Jeremy, and the late Simon MacCorkindale, star of the short-lived 1980′s TV series Manimal. At one point, Gabor appeared to recognize her spouse, but then it became apparent she had confused him with the deceased comedian Freddie Prinze, star of Chico and the Man and father of actor Freddie Prinze, Jr., neither of whom are related in any way to the 67 year-old self-proclaimed “Rapscallion Love-Kraut.”  The pain of being forgotten by his wife, coupled with the post traumatic stress of having accidentally glued his eyes shut in December 2010, apparently took its toll on van Anhalt, according to his cousin and closest friend, The Burger King, who was not with van Anhalt when he collapsed in the hospital elevator two days after Gabor was admitted. “He’s a very sensitive man,” said The Burger King from his enormous fairytale castle in the clouds, “at least for a German.”

Van Anhalt was immediately handcuffed to a gurney and hospitalized. He and Gabor are not sharing the same room, but communicate with each other by tapping on the pipes.

Gabor, who is partially paralyzed from a 2002 car accident and reportedly had a stroke in 2005, is battling fluid in her lungs and high fever. “But she appears to be on the mend,” says a source who asked not to be identified, but who is, in fact, Dick Clark. Interestingly, Gabor fractured her hip after falling out of bed while trying to answer the phone, and sources close to embattled Egyptian President Hosni Mubarek  say that the caller was none other than Dick Clark, who had inadvertantly dialed a wrong number while trying to personally notify a Publisher’s Clearing House Sweepstakes contestant that they had lost. No longer able to join the PCH Prize Patrol due to his own health issues, Clark, who suffered a stroke in December 1996 and is currently battling “Old Person’s Disease,” has allegedly taken to personally calling every loser to offer his condolences, said the source. “His phone bill is almost as insane as he is,” said the source, who admitted never having met Clark or knowing anything about him. “What I do know is that something like 43 million people enter the sweepstakes every year and that is a lot of phone calls to make, especially if your hand is shakier than Don Knotts in the Disneyland Haunted Mansion after a nine day meth binge,” said the source, who had a Middle Eastern accent and claimed he could fly and walk through walls.

“Yes,” said Clark when contacted for comment, “Many will enter but few will win.”

The Armargosa Opera House in Death Valley was one of the oh-so-many L.A. Bizarro destinations that never made it to the print edition of our book, but not because it’s isn’t worthy—and not because it lies hours outside of Los Angeles County either. As anyone who’s read L.A. Bizarro knows, our “Los Angeles” is just a general idea, a jumping off point, a place to begin—and perhaps end, but not necessarily—an excursion of the absurd.

So just to provide a little background for those who don’t swing though Death Valley as often as we do, The Amargosa Opera House is the remarkable creation of the remarkable Marta Becket, a New York dancer and former Rockette who landed in Amargosa (an old Borax mining town with a dwindling population of less than 15) by accident—a flat tire while traveling cross country in 1967—and decided to stay forever. If wanting to stay in Death Valley forever sounds as fucking crazy to you as it does to us, her story actually gets weirder: she and her husband leased an abandoned “theater” space attached to the Amargosa Motel (the town’s only) that was three feet deep in dried mud, flood debris, and deteriorating plaster, and spent a painstaking five years single-handedly refurbishing the space, including completion of the diminutive 120-seat theater’s awe-inspiring murals covering every square inch of its walls and ceilings. She christened the place The Amargosa Opera House, and mounted her first of many original shows in that first year, often performing for an audience of no one.

Our exclusion of The Armargosa Opera House from the pages of L.A. Bizarro had only to do with its star performer, Marta Beckett. Marta is also The Amargosa Opera House’s only performer really, with the exception of an occasional, but rare, guest. And it’s not that Marta isn’t good, she’s very good. She’s fucking great in fact, extraordinary. An inspiration! But that last show we saw was during the Amargosa’s 2008 season which was just months after Marta’s 84^th birthday, as well as a bad back injury she sustained after falling from a chair while perched to do a little touch-up work on a wall mural in anticipation of the coming performance season. In 2009, it was a broken hip. After 45 years of original vaudeville and ballet productions (many of which were performed solo), you’d think such setbacks might be a deal-breaker for a 87 year-old one-woman Death Valley theater company. But Marta’s one feisty trooper it would seem, and instead of hanging up the toe shoes she instead reinvented, pulling yet another original production from her bag o’ tricks: “The Sitting Down Show.” A show, as one might expect, that was performed entirely while seated. Because she has trouble standing.

Cutting Amargosa from the pages of the book also had nothing to do with “The Sitting Down Show” not being good. “The Sitting Down Show” was, in fact, fucking great. We don’t want to give it away, but it was one of the best shows of any type we’ve ever seen anywhere, much less Death Valley, which is not generally celebrated for it’s vaudeville. The reason that we didn’t include Marta’s Opera House performances, quite frankly, is because we pretty much figured she’d be dead before the book hit the presses (the wheels of the publishing world turn slowly), and we didn’t want to waste the pages. As it turned out, the joke was on us. Marta is no lily-livered song-and-dance gal it seems, the chick’s got grit, and has just commenced with her forty-fifth performance season, and “The Sitting Down Show” has taken the Amargosa stage once again for those who wish to make the drive (for the intrepid traveler, cut-rate overnight accommodations can be had at the adjoining Amargosa Motel—allegedly haunted, which may be considered one of its few amenities—and also at the frightening Longstreet Casino further up the road). And we suggest that you do. Post haste. Especially since she’s threatening to retire “soon.” And sit close to the front, she can’t project quite like she used to, and you don’t want to miss a word.

(For more on Marta and the stupefying Amargosa Opera House story, we highly recommend the documentary “Amargosa.”)

By day, he was the director of professional development for the Connecticut Education Association, a state teacher’s union.  By night, he was the director of over 100 home movie travelogues—“documentaries”—chronicling the goings-on of mid-century America, lovingly pimping his family for his part-time passion of home movie making.

He’s Robbins Barstow (yes, that was someone’s real name) and although his films won’t be coming to a multiplex near you, his online following rivals that of the Dustin “Screech” Diamond sex tape.

His most celebrated and widely viewed film was titled “Disneyland Dream,” noteworthy for a number of reasons, among them:

-“Disneyland Dream” was the product of a nationwide contest sponsored by the 3M Company in 1956, who sent 25 winning families on all-expense paid trip to Disneyland. The contestants’ challenge: to express their love for Scotch Tape. Evidently the competition wasn’t too stiff, because his four year-old son Dan wrote the winning composition (“I like Scotch brand cellophane tape because when some things tear then I can just use it.”).

-“Disneyland Dream” is credited as the first film featuring Steve Martin, who, at age 11, was inadvertently caught on Barstow’s Super 8 while hawking guidebooks as a park employee. Child labor laws anyone?

-“Disneyland Dream” was named to the National Registry of the Library of Congress, who called it “a priceless and authentic record of time and place.” The film is one of few amateur titles to nab such a distinction (the Zapruder film of the assassination of Kennedy is another).

Barstow’s oeuvre includes a jungle drama called “Tarzan and the Rocky Gorge” (1936) which he made at age 16 in the woods of Connecticut, “Family Camping Trip Through 48 States” (Parts 1 and 2) 1957-1961, as well as several films about endangered species.

You can view other Robbins Barstow titles at archive.org.

First, as a point of reference, we need to establish a little-known fact: Zsa Zsa Gabor is still alive. A lot of people might not realize that. Zsa Zsa is one of those celebrities whose obituary will undoubtedly be met with more comments like “I thought she died a long time ago…” rather than nostalgic sadness.

And for those of you who don’t keep up with geriatric celebrity gossip, Zsa Zsa is currently married to her ninth husband—or eighth or eleventh, depending on the source— Prince Frederic Von Anhalt, Duke of Saxony. Technically that makes Zsa Zsa a Duchess, but they much prefer the titles “Prince” and “Princess.” And while all that might sound impressive to an American, he allegedly bought his title, so it’s all a moot point really.

Whether bought or by birthright, we totally dig the Prince. In fact, we can’t figure out why Duke Frederic hasn’t secured his own reality show yet, or at least a spot on “Dancing with the Stars.” This is the man who staged a nude reenactment for paparazzi in his Bel Air driveway of a “gang” related clothing robbery by which he claimed to fall victim to three women posing as fans—or three aliens depending on the source—who left him naked (except for his baseball cap) and handcuffed to the steering wheel of his Rolls Royce. This is also the man who, for years, was subject to underground rumors of a homoerotic S&M horse role-playing fetish (the rumors are, as far as we know, completely unfounded, though we’d prefer to believe them). He is also the part-time headline grabber who claimed to be the father of Anna-Nicole Smith’s second child, Dannielynn (yes, that’s the correct spelling), and he plans to run for Governor of California this year too (Von Anhalt describes himself as a longtime republican and fiscal conservative who is liberal on social issues; he supports gay marriage rights, a broad amnesty for illegal immigrants, and legalization of marijuana).

His latest and greatest press conference yet: the recent announcement that he will be plastinating the body of his Not-So-Fresh Princess of Bel Air, just like those dubiously-sourced Chinese in the “Bodies” exhibit—although he’ll be leaving Zsa Zsa’s epidermis intact—and exhibiting her carcass in a tableaux, recreating a scene “from one of her films.”

As sensational as his statement is, what we find most shocking about Von Anhalt’s plan is that he thinks anyone would actually recognize a scene from one of Zsa Zsa’s films (although a moment from her 1966 vehicle Picture Mommy Dead might be a good start). And as much as we support his decision to plastinate his wife, we do think it’s slightly inappropriate to announce such a thing while the victim is still very much alive, but that’s our Duke.

We’re hoping that others take Von Anhalt’s lead, as this is a trend we’d love to see sweep Hollywood. And it wouldn’t even be necessary to wait until a celebrity died of natural causes either, there are plenty of celebrities that we’d like to see plastinated right now. Like Bruce Willis or Mel Gibson for instance. What about Lindsay Lohan? Plastinate her today, we say, and keep that gal out of trouble! And why wait for an adorable child star to grow up into a troubled adult when you could plastinate them in their prepubescent prime and keep them young and impish forever? Had such technology been around during the cancellation of Diffrn’t Strokes or the hey-day of the E.T. craze, just think of the downward spirals that could have been prevented, or all those Drew Barrymore performances movie audiences could have been spared over the past 28 years. Somewhere, Michael Jackson is wishing he had thought of this first.

We once had the pleasure of meeting both the Prince and Zsa Zsa at a party they held at their Bel Air hom in the ‘90s, celebrating the release of Zsa Zsa’s autobiography, One Lifetime Is Not Enough. Had we known at the time how much fun Von Anhalt was, we’d have never wasted so much of the evening chatting up the guest of honor or her friends Phyllis Diller, Merv Griffin, Ann Miller, and her sister Eva. What a wasted opportunity that was. Live and learn.

Maybe with the promise of plastination, the corpse of Zsa Zsa can squeeze a few more years from the One Lifetime of which she undoubtedly felt so cheated. And Duke Von Anhalt, if you’re reading this, we would totally love to hang with you, drinks on us. (Saddle on you?)

Researching a book like L.A. Bizarro can be a tricky proposition. Not everyone wants their business immortalized in a book with “Bizarro” in the title, but that’s usually because they don’t understand that when we say “Bizarro,” we mean it in the best possible way, and with only the greatest reverence. Usually.  Having blown it enough times, we’ve learned to be careful when we approach our subjects, sometimes being honest about who we are and what we’re doing, and other times going undercover for fear that once the proprietor of a particular L.A. Bizarro destination gets hep to who we are and what we’re doing, we’ll be shown the nearest exit, post haste (which has certainly happened more times than we’d care to count). Fortunately, no one knows who we are, but it’s the “what we’re doing” part that’s difficult to hide when your snapping photos, taking notes, and asking a whole lot of nosey questions.  Bestseller status notwithstanding, a book called “L.A. Bizarro” is not always the best calling card, so we totally get why we’re not entirely trusted.

When we sought out to write our new edition, we really wanted to include one of L.A.’s professional dungeons.  We felt the BDSM “underground” is as much a part of the L.A. environment as Bob Baker’s Marionette Theater or ostentatious Sports Utility Vehicles, and we wanted to represent.  But the BDSM scene is a tough nut to crack if you’re an outsider; especially an outsider writing a book whose sole purpose is exploitation.  An establishment like a professional fetish studio has enough on their plate, what with keeping weirdoes at bay and warding off unwanted attention, in addition to staying on top of the general responsibilities and hands-on maintenance that comes with operating any legit business open to the public, under-the-radar as they might be.  We pretty much assumed a place like that wouldn’t want to waste their time with two hosebags like us, especially if we’re not paying for a session.   We expected the dungeon door to slam thunderously in our faces.

When we did our preliminary research, we put the word out to every fetish studio in town, and in spite of the fact that L.A. Bizarro is unabashedly fetish-friendly, we had extremely low expectations with regard to who might actually grant us an interview.

That’s why we totally dig Lady Hillary, of Lady Hillary’s Dominion: L.A.’s oldest professional dungeon, and the only female-owned-and -operated fetish studio in town. Not only was she receptive to our inquiry, she was a big fan of L.A. Bizarro to boot!

We were thrilled to the marrow of our bones to receive an exclusive invitation to Lady Hillary’s discreetly located two-story Tudor, and even more thrilled when we were given no less than a two-and-a-half hour no-holds-barred interview with the Lady herself, who was not only fabulously quotable, but thoughtful enough to share her personal files documenting the Dominion’s thirty-year history with photos, newspaper articles, and other sundry vintage documents.  Once buzzed past the security gate, we were met with a mi dungeon es tu dungeon sort of graciousness.  She introduced us to her dommes, allowed us to bring our cameras into the Dominion’s darkest corners (without compromising the privacy of her clients of course, she is a Lady after all), and in effect, gave us an all-access backstage pass to one of L.A.’s most private locales. All the while giving it to us straight, without attitude or affectation—but often in good humor—demonstrating that Lady Hillary is not only a super cool gal and a super fun hostess with a super cool pad, she’s also a damn good businesswoman.

She also put a great big luscious link to L.A. Bizarro front and center on the Dominion’s bitchin’ website: www.donimionsm.com!  That kind of publicity you can’t even buy.  And we know, we’ve tried.

Want to know more about the Dominion?  Flip to page 162 and get the lowdown. And should you choose to book a session with L.A.’s First Lady of Kink or a member of her talented staff, be sure to tell her we sent you.  And don’t embarrass us.

Footnote: The following is a comment from The Lady herself, which was originally posted to the old L.A. Bizarro website, where this blog post first ran:

I love you guys!! I never had any reservations about being in your book.  The fact is I was like a giggly schoolgirl doing the happy dance when you asked me!!  I had purchased your first book and thought it was great ( but could have been better if we had been in it! ), so honestly I was pretty jazzed.

I of course did have concerns about exploitation but Matt really put my mind at ease.  It is really kind of nice to be able to trust someone and have that trust honored.  I was perfectly at ease as were the Lovely Ladies  of The Dominion.  You honored our wishes and addressed our concerns and still made the article top notch and interesting.

I honestly feel so good about the article I just smile every time I see it!

This is one of the highlights of my career and it is especially rewarding for me to have someone write an article of this caliber about The Dominion.  We all work very hard to keep The Dominion the “Friendliest Little Dungeon in Town” and we all thank you very much!

We hope to see you again and when  you are in town please stop by and see us again.

Your kinky friend,

Lady Hillary

We’ve said it before and we’ll say it again: Angelyne is everything we love about Los Angeles. She’s the good and the bad, the cool and the cruel, the alpha and the omega. We’ve waxed lyrical over Angelyne ad nauseam in both editions of our L.A. Bizarro, and it beats the shit out of us why Angelenos aren’t more appreciative of her work. Angelyne is like a great piece of public art, and we can’t imagine an L.A. without her.

Being professional gamblers, we tend to visit Las Vegas more often than most. So allow us to veer a bit east of greater Southern California to fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada, to share the good news about a Los Angeles-adjacent attraction you can’t allow yourself to miss.

We were actually surprised to hear that the Riviera Hotel is still standing—much less Charo—all nine stories of it; one of Vegas’ last of the old school hold-outs, with no upgrades and no apologies. And none needed! Personally, we’d like to move into the Rivera and live there forever.

By all means “Charo: A Musical Experience” was a good long ride, as well as a fine literal demonstration of the Riviera’s small dose: By Vegas standards the Riviera is Lilliputian, and Charo appeared at one of the Riviera’s more modest showrooms, to say the least. And Charo herself is eensy, as in Santa’s-Workshop tiny. Even with her 5” heels and her well-filled brassiere, she’s still shorter than a lot of eight-year-olds we know. It’s seriously crazy how little she is.

Although she may not stand very high and the stage Charo takes is slim on square footage, there is absolutely nothing minimized with respect to her performance. Charo is magic. A one-woman spectacular. Yes, it’s amazing she’s still performing live, much less six nights a week, but furthermore, she rocks. Totally rocks. Hard. Her show is almost punk, and just as loud. And if you’re thinking this is a so-bad-it’s-good kind of show, think again. Charo’s been performing longer than you’ve been alive; she’s always many steps ahead of her audience, is never short on surprises, and genuinely appears to be having the time of her life as she delights her audience, which, in the case of the night we were there, didn’t fill the house. Inconceivable, really.

Her jokes might be tried and true, but they work. She earns her laughs. She’s effervescent, and her energy is contagious, and even though she might be playing in a small room with meager attendance, she delivers as though she’s got an SRO crowd at Carnegie Hall (which she’s in fact had).

Never a slow moment, no down time, Charo keeps things cooking. One of the best things about “Charo: A Musical Experience,” however, is the pre-show video; a quickly edited television appearance montage projected onto two small screens in which we’re treated to a fine sampling of Charo though the ages, and which begins with the text: Ladies and Gentlemen, Charo has entered the Building...”

And we don’t ever want her to leave. You can’t miss this opportunity. Seriously, you can’t. Book your tickets today and just get on with it.

www.rivierahotel.com/entertainment/charo.asp