Honest to god? Yr. loyal blogger was at the Playboy Mansion?? Holy crap, hell has most certainly frozen over.
I can't really tell you why I was there 'cause I'm fairly sure somebody must have an exclusive on it and it surely ain't me, but suffice it to say happy god-damn birthday to someone I'm unbelievably proud of, who will always mean a lot to me (edit: okay, it has been officially written about in several places, so I think its safe to say it's DIABLO CODY). It was a stone blast. The Minneapolis Contingent came down en masse for the event. As my friend Blake, whom I've known since my early college days, said to me: "When we were hanging out in Northeast Minneapolis almost twenty years ago, did you think we'd eventually be sharing a drink at the Playboy Mansion?" No, sir, I did not. Celebrity sightings? Oh, plenty, plenty, but again, I'm not sure I'm allowed to write about 'em until someone official does.
Okay, okay, I'll tell you the one that did my geek heart good. You all remember I was very vocal in my love of "Superman Returns," right? Good movie. I still stand by it to this day. So I was thrilled beyond belief to shake hands with Superman himself, Brandon Routh. He is seventeen feet tall and made of pure muscle. I couldn't even look into his face directly or I would have been turned into a pillar of ash.
And PS, I didn't think I could be more impressed with Trix than I already was, but she was awesome at the party. She managed to wrangle a couple of very tough-cookie celebrities, fielded a whole passell of batshit crazy text messages, help out people she doesn't even assist normally, press the flesh with the exact right people in exactly the right way, and generally act as a frickin' impressive rep for her boss, all the while planning and generally taking care of shit for the Minneapolis peeps as well and making sure they were all doing okay. I was so proud. The Industry suits my Trix very well, I must say.
The evening ended -- and hell yes I'm blogging about it, you didn't think you'd escape my pen, did you? -- with most of our friends from Minneapolis naked in a pool. I saw more taint than a 4-H milk inspector. I myself remained fully clothed, dignity intact. I didn't want to shame my male friends. You understand.
The one shame of the evening was that I had to miss my boys in the Explorers Club, who played the Troubadour that very night. By all reports that was one hell of a night too, with an appearance by Darian Sahanaja of Brian Wilson's band, Darren from the Tyde, and other special guests. So imagine my great glee when I found out that they were playing the very next night in Pomona.
Folks, folks, folks -- if you want to see some fucking amazing live rock music, please do yourself a favor and see the Explorer's Club. Holy shit. If you've seen Brian's band, and thought to yourself "there is no way a band that isn't this band can get up on stage and play extremely complicated arrangements with spiritual, righteous stacked harmonies this tight and make it this damn fun," think a-fucking-gain. 'Cause the Explorers Club are MORE FUN -- yes, you heard me -- MORE FUN -- than that. They did backflips. They did choreographed stage movements. They did incendiary solos, stacked their harmonies to the fucking sky, and ripped shit up, despite running on, like, three hours of sleep. Astonishing.
Plus, I got to finally shake hands with their bassist Chris Mondia, also of the Green Fields, and a damn genius songwriter in his own right, whom I've been great friends with for years and years without ever having met in person. Chris is every bit as awesome, enthusiastic, hilarious and just plain damn kind as he is in the cyberworld, I'm happy to report.
So without further ado: FUZZY PICTURES from Trix' camera phone. Sorry -- it was dark!
Here is the Trixi Taxi parked in front of the mansion, its occupant, in a gorgeous handmade dress with skull and crossbones on the bodice, looking rather evil in the flash of the camera.
This fuzzy little image is of Trix and I reflected in the mirror over the circular bed off the game room. Oh, yes, the Playboy Mansion most certainly does have areas devoted to illicit trysts, my friends.
...and myself in the famous Grotto, looking resplendent, if I do say so myself.
And here's myself with the good Mr. Mondia, a collection of bearded harmony-singing country-rock fans. Woo hoo!