Hotter Than a Stick ‘o Hot Glue

There are all sorts of things I’m thankful for this year, but at this particular moment, I am most thankful for Leslie.


I realized as I began writing that this is my fourth entry in a row about Leslie Hall, which made me feel kind of like a crazy person. But since I think in Illinois it takes five blog entries to qualify as stalking, I’m just going to go ahead with this one.

Besides, don’t we all just need a little bit more gold lamé in our lives? With the drama of Kevin’s body shot finally over, we were ready to dance the night away to the hip-hop beats of a bejeweled rapper from Iowa. It was every bit as wonderful as I had hoped. I leave you with this final photo tribute:


Here she is thanking her momma for making her gold pants.

And now Leslie extolls the virtues of the Bedazzler.

Next she tells us how to kill zombies. [Hint: shoot them in the brains.]

After all that, she still has time to pose with her fans. Here, Dop and Kevin pose in front of a dirty naked woman painting.

Prom King Ryan and his Gemtastic lady get all moody in black and white.

Can you feel the love tonight? I sure can.

Still haven’t had enough? Here are the rest on Flickr.

About Last Night

There are many stories I could share about Tuesday night. Stories that might involve mullets or mosh pits, PBR or Purell. And of course, there are the Leslie stories. All in due time, but this first tale really deserves its own post. With photo essay.

I had a long-overdue reunion on Tuesday night with Ryan and Kevin, my blogger pals I met at the last Leslie and the Lys concert. This time, I brought Natasha along and we were also joined by Kevin’s BF, Dop.

Leslie’s show didn’t start until midnight, so we passed the time laughing and drinking $2 Pabst Blue Ribbons and watered-down scotches. At one point, just as I was sharing a recent horrific experience with unintentionally (honest!) finding porn on the Internet, a woman wearing a baseball cap and a veil walked up to Dop and Kevin and asked them if they were wearing boxers.

Dop gave the woman a puzzled look and shook his head no. Kevin, whose honesty made me suspect that he was a former Boy Scout, said, “Well, I have boxer-briefs on.”

Her eyes lit up as she said, “Those’ll do. Would you mind parting with them?”

Kevin nearly inhaled his sip of beer and laughed out a polite, yet firm, “No!”

As though it were necessary, given the veil and white baseball cap with the word “BRIDE” scrawled across the top in glitter gel, the woman explained somewhat apologetically that she was participating in a scavenger hunt for her bachelorette party. When Ryan turned her down flatly as well, just before walking away, she turned to Nat and me and asked, “I don’t suppose either of you is wearing boxers?”

This was yet another time when not wearing underwear worked to my advantage. (kidding. so kidding. about it working to my advantage, I mean.)
I think the woman skulked off before we could even bother to answer. The five of us laughed this off and went back to admiring the magnificent mullet of one of the bartenders. About a half hour passed when I noticed a white cap bouncing our way again.

Ever the persistent bachelorette, this time she walked right up to Kevin and asked, “Okay. Would you let me do a body shot off of you?”

Even in the darkly lit bar, I could see his face turning red, as he laughed somewhat uncomfortably. The woman looked over at Natasha and me and said, “Would you mind if I did a body shot off him?”

I looked over at Dop, who was trying to contain his laughter, and said, “Absolutely not. Go right ahead.”

I felt delirious with power for that one moment. It was like being the Godfather, or some sort of gang lord. That’s right, this is my turf, and I decide who gets to do body shots. You got that straight? I decide! And today, I say you can do a shot off of Kevin.

It again became clear to me that Kevin is just an all-around good guy because I really think he was being honest when, as she led him by the hand toward the bar, he looked back at us and said, “Well, okay but, how, how does this even work? I mean… how do you…? What do I…?”

Ryan, Nat, Dop and I stood around as helpless, but hysterically laughing, witnesses to the train wreck that is the average bachelorette party. Natasha grabbed my arm, hard, and said, “You remember our promise, don’t you, Jenny? No veiled baseball hats or penis necklaces, no scavenger hunts or suck-for-a-buck t-shirts. I mean it!”

And then we cut our thumbs open with my grandpa’s pocket knife and swore on blood that we would never throw a trashy “Naughty But Nice” bachelorette party for each other.

In order to best describe what happened next, I am going to do something that has never been done on a blog before. EVER! Because I am a Pisces, and we are empaths, I was able to understand every emotion Kevin experienced during the entire ordeal. Because I am a voyeur, and never leave home without my camera, I was also able to photo document every moment.

For your viewing pleasure, I have created the blogosphere’s first flip book. You will simply need to print out each of the pictures below on high quality glossy paper, bind them together, and then flip through to create an animated reenactment of the infamous body shot caper. The captions below each photo represent the exact thoughts going through Kevin’s mind during what were, I’m quite certain, the longest three minutes of his life.

I’m sorry we all threw you to the wolves, Kevin, but it was for the good of the whole. You earned your purple heart that night, along with my undying respect.

“Oh god. She’s coming back. Do you think she knows that I really was wearing boxers all along?”

“A body shot? I think I saw them do that on Real World Seattle one time.”

“Crap. She just bought the shot. She’s totally not bluffing.”

“Okay… so, I just tilt my head I guess?”

“Jenny, if you can read my mind right now, for the love of god please put down the frickin’ camera and make this stop. I’m only smiling to hide the pain.”

“Jesus loves me this I know, for the bible tells me so. Little ones to him belong…”

“Oh man… the salt is burning. And now she’s licking me. Happy place, happy place. Remember that cabin in northern Wisconsin we used to go to? Gosh, we sure caught a lot of walleye that one year. SHE’S STILL LICKING ME!

“I wonder if lime kills bacteria?”

“Okay, so um… I’ll call you?”

Have you…

…ever looked into the face of sheer joy?



[I know – some may say that sheer joy looks very similar to intense pain. That’s just the way my face goes. Trust me – it’s joy.]

I Feast Off The Flesh Of The Haters

Where you at Tuesday night? ‘Cause I know where I’m at. Funky Buddha, babies. Watching the Goddess of Gold Pants herself, Leslie Hall.

If you know what’s good for you, you’ll be there too.

Shit. (That’s for you, Viv.)


Leslie Speaks!

The Leslie-fest continues over at Feast of Fools, as they air their exclusive podcast with Leslie Hall.

  1. Learn what Leslie and Beyonce Knowles have in common!
  2. Hear the inside scoop on her stunt double!
  3. See the photos of her transformation from mild-mannered Midwesterner to glam-rock super-diva!

Oh yeah, and if you hear a man with a really deep voice blathering on about the “blogosphere,” that’s me. Which reminds me, it’s time to get a refill on those estrogen supplements…

All That Glitters

You know that pang in your belly that so often contradicts your head? The one that tells you to do things that might not seem logical? It’s true, what they say. Trust your gut – it’s rarely wrong.

It was Sunday night and I was tired. This going-to-the-gym thing has my body discovering parts of itself once believed to be long dormant. It’s like asking me to remember what wisdom teeth do or what my appendix is for. I thought I had no use for hamstrings, and was about to have them removed.

Sushi and surfing the net sounded like an ideal way to end the weekend, said my head.
But what about Leslie, asked my belly.

I should back up.

Through the course of my regular blog surfing, I stumbled across this intriguing post at Kevin’s site about an upcoming performance at a local bar. Although I didn’t know Kevin, his entry resonated with me on some deeper level, so I left a comment saying that I might show up.

After hearing excuse after excuse from the friends I thought might be interested (Natasha: “Why are you calling me? You know I’m in Acapulco!” Seamus: “Why are you calling me? You know I’m in South Africa!” Dee-Dee: “Why are you calling me? You know I’m in Milwaukee!”), I thought about giving up. Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be. But the funny thing is, my belly got the better of me. When I got my final rejection from Dee-Dee, I told her that I just felt like if I didn’t go, I would regret it. And I really meant it.

So I went.

I got to the bar early, pulled up a stool, whipped out my notebook, and ordered a Newcastle. I started jotting down notes about the already interesting mix of people in the bar when I heard someone call my name. Now, contrary to what people may say about the glamorous life of an ex-amateur tap dancer, I am not accustomed to being approached by handsome young gentlemen at bars. So when Kevin called my name, I gave him what was I’m sure a very puzzled look.

“Jenny! It’s Kevin.”

[blank stare.]

“From Sweet Tartuffery.”

[happy recognition!]

“Oh my god! So nice to meet you!”

He introduced me to his charming group of friends, we ordered $2 cans of beer, and made our way back to the stage. It was critical that we stake out some prime real estate for this musical feast.

There were three bands lined up for the evening: a punk/metal/satanic band, a hipster rap duo, and the main event – the dazzling diva and goddess of gold lamé herself, Leslie Hall. From the quick research I did on Leslie before heading out to the bar, I learned that she’s a hip-hopper from the Midwest with a penchant for gold lamé jumpsuits and a mission to rescue gem sweaters from thrift stores across the country. She has the rhythms to make your body rock and the grooves to make your shoulders lock.

The first band hurt my heart both emotionally and physically with screeching guitars and booming bass. The second band was surprisingly good, even though the female singer threw water in my face and gave me swimmer’s ear. Well, she might not have intended to throw water just at me, but I think I bore the brunt of her on-stage antics.

My newfound friends and I passed the time by exchanging dialogue on Oprah’s show dedicated to poo, and sharing our true feelings about the Black Eyed Peas song, My Humps. Then finally, as the witching hour approached, Leslie and the Ly’s made their long-awaited entrance.

I felt nothing short of giddy.


I could barely contain myself as Leslie popped and locked across the stage in her fur cape and gold jumpsuit. Her lyrics were like a drug.

I wanna thank you momma for making me gold pants. Ones I can dance in, and make romance in!

Sequin babies, bring me dollar bills. One night of pleasure, rhinestone thrills. Hey beat dazzler, gem me a sweater! Hey hoochie momma, gold pants forever!

It’s hard for me to put into words the feeling that swept over me as I looked around the room at my fellow Junior Gems. The best I can do is this:

It’s like when you were a child, swinging on a swingset in the park with your best friend. Feeling your stomach tingle as the swing goes back and the rush of wind in your face with each swing forward. Pumping your legs harder and stretching your back until you feel like you might flip over the top. You look over at your friend and smile as you pass each other mid-swing. Your hands sweat from gripping the chain so tightly, yet each time you reach the top you think about letting go and flying across the park. You can’t catch your breath from laughing and swinging and you wish so badly that there were more people in the park to see you because you are sure that no one has ever gone this high or had this much fun. But you also wish no one else was in the park because then it’s just something you and your best friend shared and they wouldn’t understand anyway. And you wish it would never end because you know there will never be a moment quite like this again.

It was kind of like that.

We waited around until the crowd had died down so we could all get our photos with Leslie. Then as we were loitering, not wanting the night to be over, we were approached by two dashing men with a tape recorder, and subsequently interviewed for their podcast. Chris told them that we were all planning on moving in together. It would be just like Three’s Company. I would probably have to play Janet, though. Damn dumpy brunettes. I can’t remember all the ramblings that spewed from my mouth, but if they decide to salvage some of our interview, I’m certain I will sound quite like the accountant I once sadly aspired to be. It might have been my third $2 beer talking, but I think I may have said the word, “conduit” at one point, and not in any way that could be construed as clever or charming.


Then finally, we suited up for the cold blast outside and went our separate ways. As I hopped back into my car humming something about gem sweaters, I thought about my belly and smiled as I reminded myself that I must always trust my instincts, because they can lead me to the most dazzling treasures.

My Goblet of Beatbox Brew


Oh god. The story I have for you? I can’t connect the words into coherent sentences:

blue men

All the ingredients for an unforgettable evening. So listen to this for now, but be prepared to crank up the speakers and rock your body like your momma told ya: Leslie and the Lys.

Details to come.