By Amy Silverman
By Olivia LaVecchia
By Monica Alonzo and Stephen Lemons
By Chris Parker
By Michael Lacey
By Weston Phippen
All you P-town ballers grab a pencil and take notes: Kreme and Jett don't go anywhere before 10 p.m. Maybe if the Legislature ever gets off its ass and ups the drinking cutoff to 2 a.m., like most non-Mormon-inspired metropolises, then I can finally trade up to 11 p.m. In any case, don't be starting events at 8 p.m. Puh-lease! That's ideal for a PTA bake sale, but we night-crawlers have barely swallowed a triple espresso by then, yo.
Now that I've spewed my venom, I can tell the tale of Jett and me rolling on Alwun House's 21st annual "Exotic" art gala, featuring 60 different artists and their erotic paintings, drawings, performances, etc. In case you just landed here in Gila monster country, or have been sleeping under a saguaro for the past three decades, Alwun is a two-story, nonprofit gallery/performance space at 12th Street and Roosevelt run by its eccentric, live-in directors Dana Johnson and Kim Moody. Each year, freaks line up in droves to drink bubbly by the bottle, eat cookies shaped like dicks, watch strippers and performance artists do their thing, and peep some naughty art.
When I arrive, the party is two hours into its freaknik, having started (you guessed it) at 8 p.m. Inside are 600 or so skimpily dressed Phoenicians, so naturally I am having difficulty locating Jett, though I figure she may be the one who's more than half-clothed. As I stroll into the backyard, an auburn-haired pimpette in a man's jacket with no top on underneath passes by me, giving my balls a playful squeeze and sticking her tongue out, Ying Yang Twins-style. I'm tempted to follow, but I don't relish the thought of getting fired for coming back from Alwun sans story!
The music's bumpin', and I see a big-assed crowd tearin' up the dance floor. A gal with ice-white hair piled high, wearing Wellingtons, a black rubber bustier and a bloody strap-on (it was either blood or ketchup, but I'll be damned if I was gonna taste it), is lighting the cigarette of this cheesy, handlebar-mustachioed guy in a mesh top and backless black shorts that let his ass hang free. Some fat chick in a nurse's outfit with a red cross between her colossal hooters is licking caviar off the fingers of a little dude in a black feather boa who looks prettier than Kiersten Dunst. And a gorgeous black lady with straight, shoulder-length hair and red fingernail polish saunters by, done up to emulate Janet Jackson: one boob poking free, brown nipple topped by one of those silver stars. Only later would I learn that Miss Jackson's costume had in fact been painted on . . .
Next to a stone pond with a half-woman, half-snake sculpture, I observe this depraved tableau: a seven-foot dude in a black gas mask topped by faux deer antlers wielding cat-o'-nine-tails in each hand, slapping the ass of a tall carrot-top who's rockin' a black latex outfit, cut up to reveal plenty of alabaster flesh. The fetish bitch moves her reddened ass-cheeks from side to side with each crack. Around them are gathered a circle of voyeurs, which I dutifully join.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, I'm nearly tackled by Jett. Seems the lesbian Jack White's phone bill was $600 this month, and she can't call out from her cell phone to mine.
"That's what you get for calling all those 900 numbers," I say.
"Nigga, bee-have! Meet Isa Gordon. She taught design over at ASU when I was there."
"Charmed," I say, checking out the petite brunette Jett's introducing. The lovely Isa's dressed like the bitch getting ass-whacked. That is, she's in black latex sliced in all of these intricate, spiderlike patterns. Seems she leads a troupe of designers and artists who create outlandish clothes they call Sinthetex. Their cultish "family," as they refer to it, includes the S&M pair described above.
Next to her is Devan Brown, one of her clothing design partners. Devan's six-foot-seven, thin, gaunt and bald, wearing some triangular-looking black coat. He barely speaks, and resembles Jean-Luc Picard with a pituitary problem. Together, he and the tiny Isa look like they just stepped off the mother ship and are ready to start eating babies. Isa, 34, and Devan, 37, are the sort of couple who should be sipping absinthe in the Biosphere with Marilyn Manson, awaiting Armageddon.
"Myself and my partners together work on the Psymbiote Project, which is an attempt to transform me into a cyborg," she tells me, her eyes wide and eerily unblinking.
"You mean you want to be, like, the Borg on Star Trek?"
"Not becoming a machine, really, but integrating my life with technology," explains Isa. "Which people already do with cell phones and whatnot."
"You're probably a big fan of the film eXistenZ."
"Tell me about your clothing, especially what's on your hand," I say, lifting her left paw, which is covered by a metal exoskeleton that looks like something out of T3.
"This is made from titanium to fit me," she says. "It eventually will be a functional data glove for a wearable computer."
"Ah, you'll become one with the computer," I say. "And if that doesn't work, this could always make fisting a lot more interesting."