"He [Anderson] came up to me and my friends and said, 'We don't want your kind here anymore,'" screeched De Lafreniere to this woodpecker. "He's got a lot of apologizing to do."
The catty clubbinista insists she's a longtime Anderson's devotee, and has been hitting the nightspot every weekend for five years, even before assuming a female identity. Since Anderson's turned her out, she's been on the warpath picketing across the street from the club on Saturday nights; sending e-mails to promoters; calling up local station Mix 96.9 to demand it stop hosting events at Anderson's; e-mailing Clear Channel (which owns Mix 96.9); petitioning the local ACLU in hopes it'll pick up her much-threatened "class action lawsuit"; and tweeting to any local media outlet that'll listen, including this malevolent magpie.
Yet Anderson coos a different tune, one not unlike Aerosmith's "Dude (Looks Like a Lady)" or Ray Davies' "Lola."
"I never said 'I don't want your kind in here,'" Anderson assured this avian. "I'm tired of being made out to be some Aryan Brotherhood bigot. I have no problem with different ways of life at all."
So if Anderson ain't no Mr. Homophobic, why tell trannies to hit the bricks? According to Anderson, De Lafreniere and her faux female friends were constantly using the chicks' loo, and not just for potty. They were also hanging at the sinks as female patrons applied eyeliner, etc. Anderson said he was so overwhelmed with complaints from female customers that he had no choice but to ban the brokeback bitches.
"I'm protecting the security and the rights of the women who come into my club," squawked Anderson. "These are not small, feminine 'women.' They look like men in dresses, with beard stubble and stuff like that."
Truly, De Lafreniere's a real bruiser, standing 6'2" and weighing more than 200 pounds. Still, she says she and her "transsexual" friends are as femme as Cameron Diaz, and as such, have a right to use the gals' bog. Here's the prob: De Lafreniere may not be transsexual, as far as this canary can determine without eyeballing the goods. Same for her clubgoing cohorts. They're more likely transgenders — people who feel like one gender, but are trapped in the body of another, so they dress and act like their "inner genders." Transsexuals are people who've had sexual reassignment surgery to physically change their sex organs.
See, this crafty cardinal discovered De Lafreniere'd popped up in the local media before, in a June 12, 2005, East Valley Tribune story titled "Diversity activist switches genders." De Lafreniere was going by the name Michele Culver then.
The Trib revealed De Lafreniere was born Kenneth Culver. The guy was married for 20 years, has two teenage children, and used to own a Scottsdale shop called the Bike Emporium.
Asked by this inquiring egret if she or any of her club buddies still has a tallywacker, De Lafreniere hissed, "It doesn't matter. It says on my driver's license I'm female."
But De Lafreniere admitted to the Trib in 2005 that she hadn't had sex-change surgery, that she was "saving money" for the procedure, which costs from $7,000 to $24,000.
"I know people who know these people," Anderson asserted, referring to De Lafreniere and her posse. "They have their male parts. Hell, if Michele's penis is fat and 13 inches, I'll buy it from her! If she's not using it, I will."
By the way, this filthy finch did ask to see De Lafreniere's naughty bits, but she refused. So the mystery endures.
Hold on to your headfeathers, chickadees, it gets nuttier.
Before Ken Culver started taking female hormones and doing his impersonation of Wesley Snipes in To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar, he was elected to Scottsdale's Human Relations Commission. Culver changed genders and names in '05, but as Michele De Lafreniere, still serves on the Commission as Chairwoman, er, Chair-man — oh, forget it.
Indeed, she told The Bird she's working on a petition for a bill that'd outlaw discrimination against transgenders and transsexuals in any Scottsdale club. Her tiff with Anderson's Fifth Estate provides the perfect springboard.
"She's trying to be the Rosa Parks of the transsexual world," Anderson told this talon-bearer.
Thing about it is, Rosa Parks just wanted to sit down. But De Lafreniere, she can likely still do her business standing up.
Drama In Lil' P-Town
It ain't too often this political popinjay deigns to fly over to Lil' P-town, a.k.a. Peoria, to update loyal readers on the skinny there. It's Peoria, for eff's sake! You don't have to be some crusty Gertrude Stein fan to realize there's really no there there. None. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Zero.
Well, that was the case up until the drama of Peoria's last mayoral race. Because, ladies and worms, that sucker had "upset" written over it like graffiti on a freight car.
Here's the dilly: Longtime Peoria mayor John Keegan was term-limited out this year. That left two council members duking it out for his job à la Sly Stallone and that other guy in Rocky Balboa.
In one corner was Bob "Bulldog" Barrett. A mustachioed Vietnam vet, Barrett's brightest idea appears to have been touting his Republicanness in a year when the GOP was associated with George Duh-bya, staggering deficits, and that whole Iraq "civil war" thing.
Barrett's opponent was as formidable as this feathered fiend's vocabulary. Sure, real estate agent Pat Dennis has the sorta looks that make ya wish her 'rents had christened her "Isabella" or even, um, "Janet" to make her gender clearer than mother's milk. But Dennis had some very influential backers, including the family of Democratic senatorial loser and Foster Brooks stand-in Jim Pederson (they donated $1,480 to Pat's purse), and the police and fire unions. Billy "9/11 Boondoggle" Shields, who runs the extremely powerful United Phoenix Firefighters union, chaired her exploratory campaign committee.
Firefighters dumped beaucoup bucks into the race: Their various combined PACs chipped $2,610 into Dennis' pot. Two "independent expenditure" committees, funded largely by police and firefighters, spent another $20K, records show.
Nevertheless, Dennis kissed the mat in a squeaker, rejected by 634 votes. But the big losers were the dudes in the red long johns. Even though the firefighters unions put their muscle into electing the councilwoman, they were opposed by a group that until then had diddly-squat in clout.
That group's the International Association of Firefighters Local I-60. But the name's misleading. They're actually Southwest Ambulance paramedics. The ambulance workers gave the Barrett campaign manpower. Just as firefighters were leafleting and pounding the pavement for Pat, the ambulance folks did ditto for Bulldog Bob.
Why do firefighters and paramedics give a flip about Peoria's mayorship? Lucrative ambulance contracts, baby. As New Times' Sarah Fenske reported last year, Shields' predecessor as PHX union prez, Pat Cantelme, runs a private ambulance company, PMT, that's attempting to win 911 contracts Valleywide ("Ambulance Chasers," October 27, 2005). Many of Cantelme's old firefighting bros support him — even as members of Local I-60 stand to lose their jobs if he succeeds.
The Peoria contract expires this summer. And the new mayor could play a big role in whether Southwest holds its turf — or whether Peoria becomes Cantelme Country.
Dennis was rumored to favor a Cantelme takeover, and campaign records apparently support that. Cantelme and his wifey donated a total of $700 to Dennis. (Cantelme butt-boy Shields also donated $370.) Executives at Southwest Ambulance, perhaps trying to play it safe, gave money to both candidates: $600 to Barrett, $370 to Dennis.
But the work the ambulance union did for Barrett may carry the most weight when the 911 contract is up. Firefighters've traditionally used their manpower to get their way politically. In last month's election, Local I-60 pretty much told Shields and his boys that they ain't the only ones who can play hardball.
Jason Payne, prez of the ambulance workers, says his lifesavers aren't trying to buy contracts. They just want a fair shake.
Still, this seagull thinks Local I-60's pulled an old-fashioned power move against the Cantelme-Shields axis. Politically speaking, at least, Podunk Peoria is dullsville no more.
Brodie, Who?
This perturbed peacock's got a chicken bone to pick with P-town scenesters: These gnarly nobodies, as much as The Bird might dig 'em personally, really get under this pterodactyl's plumage. What's the deal with these lame-o's announcing to the world when they turn 23 or whatever that they're leaving for Gotham or El Lay, and then throwing themselves a big-ass goodbye party?
By Big Bird's beak, just leave, already! What's with the big production? Half the time, these characters're back in town "visiting" in three months, throwing themselves yet another party, and announcing on MySpace that they've arrived. The way these twentysomething twerps act, you'd think they'd been polishing their stars on Hollywood Boulevard instead of working at American Apparel or The Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf. Jeez, go make something of yourself, guys, then come back home. Don't return while you're still a loser.
Added to the roster of not-yet-greatness, along with such local luminaries as Austin Head, Johnny Noir, and the dear and lovely Tiffe Fermaint, is now Brodie Hubbard, an annoying, bearded bonehead whose claim to fame is playing his guitar while it lies flat on his lap (ooh, edgy), and penning plaintive emo ballads about broken relationships (boo-hoo-hoo). Seems Hubbard, rumored to be distant kin to Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard, is going west six hours to La-La Land under the guise of trying his hand at TV writing while shacking up with his girlfriend.
Since he'll be heading out soon, guess what? He threw himself a party at the Trunk Space, the "Fuck You, Brodie Hubbard Going Away Show/Celebrity Roast" on Saturday, December 16. Well, this rabid rooster'll give L. Ron Brodie points for originality. Ripping off the Friars Club is cool, even if you are a nebbishy Nimrod.
The shindig was hosted by Southern hick and Grand Avenue Live! "talk show host" Kevin Patterson, and featured 15 guest roasters slamming Hubbard. So many folks told tales about how they initially thought Hubbard was gay that the humiliation-a-thon had an air of a "coming out" party. Actually, considering how much Hubbard enjoyed the abuse, it was more like verbal bukkake, with Brodie as the target.
Sixty schmucks paid the $5-per-person cover. Trunk Space and Hubbard split the proceeds 50/50, with Brodie shelling out some dough to the bands that performed following the roast. Musical acts included Alexis + Carissa, Andrew Jackson Jihad, and Brodie Hubbard himself, natch. Sure, he's a dweeb, but he's an egomaniacal dweeb. Hence Brodie's Wikipedia entry, purportedly written by the man himself.
From the podium, roaster Tommy Cannon from PHX puppet troupe Elastic Theater ripped, "I used to think that acoustic, painful, emo music was bad to listen to. After hearing Brodie perform, now I know that acoustic, painful, emo music is bad to listen to."
Pete Petrisko, who dressed in character as Sku "T-Bone" Hadley, the perverted Mister Rogers-esque personality in Uncle Sku's "Don't call our show a Playhouse" Clubhouse, announced, "I will dance a little dance on your grave." Then he sprang onto Brodie's lap and sang "The Wind Beneath My Wings" — worse than a friggin' Bette Midler medley.
Co-owner of Trunk Space JRC quipped, "We were going to have the roast next door at Bikini Lounge, but they wanted to make money tonight."
DJ/drummer Shane Kennedy was the eve's most brutal roastologist. His Brodified zingers included such keepers as, "He's like a tow truck because at the end of the night, he's always dragging something big home," and, when Brodie took the mic to speak at the end of the roast, "If you want to be funny, just pick up a guitar."
Here's some advice, Brodie: Take that scratch you earned, hightail it to El Lay, and don't come back 'til you do something with your life, ya hear? Otherwise, The Bird's gonna treat you like a marble statue and poopify your lackadaisical butt.
