I'm not sure what Frida Kahlo was doing in her grave last night as a hundred or so people gathered in a real estate tycoon's backyard to sample tequilas that bore her name and iconic image. Was she rolling over or salsa dancing? There WAS a mariachi band…
…and bartenders poured shots, shook pomegranate margaritas and filled flutes with yummy champagne cocktails mixed with peach nectar. Cute waitress dressed in colorful Mexican style skirts and blouses, revealing flat tummies, pawned off shrimp tostadas and papaya chicken salad nibbles. But the odd thing was, everywhere you looked there was a hoochie mama, I'm talkin' boner-fide strippers, you saw a lot of shoes like this…
Frida, who was no stranger to sapphic entanglements, might have been pleased by the bouyant breasts and beauty, in that heavily made-up way, of the crowd. But I just couldn't figure out what was up with all the hookers, I figured maybe slutty girls just like tequila, after all me and my friend Shari were here.
But then I remembered the photos that lined the entrance way. They each featured women popping out of bikinis and had labels on the outside of the frame that listed the event (like “Pool Party April 05”) it was so Martha for a Benny Hill type guy. I had to find out more about Michael Scott, owner of this Beverly Hills Man-shun. And boy did I find the right guy, Jay, Scott's pal and videographer, hired to film all of Scott's parties on hi-def (private screenings are held after, I guess to relive the magic). Anyway Jay gave me the skinny, the house was owned by Eddie Murphy, it was built in 1991, and Scott is in the process of building a grotto to rival the one at the Playboy Mansion. I was even introduced to Michael Scott (below), who apparently has a girlfriend, somewhere, but he has trouble telling her apart from all the other girls.
Jay took me past the dart board, video games, basketball hoop game, and pool table on a tour of the private bowling alley, and later promised a tour of the inside. I was mildly dissapointed when that tour began and ended in the garage, looking at Scott's brand new Rolls and a Harley. “Get on,” Jay goaded me. “There is no way he has ever ridden this, ” I say, inspecting the squeaky clean tires. “I bet he can't even ride a bike.” Jay disagrees as he snaps pictures of me. And here's where I have my Arnold on Diff'rent Strokes moment… Me, like a dumbass poses for him. “Arch your back. More… more…more,” he says. And yeah, I'm a little creeped out, but I do it. Then he says, “Hike up your dress a little more….show some leg.” Ah, no. Here's where I draw the line. “Ok, buddy, that's as high as this skirt goes, ” I say flat out. “You don't trust me? I'm a professional,” he says. That's exactly what worries me. But it's when he makes the “vrooom, vroom” noise mimicking a motorcycle that I bolt. I feel dirty like I was trapped in an American Apparel ad.
When I get back to the party, I find Shari and Adam and Dan. Adam claims to play professional racquetball. Examine this photo carefully–I had no idea when we played pool that he carried his own stick! And I'm not talking about the thing around his neck. Is it just me?
Shari and I wander away from the crowd, we decide to do a little investigative reporting and sneak into the main house and up the grand staircase. We creep in room after room, some are occupied, we can hear ladies voices, some aren't but there are closets as big as department stores filled with all kinds of stripper ware, more clear heels and bikini tops that could hold bajungas the size of my head. It becomes clear to me that at least 6 different women live here. Michael Scott is like the friggin' Talented Mr. Heffner!
We turn one corner and there is Adam. He followed us! We don't have time to chastise him before we hear footsteps behind us. We grab his hand and have our own Breakfast Club moment running down the hall opening one door, hiding inside until the footsteps get closer. We joke that this house is so big someone could be living in one end and you wouldn't even know it. And sure enough, we turn down one corridor and see a door ajar, a movie is playing on a big screen TV, Shari sticks her head in and a girl spread out on a bed asks her if she is Dez? “NO, I'm Shari,” she says innocently. “Oh,” says the voice, “you can come in if you want.” I can see Shari debating, but I pull her away. “I could have had a lesbian affair,” she says as we skedaddle, “how Frida is that?” Here's Shari (below) god love her, as a dinner spread. “Ok, Linda, now you hop on the table,” says Adam. Yeah right. Fool me once…
In the end, we had a great time wasting away in stripperville, some people say there's a woman with one eyebrow to blame, but I know, it's my own damn fault.
Posted by Linda Immediato