Tommy, Pamela and a Pole

Metal Skool on Mondays continues to spew down-&-dirty fun at the Key Club. (And we do mean dirty; the band says “vagina” a lot during its between-song shtick, and you can always count on some groupie flashing her not-so-God-given goods onstage.) The hairspray-lovin’ heshers have also upped the ante guestwise, jamming with rockers new (Disturbed, Godsmack and System of a Down — or “Down Syndrome,” as the Skool calls ’em) and old (Poison, L.A. Guns and, recently, the crazy combo of Pauly Shore, Warrant’s Jani Lane and Sex and the City’s John Corbett). But none could compare to the magical metal moment Nightranger witnessed the Monday before last when Tommy Lee and Pamela Anderson pranced in for a little shake & shimmy. Lately we’ve been deejaying in the VIP room before the band’s midnight set, so we were tipped off early that the couple would make an appearance, though word came that they had changed their minds after the show began. Something told us they would change back again, especially after guitarist Satchel started taunting Lee, boasting that the Skool’s drummer did a better job on the Crue classic “Home Sweet Home” (which did sound really good). Lee pounded the skins for a rousing rendition of “Girls Girls Girls” while his Stacked ex, in a Santa suit, not only pumped the band’s portable stripper pole, but writhed on the floor and poured water on herself (without mussing her makeup . . . now that’s talent!). The spectacle has led to renewed tabloid speculation about the pair reuniting, but we don’t think so. These two are too fast for love. [Nah . . . total soul mates! —ed.]

We'll Be Back

At Boardner’s last Thursday, we checked out The Spy Club, which promoters Shalyce Benfell and Piper Ferguson created as a more mature alternative to their teenybopper oasis Club Bang! Swinghouse Studios head Phil Jaurigui threw a birthday bash there with The Tender Box and The Mojo Filters, both of whom rocked our winter socks off . . . Also popped into the new Silver Lake spot The Cha Cha Lounge (formerly the Latin trannie dive Le Bar), and we’re lovin’ its arty red-hued ambiance — particularly the tabletops, which pay tribute to the past with portraits of the cross-dressin’ mamacitas who used to perform there . . .

Apocalypse Now?

And last but definitely not least, Kim Fowley’s Neon Babylon at TheKnitting Factory during Xmas week offered a major respite from the candy-cane-flavored goodness we were bombarded with. This one was bad, in the truest sense of the word, with a “Pan-Sexual Beauty Pageant” featuring a gal named Miss Satanica, whose “Pussy Power” skit saw her screwing a light bulb you know where (now that’s a way to help with the energy crisis), and Rasputin’s Marionettes, offering a possessed JonBenet Ramsey puppet dance. Fez-wearing accordionist Count Smokula won the competition, but we think the grand prize shoulda gone to Atlanta’s notorious ga-ragers The Black Lips, whose set featured mustachioed (they’re so back!) guitarist Cole Alexander peeing onstage, and in his own mouth. No shit.

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