Bizarro is brought to you today by Eddy the Drillhead.
Here's a cartoon I have not much to say about. It isn't great, it isn't awful, it's just a cartoon.
Instead, let's talk about a party I was dragged to by CHNW the other night. We have some friends that run with the fabulous people and every now and then we accompany them to a fabulous affair, the sort I don't feel any more comfortable at than a monster truck rally in the swamps of Louisiana.
Apparently it was a supermodel's birthday (who shall remain nameless for legal reasons), and it was being held in the VIP section of an exclusive club I've never heard of. When we approached the address, there was a healthy-sized crowd outside begging to get past the velvet ropes like orphans at Scrooge's door. We got to pass through the crowd, Moses-parting-the-Red-Sea style because we were on the supermodel's list. What a great feeling it is to have your superior desirability publicly acknowledged in the presence of the less desirable.
Once inside, our skeletons, organs, tissues, entire bodies were treated to a thorough shaking. The "DJ" (a person with a laptop and an apptitude for lipreading), was playing music much louder than the American Medical Association recommends, but fully conforming to the National Confederacy of Clubs' required 85% bass–15% treble mix. While this is not good for one's prospects of hearing without an electronic aid beyond the age of 40, it is very good at curing constipation, as the long bathroom lines attested. And if the vibrations in the air were not enough to shake that chicken-fried steak and chili cheese fries loose, leaning against a railing or wall most certainly would. Some people even seemed to be spitting out fillings and crowns.
Following are some of my favorite cellphone pics from the joyous occasion.
Pic number one is of the unnamed former supermodel herself, raising a hand and a glass. The vantage point may appear as though I was seated when shooting this, but in fact, I was standing on my tiptoes. She and all her model friends in attendance, were well above average height. It was not unlike being in a room full of telephone poles with wigs. Georgeous telephone poles, granted, from what I could see from the ground.
The lighting was not conducive to photography, but every now and then a flash from the strobes would hit at the right time and I'd get something. Here is a pic of a bunch of her model friends, many of whom you've seen in magazines, sitting behind $35 bottles of vodka for which they likely paid around a grand each. Near as I could tell, they sat most of the time for fear of their arms or legs snapping off.
Here, the unnamed model fends off the advances of a male specimen of mating age. Damn, she's good. Her model pal behind her is leaning against a railing, preparing for her next visit to the restroom.
The VIP section is in a raised area overlooking the commoners, as well it should be. There were thousands of crystal balls hanging from the ceiling that catch the strobes in a most mind-bending way. Or perhaps it was just the effects of the $1000 vodka.
Overall, we were there for around 30 minutes before fighting our way toward the door and being squirted out onto the street like watermelon seeds. As we left, I cautioned the peasants still eagerly waiting in line that it might not be all it's cracked up to be, but they did not seem to heed my warning.
After so much fabulousness, I was happy to hop into a cab and head back to my bat cave. It may be months before I leave the house again.