Mr. Uncertain, Vaginal Creme Davis' adopted piano protege, looks exactly twelve in his Oliver Twist scarf and mismatched gloves, fighting a cold with a dickensian rose hue brightening his nose. As they shuffle zombie style aboard the bus, none of these squinting albinos seem suited to morning light.

Across the aisle from me, Hope (the Voodoo Snake Charmer Act) and her boyfriend Drac (a fetching cross between 30's matinee idol Wallace Reid and an Irish thug) are settling into a hearty breakfast of Pringles (pervy!) while Summer Peaches struggles to negotiate an amorphous sack of sequins, feathers, scarves, and half a case of mid-priced champagne into place on top of the pet carrier containing Hope's ball python ("It's not mine! I just borrowed it!").

The whole bus erupts into a babble of magpie quips just this side of shrieking which WILL NOT STOP 'til we're home again - mostly excited memories of Thursday's "Lucha Va Voom" performance, YET ANOTHER Velvet Hammer production involving legitimate old time masked Mexican wrestlers, including flying midgets ("Los Minis"), cat fights, and typically lowbrow comedy.

Apparently Pleasant Gehman was dressed as a wicked nurse, and two of the Mexican wrestlers just HAPPENED to be dressed as evil doctors. I guess Pleasant and a voluptuous cohort managed to unmask one of the doctors, which "Los Medicos" took as carte blanche to toss Pleasant ("Just like a matchstick!" squealed Rita to an answering chorus of salacious snickers) into the ring, each of the four wrestlers holding Pleasant's limbs out cruciform style, and they started to strip off her outfit with an intensity that began to blur the lines between show business and outright assault.

I guess it all ended okay BEFORE she was smothered and probed by a thousand pounds of sweaty Lucha Libre manflesh, because the laughter on the bus was so piercing that I had to put on my headphones and turn "The Daughters of Albion" CDR up to 7.

Anyway, famed loungecore pioneer DJ Senor Amor prowled the aisles in his Anton LaVey cape ensemble, and producer/star Michelle Carr kept tossing her abundant raven hair so it regularly hit the back of my neck like a swarm of gnats, while I caught snatches of another tale of Pleasant and Michelle sticking their feet (!) through a glory hole while the anonymous shrimper on the other side put condoms on their toes - ("No! I MADE him put them on, cause he was eating me out, and I was afraid he'd bring some cooties back up from the toes with him!" Pleasant helpfully clarified).

Such is the demure behaviour on the five hour bus ride to San Fran - after the de rigeur Michael Jackson chatter dies down ("Is he still on Bubbles III? Or is it Bubbles IV now?") someone says, "You know I saw Minnie Driver in person and she's actually really pretty!" The immediate chorus of disbelieving guffaws is broken by the retort, "That must have been at some awards ceremony, 'cause I saw her at 10:00 A.M. at the Hollywood Hills Coffee Shop and I just COULD NOT EVEN EAT!"

We arrive at the Market Street Holiday Inn right on time, which has everyone in shock, and of course the promoter has not secured the rooms yet, so we wait in the lobby for an hour or so, sardine packed uncomfortably into an "only-in-S.F." crowd.

This is because it's not only Valentine's Day weekend, but there's also a "Bear" convention ("Rendezvous 2003") taking place, so there's a hundred grizzled paunchy bearded overalled inverts with their "Cubs" (younger, somewhat more slender, but still furry bears-in-training) and a few "Otters" (normal looking bear chasers who share the aesthetic but not its physical manifestations), all crowding their imposing physiques up to the counter.

Also, there's some sort of "special" olympics there, because there're about 100 special ed students of all ages evincing an array of "challenges" that defied casual diagnosis, each with a shiny red sack of party favors; and there is ALSO a bevy of professional looking sleek unflappable business suited young Korean women attending a "gift" convention, the main product of which seems to be two inch flowerpots with tiny (fake?) philodendrons, which they carried proudly aloft like torchbearers in a Leni Reifenstahl film.

Did I forget the 20 or so backpacked rag tag peace activists? And then there's US - 30 bedraggled exhausted Burlesque show crazies, looking, after the bus ride, exactly as seedy and disreputable as the sin mavens our parents warned us against. The much abused word "surreal" comes to mind - and it's just about as tired as we are!

Anyway, we didn't get into our rooms before the show, so we departed the lobby holding tank for the venue.

We didn't feel displaced for too long, because the staff at the Music Hall was so fabulous they made us feel right at home, with their traditional communal meal, unflagging joviality and unaffected friendliness.

The shows were great, sold out, with several standing ovations. The Millionaire danced like the closet dervish he is. The girls were on top of their game, especially the tantalizingly arrogant Lola La Cereza, with her Matador tease, and Vermillion with her contortionist Exorcist-director's-cut spider walk.

Vag in his chicken suit and Doctor Mesmero were missed, but Blaine made up for it with his new "We're just kittens" act: a puppet basket of adorable kittens that used the squeakiest mewling falsetto to urge Blaine's foul mouthed 50's Hugh Hefner/ Rat Pack swinger to "Keewill dat awwwwwfull geee-yorge boooowush wid a pissed-tole!" to the appreciative deafening howls of the crowd. The French maids peeked out from backstage, warning, "You can't say that! The FBI will come after you!"

"No I can't!" grunted Blaine, "BUT THEY CAN - they're just kittens!", while pointing to the puppets to more wild screams.

It made it somewhat less regrettable that our Burlesque commitments kept us from both the L.A. and S.F. peace marches.

The promoter invited us to his house for a well-stocked post show party and there was much casual nudity in the hot tub, at least until a rather too forward liberated "Frisco" lesbian inspired filmmaker Augusta to protest, "Hey, get your FOOT out of my COOCH!"

Because of the regressive nature of the current regime, I will not say whether the search was successful, but there was talk of going to "Look for Liza" - evidently a timely new metaphor for looking for some blow.

After the show, the bevy of well-wishers backstage included the elegantly (as always) accoutred El Vez, and his friend Luis Illades from the Pansy Division.

Luis did a mock pout when I said I didn't remember his name - he said he'd once come to see ME play, and I fumbled for an excuse besides senility (which is unfortunately a little too readily accepted from me these days) - so I blurted: "It's because you're so CUTE that I wasn't listening!" (which was true) to which he protested: "But I'm HAIRY!" (which was not in evidence.)

On the way back in the bus, the Velvet Hammer girls lost all semblance of chic restraint, instead seemingly aiming for a frat party ambience.

As Georgie Fame blared out of the speakers, they passed a lukewarm dripping half gallon plastic bottle of Trader Joe's utterly indigestible "Tequila of the Gods" chanting with ear-splitting howls "CHUG CHUG CHUG!" at whomever held the foul thing.

They engaged in all sorts of filthy hangover punning, and finally Senor Amor cornered the poor waif-like Mister Uncertain in his seat at the back of the bus, pawing him just for the joy of experiencing his discomfort, forcing reeking alcohol upon him, while the whole bus screamed "TEA BAG, TEA BAG, TEA BAG!" in hopes that Senor would make Mr. Uncertain his otter. I did think that Mr. Uncertain's cries of protest were somewhat muted in deference to how much he was enjoying the attention.

Then as the revellers progressed to two bottles of Cheap merlot and uncounted beers, Michelle spilled her own drink on her chest to the unladylike squeals of "Wet T-Shirt Contest!"

Soon both Pleasant and Summer peaches had their tops off, drunkenly comparing black brassieres.

At Harris Ranch, near the stinking slaughterhouse known afffectionately as "Cowschwitz" Senor Amor bought a reflective faux snakeskin doo-rag (comedian Jeremy Kramer buys the more conventional flourescent type) which added a poignant hopeless gangsta wannabe inflection to the uproar.

Then as the ride nears the end ("I don't want it ever to end - can't we just go to a bar?" slurs Michelle) and people weary of the ungainly orgy of dryhumping to Van Halen's "Ride With The Devil", Bobby Pinz thoughtfully ruminates over a puzzling barnyard conundrum: "Why don't Bears just call themselves Pigs?"

And Pleasant has difficulty figuring out how we can TELL that she's sneaking an illicit and much protested smoke while crouching down behind a chair.

I'll say one thing: these girls have stamina. But as the "party" devolves into something more akin to falling off the cliff of acceptable behavior, it becomes apparent that they also refuse to acknowledge some of the more basic facts of Chemistry 101: when it's 105 degrees outside and there are 30 sweating drunks on one crowded bus, unrestrained constant use of a portapotty designed for emergencies only, with a door that barely closes, is bound to result in an atmosphere that one might kindly characterise as "unhealthy".

And it soon stops being quite so "funny". Inept clawing at the windows and the small hatches in the roof did little to improve circulation, and every final jolt of the bus going over the interminable grapevine brought wails of nauseous disgust - even though these artisans WERE the authors of their own poisonously odiferous destiny. I think a letter should be written to whatever finishing school was responsible!

A personally poignant moment had occured for me in transit to the S.F. soundcheck: We drove past Bill Graham's Civic Auditorium and david gray's name was on the marquee. So I knew Dave Nolte must be inside, just blocks away from our venue. I wanted to invite him to our 2nd show, but there was no way to get in touch with him.

And I'll never forget the frightening snorkeling garbage disposal slurp of the balloon shaped bears making out brazenly in the elevator next to me as I crawled back to the Holiday Inn at 4:30 A.M. I'm all for liberation, but that Ursa was MAJOR!

2002 DIARIES ARE HERE: diaries2002.htm