Michael Raven called me this past week and invited me to Sin City's release party for his movie, "Paradise Lost." I thought, "Why the fuck not?" I think I've mentioned before I don't get out much, so maybe I should do something about that... getting out, that is. So I did. I got out.

The event was held at 'Las Palmas,' a club located in the bowels of Hollywood, right off Hollywood Blvd., on Las Palmas. Now don't get me wrong about this bowels thing. I love being in the bowels of cities. I don't think you ever really get to know a city if you haven't spent some quality time deep in its bowels. It's the true city, not the one they photograph for the travelogues. And the creatures who haunt these parts of the city are interesting to say the least. It's kind of daring to go there--dangerous maybe--although I don't recommend it for many of you. Why? You probably don't know the rules; rules like 'don't look any of the street people directly in the eye,' and 'don't go there alone unless you look like you don't have ten cents in your pocket,' and maybe most importantly, 'don't talk to any of the street people unless you can talk the same shit as they do.' I know these rules. I can talk their shit. And most of the time I don't look like I'm carrying a nickel anyway, so who's gonna fuck with me? But on this night, because of the party and the big crowd and plenty of security, it became very safe bowels for the time all of us were there.

The club itself is very cool. I hear Hugh Hefner and entourage show up regularly. Apparently, Hugh likes the dance floor there. What a life that guy's got, huh? What is he? Like eighty-something? And he's still out tripping the light fantastic--and doing it with chics you and I can only dream of being with.

I arrived pretty much at the specified time. This 'fashionably late' shit doesn't cut it for porn events. Unless you're a party VIP--which everyone claims to be--but since most are not, including me, it only means you end up waiting on some line while some guy checks to make sure everyone's on the guest list. And these guys don't do the guest list checking too quickly. I assume the list is in alphabetical order, I'm just not sure these checker guys have the order of the alphabet down pat. I had maybe ten people in front of me so I didn't have to wait too long, maybe 15 or 20 minutes. Finally, I arrived at the name-checker guy wearing my best, JimmyD, I'm-too-cool-to-be-on-this-line look.

"DiGiorgio," I said.

The guy looked and looked. "Sorry, no DiGiorgio."

"You're looking in the D's right?" I asked with just a subtle hint of smart-ass in my voice.

The guy looked again, flipping the page (maybe to the D's). "Sorry, no DiGiorgio." He stared at me blankly, silently telling me, "Your move, fella."

"Get the fuck outa here, " I said, "Try JimmyD."

He looked, I assume in the J's. "Nope, sorry." Without even the smallest hint of sympathy or care, his eyes left me and moved to the next person on line. I kept my cool. Just then I heard a familiar voice from behind.

"What the matter, not on the list?"

I turned. It was my friend Robert Lombard, of Creative Image Management.

"I'm ... uh... I don't know what to think," I said. "I spoke with Raven on the phone, I got emails from him and Scott Stein... you're on the list they said... Now I'm here and I don't know what the fuck's going on!"

Robert gave me that little half-smile of his. "I guess you're my date tonight." He looked up at the name-checker guy. "Lombard... Robert... plus one."

It took the guy like two seconds to find Robert's name (apparently he knew where the L's were) and suddenly the velvet rope was pulled aside and we were admitted in.

"Don't get any ideas, Robert," I shouted over the music once we were inside. "I don't put out on the first date."

Almost at once I ran into the uber-director, Michael Raven.

"JimmyD! Glad you made it!"

"Glad I made it? I wasn't even on the freakin' guest list!"

"You're kidding. I personally had them put you on the list."

"Well, maybe you don't have the juice you think you have. Now I'm stuck being Lombard's date and he's looking at me funny."

"I'm sorry about that," Michael said, his eyes and voice very sincere.

"About what?" I asked. "Me not being on the list, or Robert looking at me funny?"

The uber-one laughed. So did I. You see, contrary to what a certain Aussie muckraker occassionally prints, I don't have a problem with Michael Raven. Never have. Don't ever expect to. I've known him since almost day one he's been in this biz. We've always got along just fine. Michael understands my sense of humor and doesn't seem to ever take it personal. The down-under scoopster, apparently, doesn't get it.

A bit later I hear my name called. I turned. It was 'Il Padrino di Sin City,' that's wop for the Godfather of Sin City. (Yeah, I savvy a little bit of my forefathers' lingo.) Anyway, it was David Sturman calling out to me from this small roped-off area with its own bouncer. I guess the house wanted to make sure David remained safe. He was picking up the tab, and from the size of the crowd at the bar, it was going to be some tab. David gave me a big hug. Not a handshake, mind you, but a hug--a big hug. My stock suddenly soared in the eyes of everyone who witnessed this. I began fumbling with his hand, looking for a ring to kiss when he spun me around and asked if I remembered his wife. I took the ever-radiant 'Il Padrina's' hand and shook it.

"Sure," I said. "Nice to see you again Mrs. Sturman."

See? I got manners. I'm ok in public. My mother taught me how to behave in social situations, even if I sometimes act like I don't now how to.

Anyway, David and I chatted for a bit. He told me the guest list was around 700. Great, I thought, 700 people got on that list and my name didn't make it. I didn't mention it to David because, you know, my mother taught me right.

Later, I spotted Nic Andrews making his entrance. I've never met Nic, although I've bagged him a few times on the site. I made my way to him and introduced myself. He seemed a bit taken back that I so boldly approached him, my hand extended. Nic wasted no time in telling me he never reads my site, although his friends always let him know when I've written about him, which according to Nic, is the only way he ever knows I've written about him cuz, you know, he never reads it himself.

Just then Michael Raven showed up.

"Jimmy... Get a picture of the future car wash guys."

Raven wrapped his arm around Nic. I snapped the pic. Someday it will hang in the Museum of Porn History.

I tried to watch the 'Paradise Lost' trailer up on the big-screen. There was no audio, or if there was, you couldn't hear it. Kind of hard to make any judgement calls about the movie as this was about the worst way one could view it. The art direction looked good. Solid camerawork. It does seem to actually be about sex, which as I've mentioned before, is what I think a sex movie should be about. Mr. Marcus looked cool in his 'Gladiator' meets 'Heaven Can Wait' outfit. He wasn't even wearing his trademark baseball hat. They must have had to pay him extra to keep that off his melon.

I ran into a bunch of people I knew, but there were also many there I did not know. Bud Lee still looks like a Rock and Roll Hall of Fame candidate. Tabitha Stevens as a brunette still as sexy as ever. The former Shelby Stevens, now a makeup artist, looking radiant. Alexa Rae and Barrett looking like poster kids for the new porn generation. Kevin Beach, as usual, the ultimate party monster. Sharon, Sin City's ofice manager (who once dated Sammy the Bull) and her husband Tony (a non-mob Tony), two of the warmest, nicest people ever. My good buddy Greg, the Garden Weasel, Sin City's comp editor and my former protege, trying his best to get laid. Layla Jade with those new tits almost bursting out of her outfit. Mark Snyder, Sin City's art director, complimenting me on the site to my surprise (I've poked at him a few times too). Julia Ann, a stunner as always. Henri Pachard, who is one great fucking guy, legendary director, and a prolific writer, holding court with his stories and observations. Brad Armstrong friendly as ever. Napolean, the smallest big porn star who ever did the nasty on camera, downing Coronas two at time. Robert Herrera, quiet yet cool. Mike Sullivan looking like a kid permanently lost in a candy store. Wanker Wang, trying to make sense out of it all. Slain Wayne, the video documentarian, downplaying his DJ debut. And just a whole bunch of others.

Of all the people I met for the first time, two stand out:

Robbie D is a cool motherfucker. I spoke with him for awhile. Robbie knows his shit. He's technically versed in filmmaking and he impressed me. I've never seen any of his stuff, but now I want to.

Beth Ann who???

Beth Ann Raphael, that's who! Beth Ann is a kick. She obviously marches to the beat of her own, personal drummer, and I instantly admired her for that. She was great fun to hang with and I'd like to hang with her some more. I'm guessing there's some real talent bundled up in that super-charged petite frame of her's. I'd say she can party with the best of them.

To wrap it up, the Sin City 'Paradise Lost' party was great fun. I left just before midnight because I didn't want people to see me turn into a pumpkin, but I understand the party kicked till the wee hours.

Thanks David! Thanks uber-Mike! I had a great time.

Next time, can I actually make it onto the official guest list?







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