Jack Colt, naked in front of Fortuna

As part of FTVS’s annual fundraiser, I embarked last week on a journey to Western Australia to meet FTVS main benefactor Alan Bond. After a rather heated meeting on Friday over dinner at the notoriously decadent C Restaurant located on the 33rd floor of the AAPT building in Perth (Western Australia, Australia), I decided to forget this ingrate of a snob and drench my anger in over-priced and under-filled vodka-Redbulls at The Villa. FTVS staff members are, after all, comfortably insulated from the economics crisis.

The Villa, formerly Xanadu, and formerly closed after some discourteous Vietnamese gang-related violence, sits at the bottom of Stirling Street in the eastern part of Perth city. Despite a sound system that is at best horrendous, the club’s proximity to Highpark’s tightly knitted network of whorehouses and whores makes it a fine establishment to visit.

The marginally uninteresting Angelino duet LA Riots were “spinning” at the Villa that night, and Lee Coombs was scheduled to play the next night as part of his Light & Dark Australian tour. The plan was to catch up with Mr. Coombs to perform on his person a groundbreaking follow-up interview. FTVS was indeed very curious to know how much his life had changed after the interview that shook the world and provided many orgasms, mostly to women and gay hairy men also known as bears (cf. Exclusive Interview of the Year 4th Edition).

It appears Fortuna had other plans for FTVS, and I learned two important lessons during this tumultuous weekend. One (1): it is unwise for a sub-average DJ crew from Los Angeles to play the same night as Britney Spears in the planet’s most isolated city. Two (2): the fate of the world sometimes ends up in the fat hands of a mongoloid doorman at a wannabe trendy club in Perth, Western Australia.

Yes, dear reader, Jack Colt was refused entry into this venue. After the first confrontation with the doorman who, based on the light in his eyes, was a certified rapist, I immediately alerted Mr. Coombs’ manager Miss Cooper in San Francisco of this inadmissible administrative cafouillage. God bless cellular technologies. Understanding the gravity of the situation, and the potential backlash this mediatic fiasco could have on the career of her client, the sexy woman tried ringing the DJ numerous times to get him to assist me. But without success.

Ed Hardy: Los Angeles, Perth, New York

After sometime negotiating, I began to lose patience in front of this doorman imbecile too ignorant to be aware of the primary importance of my presence. Fatigued and modestly inebriated, I succumbed to the way of the proletariat and began hurling robust insults at him. The monster, who shared under the yellow street light a striking resemblance with the Punisher (as drawn by Ross Andru), responded with menacing gestures that, to his credit, conveyed quite clearly the prospect of bodily injuries to be inflicted on me if I did not vacate the premises. Fortuna, you cunt.

Slightly unnerved but mostly amused by the absurdity of the whole situation, I wandered two blocks down the street and found refuge at the Court. Aptly named, this monarchic venue is a long lasting Gay and Lesbian institution that usually plays superior music, and never refuses entry to attractive young males such as myself. The night ended much later, and while the details escape me, I recall an overweight diabetic cat at some strangers’ house. Anus, I should note, was largely in tact also.

In this world in disarray, where the geometry is fading, and the theology is being strangled, you were denied, dear reader, the quality groundbreaking music coverage that you have learned to except from FTVS; and while I understand your anger and misery, I will not apologize.

We are, after all, in the cum-caked hands of Fortuna.