Shortly after makeup, we assembled in my apartment for the soiling. This was an elaborate process meant to mimic a thousand piss-drunk nights spent crawling through the gutters of a major metropolis. We started with duds culled from work trunks and thrift stores, and brought them to the soiling station, which in its armaments contained used motor oil, wheat germ, white and black spray paint primer, canola oil, mustard, cranberry juice, a propane torch, and Super 77 spray adhesive.

We started with the torch, burning a few miscellaneous holes here and there. I charred the brim of my hat a nice burnt brown, and melted the outside nylon of my jacket into a spidery coating that bonded to the insulation.Then we put the burnt clothes on and commenced some serious stainage.

All the stainers worked pretty well. The used motor oil left pitch black, nasty stains that worked well for the ass. The spray primers helped to tinge things light and dark. Liberal coatings of spray adhesive on the knees and crotch, followed by rolling around on the boiler room floor imbued us with a certain inalienable filth. But in the end, it was the mustard that prevailed. Not only did it leave bold yellowing stains, but it also imparted an odor to the affair that was not disgusting, but strongly off-putting in a very devious way. In the end, the mustard was our favorite.

After this process, makeup and foul soil, indeed we looked like true and marginal degenerates, people to be avoided.

Next… The Adventure

The following is a written account of one of the weirdest nights of my life.

The idea was to spend a night undercover in one of the sketchiest parts of San Francisco, the Tenderloin. The cast of characters included my best friends here in SF, who, for reasons of potential political careers (not to mention basically any future careers at all) shall remain anonymous. But if you know them, you may recognize them here, dressed up as Jack Cornfield, and Jo Jo, accordingly:

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And then myself, Jimbo Jones:

Next… The Soiling

But the fact of the matter is, in my time with my buddies I have done some seriously disturbing things. Be it riding illegal, high speed couches down International Blvd in Oakland at 4:AM and drunkenly hoisting our gin bottles at the confused looking pimps and hoes, or trying to kidnap a hapless chicken in broad daylight while dressed like 7 different Anna Nicole Smiths, or washing the blood off of the "safety equipment" with scotch so that Smash Truck could continue usual operation "safely", it has been an epic ride with many good friends.

But when my buddy suggested the man-shower I became a bit concerned. If such ludicrous revelry has actually become the norm, what on earth am I to do to stave off those wanton desires for cross dressing, cocaine fueled poker nights for the next 7000 days?

I realized that a party is not what I needed. I needed something more. Something that I could never justify again, outside of this pretext. Something that my lovely wife will never want anything to do with. And then, I knew what that thing was.

Many months ago she and I were wandering home through the Tenderloin quite late at night. It is a place that is vividly alive with the riffraff of petty (and not-so-petty) street crime. For more than a century and a half, it has been filled with derelicts, prostitutes, wackos, and more, living it up true SF  style. And at 3:AM on a weekend, it is still a full scale circus. It was then that I got the idea to to dress up like one of these locals and attempt acceptance in some small way. Excitedly I told Juniper about this idea and her response was succinct.

"If you do that", she said "I'm not letting you back into the house until you've had three showers. Better yet, I don't even want to be in town."

And that was that.

Until the man-shower was proposed.

As it turns out, Juniper is flying back to Denver this weekend to attend her baby shower.

And it's going to be a hell of a night in the Tenderloin.

A few people have expressed interest in joining us. Others have said that they would at least like to meet up with us at a bar sometime during.

The current list of musts reads as such:

Dress up like homeless people in costumes that are good enough to stand up to the scrutiny of cops and hobos alike.

Panhandle enough money in Union Square to buy either A) An hour at a pay by the hour hotel, or B) a jug of McCormick's Vodka and take them three blocks to the 'loin (either of which are likely to be donated to someone who would really know how to use it)

Try and get a room at the Hilton.

Get kicked out of the Westfield.

Meet up at a bar to drink with our more civilized friends.

Try and sell miscellaneous items out of a cart.

Make a reservation at a 5 star restaurant before hand and try and get them to honor it. Order only malt liquor if they do.

Try and get massages at any one of the all night parlors.

Preach Revelations (because it is the end of the world after all)

Document the entire night using secret HD cams.

Try our very best not to get stabbed.

Stay tuned to ethersmith on Facebook and Twitter for the live account, or check back to this blog for the video, assuming we do not meet our end.

I myself had a smashing one, if not just a bit quenched at the end by pouring rainwater.

The event was Cannibal Carnival, redux. The location, our dear happy Etherhaus.

The gist of this cannibal thing is to eat flesh off of flesh in wild celebration of (whatever you are celebrating). So… we prep’d the house by closing off the kitchen and dining room so we could prepare the table in secret. We moved the bar into the living room so that guests could be directed straight past, with only a hinting scent of what lay in store for them. Once seated in the living room we filled them full of absinthe (straight from Italy… Thanks Troy!) and suitable snacks.

Our darling Minerva cooked up the magic in the kitchen, and prepared our “platter”.

Then when it was time to eat (9-10?) we opened the doors. The guests where awed as they silently filtered in to the dining room to find a beautiful naked woman (Thank you Phoenix!) covered in ribs and mashed potatoes, root vegetables and gravy, surrounded by candles, posed perfectly on the dining room table, and ready for consumption. It was the last image of 2010 we did take with us.

The norm here, of course, is not to eat the platter, but rather to serve her. And so we did. Bites of perfect meat, finger-fulls of potatoes, snacks of perfectly roasted veggies were offered up to our delightful serving tray.

From here we were all ingratiated to the slow passing of opulent time, as the minutes ticked into the New Year. Our model had a warm shower and emerged glowing and content. Martinis flowed along side wonderful conversation. The atomic clock steadily advanced toward midnight. And then that fateful hour emerged. The countdown. The revelry. The kissing. It was joy in 2011.

And yet, with that luscious memory in our mind of the end of 2010, we were not to go far into ‘11 hedonistically challenged. No sooner had we settled into our heady post-NYE multifaceted highs, than it was announced that dessert was served. Once again we stumbled quietly into the dining room, this time to find yet another beautiful woman (Thank you Lux!) elegantly stretched out, now covered in chocolate fondue, strawberries, and pineapple. It was the first image we took into 2011, and we will be hard pressed to find one better. Yet I think we will all do our best. We have, after all, an entire year.

Happy New Year everyone.