Slap Shots

Of Hookers and Hoteliers
Since this town loves any excuse to throw a party and send balloons up in the air, socialites get bored with simply writing checks to charities. They want to put on the dog and congregate in large numbers in front of photographers, where such generosity will be dutifully recorded for posterity. But they need a reason to gather together, an event that will surround their heartfelt charity with enough free food, drink, and half-baked entertainment to make everyone happy and a wee bit tipsy. Not a gargantuan, cataclysmic event of great importance: It can be a paper-thin tissue of a theme.

Last week, it was. The event: the Celebrity Pool Toss benefit at the Phoenix Hotel, an exercise in forced wackiness that grew more inexplicable as the evening progressed.

Only San Francisco's elite would think that psychic readings, muscle-boy weight-lifting demonstrations, and the dunking of local television news anchors could be combined into a satisfying evening of fun and frolic. It's not enough that you're a stinkin' rich hotelier who willingly steers your four-wheel-drive sport utility vehicle (which will never see a gravel road) down to the Phoenix to shove another rich hotel owner into the pool in front of a crowd -- you'd actually pay $6,000 for the privilege. Whatever happened to dashing off that check, giving it to the maid for mailing, and high-tailing it off to squeeze in 18 holes before dark?

Fortunately, the first celeb to get dunked was Margo St. James. No doubt she had a lot on her mind. Surely she's the only candidate for supervisor who starts the morning by giving phone interviews to CNN and the L.A. Times? And besides her campaign, there's her upcoming Hookers' Ball benefit for COYOTE at the Maritime Hall on Oct. 26, where the melee of fire dancers, blues bands, spanking booths, costumes, hookers, strippers, live dungeons, corsets, etc., will begin with Margo riding a mule, sporting a sign that says, "Kiss my ass $5.00."

At least Margo doesn't have to think about one thing. For the past six months, guys have been calling her number, everyone from creepy loners to undercover cops, asking about prostitutes, hinting around to get fixed up with a hooker. But a month ago, it all stopped, says Margo backstage, waiting for her dunk. Perhaps her callers were wary of the upcoming election, or maybe it was the increased media attention. She pauses, then looks up, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "I did get another one today, though!"

Chix Pix Pay Bux!
The new Hollywood film Bound, which is definitely this year's best high-budget lesbian love story that also contains human finger dismemberment, features local sex girl Susie Bright in a small cameo role. (Bright also did consultation for the filmmakers, so that some semblance of butch reality would be represented.) She reports that no, she did not have to join the Screen Actors Guild, but was rather surprised at the amount of money involved in the production: "I'm just so accustomed to pornos."

The Love That Dares Not Speak Its Name
News flash from the world of prefab celebrity hamburger shrines: The San Francisco Planet Hollywood staff are told that if they ask for autographs from any of the owners who may drop in for a visit, they will be fired immediately.

Demon Seed
According to the American Cancer Society, prostate cancer is the most common cancer occurring in males today. Thankfully, a brand-spanking-new treatment is now available -- the Theraseed¨-Pd103, a "rice-sized titanium capsule" implanted in the prostate gland via "transrectal ultrasound equipment," says a friendly brochure from the Theragenics Corp.

The capsules release radioactivity for three months, which attacks the cancer "while you continue your normal daily routine." Sounds pretty peachy, until you consider the possible side effects: "bruising and swelling between the legs," a series of symptoms delicately referred to as "urinary discomfort," and something about nether-regional bleeding. But it's apparently far better than removing the whole gland, and studies indicate a nearly 70 percent success rate. Call (800) 458-4372 for more information, or even if you just want to read the brochure out loud in the middle of a swanky restaurant.

Address all correspondence to: Slap Shots, c/o SF Weekly, 425 Brannan, San Francisco, CA 94107; phone: (415) 536-8152; e-mail: slapshawts@aol.com.

By Jack Boulware

 
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