Thursday, March 31, 2011


Sometime in January I thought to myself, Self, we need to have a party.

My birthday parties are usually of the sorority sister reunion whiskey-elimination festival variety, populated by me and a few of my hootchie friends.

This year, Self and I decided to make it meaningful. All this nonsense about boobs and breast cancer and blah de be blah blah blah gives us a swell idea: Let's hold a fundraiser for the Susan G. Komen foundation!

It started innocently enough; I formed the fundraising consultantcy business and registered with the state, forged an alliance with SGK's Passionately Pink for the Cure campaign, nationally and locally. I wrote a stunning corporate sponsorship beg letter that I'm telling you should be the motherfucking goddamn template for such things.

Then I queried a super fabulous event planning/bartending outfit that's co-owned by a local burlesque star. The name Boob-a-Palooza popped out of my head without warning and an epic party was born, twirling its tassels right out of the womb.

Soon drag performers were lured in, and roller derby girls came up with the kissing booth idea on their own. A really cool location was found and negotiations held, performers booked, and off we went.

I could regale you with the awesomeness of the night, sure, but why not just take a gander at the photographic evidence?

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