Some of y'all might notice that we've just had the Miss America pageant here in Funky Town. Who knew that crap still went on in this day and age? People still watch Miss America? Didn't that die out in the 70s with disco balls and sausages on cocktail sticks?

Anyway, I swear I'm still seeing black spots from being temporarily blinded by the eye melting glare from the sheen on Mario Lopez's hair as he drove down the Strip looking like a cross between a Hispanic gang member and a boy who spends his downtime salivating over other oiled up pretty boys doing abs exercises. I have a friend Jaime, who also prefers the sweaty touch of a gent over a sweet lady's caress and Jaime reliably informs me that Mario might not know he's a friend of Judy, but it's just a matter of time, that they all come round in the end. Jaime knows about these things. Gay dudes just have that sense where they can sniff a guy with an unsual spring in his step from a whole state away. Jaime practically had one of those never-ending boners they warn you about in Viagra commercials, for the last week because that tall flaming fellow from "What Not To Wear" was going to be there.

Well hey there you sweet little blog buddies. I'm pretty much peeing my big boy pants at the excitement that anyone's actually following me. I mean seven of you. And you're not even convicts or anything I don't think. Even though that following business sounds way creepy, like y'all might chloroform me while I'm walking home some dark night in my best satin stage shirt and tight pants, because you can no longer resist my impressive mustache.

Talking of which, last night Pedro and I played the weirdest show of my career so far and believe me when I tell you, I've played some doozies. This gig was at a hospital, actually taking place in a physical therapy unit and the show was to commemorate a new hospital wing. It was kind of creepy actually seeing my giant blue organ standing proudly erect among all that medical equipment and stuff.

The place was all done up in blue and silver and featured lots of people in collar braces, slings and plaster casts. It was heaving with gimpy action. Lots of staggering and swaying and people falling over with alarmed looks on their faces. It would've been rude to laugh though so I just pretended I was having a coughing jag. I'm pretty polite like that.

They wouldn't let those people have booze either which sucks, because if there's ever a group of people who deserve to get righteously plastered, it's them. As it was, the only plastering going on was on broken legs.

I met a hot sassy lady at this shindig. Jean was her name. Probably still is. Jean was a looker, at least I think so. It was hard to tell because she was in an iron lung. I ain't fussy though. She had a pretty face. Unless she's harboring the body of Godzilla under that thing, I'd say she's a cutie. I got her number. Once she can breathe again I might offer to shake her maracas for her. I think she was a little surprised and confused when I asked for her number, because the first time I asked she said, "My aunt ran over me with her Buick."

Of course she could be a little brain damaged. That's ok though, it's not like I've never dated a crazy before. Even loonies need love, you dig?

I'm a little bit puzzled about those new pregnancy test commercials on TV where some lady says the test can now inform you the exact moment conception takes place. I mean surely that could put a guy off his stride? I mean what does it do? Does it yell "Bingo!" when the dude blasts off a load? You're lying there with a saucy senorita, smoking a post coupling cigarette when some alarm bell starts clanging inside the lady's vagenie like a mutant church bell?

Also, it can apparently take several days for your little swimmers to actually penetrate that egg. The lady could be standing there taking notes on corporate finance from her boss, three days after you gave her sweet, sweet lovin', while wearing a tight pencil skirt, horn rimmed spectacles and a tight, tight blouse (sorry, I got sidetracked for a minute there) when suddenly this voice from deep inside her love canal yells, "ALERT! YOUR UTERUS HAS A SQUATTER!" It could be embarrassing, that's all I'm saying.

Happy MLK day America. MLK was the bodacious gentleman who had a dream that all the races of the world could live together in perfect harmony. Or was that Paul McCartney and Michael Jackson, I get confused? Anyway, we're all pink underneath guys, let's get along for Mr. King.

So what have I been up to this past week? Well earthquakes have featured heavily in my life for two reasons. One, my old buddy Henri was in Haiti visiting family when the quake struck. He's okay and his family are fine apart from his uncle Jesus who lost a finger and his pants (he was on the toilet when the shit went down taking his walls with it). According to Henri, Jesus is convinced the quake was caused by some dude called Papa Loumau whom he stole a dog from in 1976 and who likes to mess with voodoo.

I don't ask questions, I just walk away.

The second reason quakes are a part of my life this week is Pedro and I took part in a Haiti benefit show with a host of other local sparkly acts. The benefit made a shitload of cash and pulled in half-wasted tourists and gamblers from all over the place who were happy to pay $20 for a daiquiri if it helped some homeless Haitian get a meal for his family. So thanks to those guys for their generosity. And to the dude in the pink crop top and high waist flares who admired my organ, I meant it man, "Shannon" is a lovely name for a dude and I'm sure you're totally straight and only accidentally grazed my butt cheeks with the palm of your hand..

And thanks also to Jennifer, the lovely lady from Salt Lake City who gave some charity to old Tony in the form of letting The Captain get acquainted with her Pink Princess in the cloakroom behind the dancefloor. She was a pretty loud lady, old Jennifer. She sounded like Martha Stewart impersonating a ghost.

I have a bit of a lust thing for Martha Stewart I don't care who knows it. I'd like to make that woman scream my name in the worst possible way and make her forget all about matching bedroom sets. Sure she's old and crotchety but man the thought of her bouncing around on my lap makes me grow a third leg.

Peace out guys.

It's a funny thing, fashion. I was reading the other day about mustaches and how nowadays they're pretty much the domain of donut munching bad cops, porno guys who like other guys' butts and dudes who frisk little kids' pants. At least until a dude gets to retirement age, then they're acceptable no matter what, because fuck, you've earned it buddy.

It's perplexing to me. I've had a mustache for years and I've always kinda had a notion they were passe and all that, but they suit me and they seem to fit with my retro cheese loungey lifestyle, you dig? I mean they never hurt Tom Selleck's luck with the ladies, right? They never hurt mine either. In fact, I have it on authority that it tickles in all the right places! The few times I've shaved mine off I felt naked and exposed, like Paris Hilton's glory hole only less dirty.

It seems like only yesterday it was that brand new Millennium thing and I was running down The Strip in only my scants singing a salty song about a whore and a donkey. The less said about that palaver the better. Hard to believe it was ten whole years ago however. Time sure flies when you're fabulous. And old.

Last night the Mexican and I had a show at a little private soiree in downtown Las Vegas. There was some big TV event going down starring that dude Fergie and his Black Eyed Peas, so all these idiots had hogged all the parking in town. They sure are keen to see a tranny hosting huh? I like that about Vegas. Everyone fits in.

So anyway this meant we had to pay Leslie Van Snoot's bouncer "Bones" to pick us up with our stuff and drop us off at the venue. Bones always needs the cash, plus he gets to stay for the party and scope out some hotties. Admittedly, he needs a pretty game (i.e., hammered) hottie as Bones is about the size of a hippopotamus and only a quarter as sprightly so she'd have to be up for searching for his dink under all that blubber and preferably have jelly bones. Anyway look at me getting all sidetracked with that visual.

The venue was heaving. I never saw a place that size cram in so many people before but I guess Vegas is a town stuffed to the point of puking, with overstuffed tourists and lithe young nymphets all needing to party their collective ass off without their tops, therefore everywhere seemed to be jumping.

Our opening acts were a little on the side of "WTF?". First was a guy with a peg leg juggling kitchen knives (one wants to know how the fuck he lost that leg in the first place and should we be concerned?) and the second act was a pretty smokin' little midget girl named "Monica" who had an unfeasibly gigantic rack for such a tiny person. In fact, I can't vouch that she even had legs. It was almost impossible to drag your eyes away from it as it lead her around the stage like a parent leading a child. I think Monica's specialty was some sort of belly dancing but I can't be sure since I was mesmerized by those jiggling majoombas. You can't blame me. Ask anyone in that room last night what that little midget lady did and I guarantee they'd go "She was a midget? I really don't remember, all I remember is she looked like she was smuggling Telly Savalas and Yul Brynner in her bra."

By the time we hit the stage at 11:30pm, everyone, including Pedro and myself and our session drummer Barney Miller (that's his real name) were wasted to the extent that Pedro played the entire show in his Superman underpants and I was too wasted to care. People danced, people went crazy, people yelled out requests which we honored for the most part, apart from that one chick (who looked uncannily like Mandy Patinkin) that Barney kept calling "fella" and who kept screaming out for "Long Haired Lover From Liverpool".

What the hay, lady? "I don't do Jimmy Osmond, fool!" I yelled back, although remember I was wasted so I followed it with, "But if he was here wearing a dress and willing I'd consider it!"

At midnight we stopped briefly to refill our glasses and suck the faces off of some trashed ladies from Wisconsin then the party continued.

I'd tell you all more but I can't remember a goddamn thing after that. I just know that I woke up in my own bed this morning wearing nothing but my shiny stage shirt, one sock and a condom (empty I believe) so make of that what you will. No one was there apart from me.

My cat sure looked nervous though.

Anyway, here's wishing all you great shiny peeps a fantastic 2010 and come see me sometime, ok? Kisses.