IN CAPTIVITY

My life (two young kids, a wife) doesn't allow me many opportunities to check out how the other half lives. But once in a while, I make the trek into the city to see what it is I'm missing. At the behest of my old pal Ross Johnson, journalist-turned-"public relations professional" for a firm called Sitrick and Company, I attented a party Tuesday night celebrating a film called Captivity. The film's hyped as a shockingly depraved film filled with torture and degradation. Yum.

The film's billboards have teased us for months, and the party, held at West Hollywood's Privilege, was a perfectly entertaining exercise in orchestrated decadence. (the film opens Friday -- the 13th. Hahahahahahaaha). Lots of leather, studs, free booze, and naked, tatooed chicks wearing little in the way of clothing. I'm not one to judge, since I don't get out much, but I'm guessing this was a pretty wild event.

I attended with my friend Jason, wishfully thinking that he might hook up with a Suicide Girl or two. Instead, I got the rundown on mid-30s single life and watched, bemused from the bar, as the audience squeezed their inebriated little bodies through the trendy club, checking out the latest in goth exhibitionism. And since this was a Hollywood media event, first and foremost, there were lots of cameras floating about. Good job, Ross.

It was quite a scene: Near naked girls writhed in a life-sized diorama filled with meat hook props. Jason got his photo taken with a Suicide Girl. A past-her-prime dominatrix had her way with a near-naked obese dude. I shook hands with a girl in panties and pasties who was "bathing" herself in a bubbly tub.

Ross, of course, was running frantically like a chicken missing its head -- headset in ear, Corona in hand. He had goaded me into coming with his gentle email invites --"Grow a pair, then call me," "Still think you oughta leave the Valley for this one, bitch"-- which shows that he has mastered the art of subtle public relations. How could I say no?

I came, I saw, I drank. I even saw some familiar faces. I chatted with my old pal, Missy, the den mother of the Suicide Girls, who showed me a photo of her beautiful new son in her phone. I saw Dave Navarro with a camera crew (does he attend envelope openings?), the fat guy from Borat, even porn star and former gubernatorial candidate Mary Carey, who, franky, in person, is not much to look at. Also had a nice conversation with Captivity actress Sonni Stommel, who, with a drink in her hand and beaming smile, proudly revealed she was the first girl tortured in the film. It's her first movie.

After several refreshing glasses of Jamesons on the rocks I longed for the tranquilty of my Valley Village headquarters, away from the whips, the chains and the rubber-necking trendsters. Besides, my wife has enough tattoos to keep me happy.