When my waspy wingman, Kerner, invited me to JewJet out to Coachella, I thought it was an isle near Capri. It wasn’t until I arrived in Palm Springs that I realized I was one PSP-induced fist pump away from the orgasm of the end of the world.

Far from JEWtacular.

Think “Myspace meets Meth” brought to you by Marlboro’s new line of menthol mesh condoms. The last time I saw this many pieces of shit walking around smoking, I was at Tenjune trying to score a B&T’s T&A. Festival-freaks appeared straight out of Woodstock – except all the women were too covered in soot for me to want to “stock” them with my “wood.” This was Van Nuys on vacation, literally living in the “Van.” Conditions were so surreptitious, you couldn’t lay on the grass for fear of hypodermics, you could only smoke it. The crowd was a cross between the Los Angeles Department of Motor Vehicles and Pacha. Menches galore. You know, the kind of chaps who blow coke during the day to get through their shift at Coffee Bean. The most normal looking diva looked like she shopped at an Elvira Trunk Show. Even the most attractive drug addict woman at the festival stunk of such carcinogens, that Tommy Lee wouldn't ash in her tray.

And then there were the tattoos. People were so excessively inked, that the only race you could determine was to the bathroom for another hit. One woman had a tattoo on her (far lower) back that actually said “best if used by 11/23/10.” I wasn’t sure if this was the date of her “Armageddon” or if she wanted me to use my “arm-to-get-in.” When I confronted her about her impending expiration, she said she was having the date lasered off in favor of a write-in system, kind of like an asshole white board.

JEWtingency plan.

Lounging at Palm Springs Riviera Resort & Spa was lovely. It was the upper echelon – still high, but not quite ready to die. 

Coachella was a drug derby fueled by a rapacious rhapsody of wannabe anarchists, too high to understand the meaning of their t-shirts. But you want to know the real reason Coachella jumped shark? JRL was there.

Click here to follow JRL on Facebook and Twitter. For more JEWced be sure to check back every week at clubplanet.com/jrl.

The comments stated in this column are Justin Ross Lee's personal opinions and do not represent the opinion of Clubplanet.com or any one of its parent companies.

I’ve never made a big deal about prostitution: she’s only a whore if your check clears… Nothing proves this philosophy better than Provocateur owners Mike Satsky and Brian Gefter. Hookers know when they’re about to get fucked, but Provocateur is bent over and doesn’t see it coming. Fueled by disorganization and piss-poor management, the proprietors have irritated more people than me at a Catholic Mass. 

What’s wrong?

Sources have reported that the venue is nine months behind in rent and the principals are two stripper poles away from Federal indictment for tax evasion and illegal liquor purchases to the “Provocative” tune of $300,000. According to information from several former employees, checks bounce harder than a Puerto Rican with hydraulics and clear as often as a Sikhs’ upgrade on El Al.

Door delinquency.

If I had a Shekel for every negative notion I’ve heard about this place, I would open my own shiksa-safe house. The detested door divas, (especially one named “Sheena”) are the hottest things since the EZ-bake oven. As expected, they come equipped with the juvenile attention span of a Hasbro® Ho. These door girls are unpleasant and equally un-empowered. Unlike the similarly hated Rope Rat Aalex Julian, they can usually only mouth go/no-go decisions when being moron-Morse code fed through an earpiece connected to Michael Dollaway, the Director of Operations.

How to get in.

Confuse Alexis. Try a card trick. Pull out a “King of Clubs” and tell her it’s the new VIP pass. Or try Sheena. Ask her a question she won’t possibly know the answer to. Like what other employees does owner Mike Satsky sleep with? As a last resort, do what I do when I want a retarded hot chick to answer the doorbell: ring her phone.

Things have gotten bleak and the remaining staff is starting to notice – Provocateur has a higher turn-over rate than a Paramus pig on Percocet. It won’t be long till they too will be on their backs. Bad notes are their currency. I’d sooner accept an Enron Enema than a drink ticket from Brian Gefter. At least an enema comes with great service. Come on in to Provocateur have a Valtrex and Vodka with a splash of ‘tude. Say "Uncle Sam’s list" at the door.

Click here to follow JRL on Facebook and Twitter. For more JEWced be sure to check back every week at clubplanet.com/jrl.

The comments stated in this column are Justin Ross Lee's personal opinions and do not represent the opinion of Clubplanet.com or any one of its parent companies.

Last Shabbat, 49 Grove turned into what has been referred to as “JRL’s Music Video.” Some of the most prominent nightlife blogs in New York covered “A F*** Me I’m JRL Birthday” and its aftermath. However, not all of the outlets were on the same side of the “wall” I got “wailing.” Some described the Jew-tacular event with the mentality that I am a victim of my own hubris. HardLEE.

Guest of a Guest tried valiantly to scrutinize sarcastically:
“The hottest party this weekend was the birthday of Justin Ross Lee, the uber-Christian nightlife fixture beloved by everyone he meets. The party was so full of the city's A-listers that most of the PMc [Patrick McMullan] pictures were labeled with "?". You know. To protect their anonymity.”

It’s hard to put a “Guest of a Guest” on any list when their vision is so slanted, it’s deserving of my last name’s ethnicity and Dim Sum then some.

GoaG then continued with the following:
“Lee himself spent most of the evening hiding from the camera, as he is wont to do, but we were fortunate enough to find some snaps of the attention-shy gentleman. Have a happy birthday JRL, and here's to another year of quietly staying under the radar, performing good deeds, and NOT uploading your dinner receipts onto Facebook.”

JRL’s take: He JewJets too much to stay under any ATC radar. He does a deed a day to keep the doctor away (in the form of a sanctimonious shiska shtupp). With respect to the dinner receipt: on April 15th, the IRS announced a new Facebook app called “Federal Poke.” So even if you look fabJEWlous in orange, it’s wise to “mobile upload” before you’re bent over and told.

ChiChi212 wrote:
“The bar was open, the cameras were flashing and there were tons of 5'11? shiksas everywhere.”

JRL’s take: Shiksas are only 5’11” when they’re standing up…

Joonbug wrote:
“JRL kindly closed the event off to his favorite 150 people and even allowed five of his ‘shiksa supporters’ to come out and party. 49 Grove was quite crowded in the main area with the group of good looking people drinking away. But the best part of the night was walking through the curtains into the secret room for JRL. The Star of David decor along with blue balloons and Mazel Tov banner made up the ‘Mazel Tov Room’ inspired by JRL himself. Waitresses brought out bottle after bottle (about 20 may I add) and as the night went on, you know the JewJetter's party only got better, complete with Kosher cupcakes.”
 
JRL’s take: Joke’s on Jew – the cupcakes in fact weren’t Kosher! Not surprisingly, frosted evidence was not swallowed by any Yenta without a side of Great Neck guilt. 

Chai-lights of the night:
-A multiJEWed of Shiksas serenaded JRL’s shtick.
-At least one "Guest of a Guest" received great keppe in the bathroom stall.
-Ashley Olsen, Star Jones, and “Rope Rat” Aalex Julian failed to show.

Click here to follow JRL on Facebook and Twitter. For more JEWced be sure to check back every Monday at clubplanet.com/jrl.

The comments stated in this column are Justin Ross Lee's personal opinions and do not represent the opinion of Clubplanet.com or any one of its parent companies.

A hand selected 150 people have received their invitation to “A F*** ME I’M JRL BIRTHDAY,” a most self-serving, and far from celibate birthday celebration. The venue, 49 Grove, is closed to the public for this event. Although the guest list has already been finalized, I have reserved tickets for my top 5 Shiksa supporters. Here’s how to enter and be one step closer to being JEWced: Email a photo, along with your answer to the question “What makes you a prize JRL Shiksa?” The top 5 responses will be announced Thursday at 8PM.

See you on the red carpet with my drink and my Jew step (& repeat).

Click here to follow JRL on Facebook and Twitter. For more JEWced be sure to check back every Monday at clubplanet.com/jrl.

The comments stated in this column are Justin Ross Lee's personal opinions and do not represent the opinion of Clubplanet.com or any one of its parent companies.

10. A Michele Watch
Nothing says pseudo-prestige like a B&T pave cliché. Ladies: make cheap appear even less dignified with this entry-level watch, which signals I don’t have to “go down” on your level for “entry.” Michelle has no idea what time it is. “Watch” for her on my nightstand.

9. Hoop Earrings
Like forestry, any Jack with lumber can count your rings and estimate the age of your cervix. You’ve got the cashier look, but now it’s time to make change. Nothing says sophistication like a 14-karat cock-ring dangling from your lobe. Guys: give an earring the “finger test.” It’d be another “Miracle on the Hudson” if she doesn’t smell like the River. I’m sure the hula-hoop hoochie is used to rough landings, but even Sully would “eject” to you using your “Top Gun.”
 

8. Cigarettes
In case you haven’t heard, smoking makes a woman’s merchandise as redeemable as a Marlboro Mile at the Mayo Clinic. An indoor oral-affliction addiction is just one more thing you and this city can’t control. Bloomberg should handle you the same way he’s handled parking: by placing an irremovable orange sticker across your face and affixing it to each of your hoop earrings.

7. A Tattoo
According to the USPS, an affixed tramp-stamp prohibits the use of any gent’s “package” labeled “priority.” No respectable guy digs inked indignities. If you have one of these, you’re most likely used to getting the “bulk rate.” Your artwork has no purpose other than to remind a man to practice safe sex. Regardless of the weight of your third-class “box,” the Postmaster General would “return to sender.”

6. Coarse Hair
If I have to go to bed next to happenstance-hair, which feels like a broom, I’ll know exactly where to make my mess. Also, choose a color and stick with it! If your roots are deeper than the Jefferson’s, then I get to tell my mom that I’ve slept with a black chick.

5. Harem Pants
There is nothing attractive about a woman who dresses like Babu Bhatt. Take this “Sein.” Tight is better. This applies everywhere. If the bottom half of your outfit looks like MC Hammer’s, then you “can’t touch this” Hebrew Hammer.

4. Excess Makeup
There is no need to turn a white Ralph Lauren pillowcase into a carbon-copy of your face. I now realize it was a “Maybelline Sunday morning,” not Polo, that turned Ralph gay.

3. Coach Bag
The Snook-look won’t make my book. Just because you’re always “put in the rear” doesn’t mean you have to advertise that you travel “Coach.” Coach flies standby. Congrats, you’ve been labeled “grounded.”

2. Condoms
Unless you’re prepaid you shouldn't come prepared. Not only should you not have one on you, but if I’m not being charged, you shouldn’t know how to put one on with your mouth. The thought of you packing a prophylactic is about as comforting as me carrying a box of Tampax. There is just no bloody reason.

1. Red Bull
No one is more deserving of a tongue exorcism than “Halitosis Holly” – high on a 4-pack and standing downwind at the bar. The only reason I’d want Red Bull to give me wings is so I could escape by air from the dragon living in Holly’s mouth. You couldn’t pay me to consume such a filthy little can. Oh, and I wouldn’t drink a Red Bull either.

Click here to follow JRL on Facebook and Twitter. For more JEWced be sure to check back every Monday at clubplanet.com/jrl.

The comments stated in this column are Justin Ross Lee's personal opinions and do not represent the opinion of Clubplanet.com or any one of its parent companies.