
Excerpt taken from Las Vegas Weekly's Off the Record Blog:
by Jennifer Grafiada

I rode up the escalators that led into the dark maelstrom of Prive Nightclub staring at the back of a tall, tanned girl in a tight coral dress.
“He looks like Where’s Waldo!” The doorman, in a sleek suit and earpiece, commented in amusement to the girl. “He’s performing right now.”
“So rich, so pretty, the best piece of ass in the whole damn city … “ I can hear Mickey Avalon singing as soon as we step off the escalators. He could be singing about the girl in the coral dress, or, as I look around, at all the blonde skinny girls in slinky slips of black and silver and purple. Virtually everyone in Prive could fit his description.
Avalon is from Hollywood and the song is an ode to the Hollywood girl: spoiled senseless, rocking designer labels, driving a beamer, coked-up, snobby, bulimic and sexy as f%@k. Turns out the Prive crowd would do well in Hollywood.
Standing on a tiny stage, or maybe it’s just the back of a VIP table, Avalon’s thin torso is covered by a red-and-white striped T-shirt. His jeans hang low, exposing his white hips and the top of his groin. Oh yes, he’s got heroin chic sex appeal in spades, and the females are on the scent.
The girls are standing on the couches, bouncing to the beat and leaning into him. The guys are filming on their camera phones or just concentrating on getting smashed. Some are already swaying precariously, and I don’t think they will even remember that Avalon performed, unless their buddy catches it on film.
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