Then the camera is going, and the first thing Jen does is spin around so she’s facing the back of the van, and I note the pair of bluish zips running up her back like she’s a Barnett Newman. She spins to face us again, still holding the bottle, and starts what seems to be part of her stage routine: she’s doing the spastic funky chicken, snapping her hips on each step as if she’s loading her clit like it was an artillery piece, and she’s shouting, “I love my schnauzer!” over and over like it’s the chorus of a bad punk song. This line is not part of her act, of course. She never vocalizes during her act beyond the usual orgasmic moans that come with the territory, and if she did say something, she wouldn’t be going on about a fucking schnauzer. Well, maybe if she was in Germany. Jen was actually invited to the Fumpfengrober Festival in Stuttgart—it’s a global celebration of erotic performance art—but she was on bail at that point and had to forfeit her passport.

“Fucking uncanny or what!?” Dot says to me. “ ‘Schnauzer’ is what George called my honeypot! He always wanted to ‘walk my schnauzer.’ He’d shit a love brick if he was here right now, just melt in a puddle of uber-schpurt. Is she reading my mind?”

“She’s reading the sticker on the back of the van,” I go, pointing to it. “Right next to ‘I’m going nucking futs.’ ”