On the Sunday Night Closing Gala (Burlesque Hall of Fame Weekend)

by J.D. Oxblood

How’s this for a day in Vegas? Lunch at the patio steakhouse at the Paris, with blazing sun and views of the fountain show across the strip at the Bellagio, a kick-ass pool party, sitting in on a panel of legends, and then a show that ends with El Vez. Not bad, right?

Bastard Keith had a great line at the pool—“It’s got a bit of a ‘Boogie Nights’ aspect to it”—and M. Rosebud taught me a new word, “Trashtastic” while telling us the story of how she found that great bikini. The legend panel was something I can barely get into—the most fascinating aspect of the entire weekend, and I shy away only because I know this is a BOOK in the making.

Shit, I can’t get anyone to read more than 1,000 words in blog-o-land, and since books are rapidly going the way of the 8-track… you see my dilemma. But the stories these women have, man.… Toni Elling talking about Duke Ellington, Viva la Fever’s story about how she and Eartha Quake got ripped off at a gig, found the bastard and jacked him up against a wall, took his wallet and paid everyone.…

it just gets better and better. Dr. Lukki was recording the panel and I hope she makes that piece of living oral history available to everyone.

As for the show? More of the same, I’m afraid—slammin’ mothafuckin’ entertainment. Let me hit the highlights:

New York’s Bambi the Mermaid in a purple sea creature costume, great contrast for a cutie with tri-Delt good, wholesome looks. Half Mardi Gras and half Bedouin tent entertainment.

Desire d’Amour, the Creole Queen of Tuscon, rocking “Devil with a Blue Dress” in, of course, a blue dress, revealing a black corset, devil tail and horns. Executed a mad back bend to lose her bra—WITH back bend tassel twirl—and gets brownie points for TEASING the photographers grouped at the foot of the stage.

Kellita, cute as Parker Posey, dancing to “Besame Mucho” and flipping her leopard-print dress inside out to use as a matador cape. Fast spins, her hair a whip, shows us her ass—speckled in body glitter—and this is the ass that goes pa-pow. She must be taking lessons from Michelle L’amour—shakes it so fast I almost had an epileptic seizure. Dee-licious. Didn’t help my sense of decorum to have her sit right next to me after her act, smelling of sweat and glitter … behave, J.D., behave. Visit San Francisco more often.

Tigger! relinquishing his Boylesque crown. A fab genderbender act starting in drag to Cheap Trick and stripping down to a singlet. He gives us the finger and sucks it, strips to a jock strap, rubs his singlet into himself and sniffs it. Then that jumping thing that he’s so famous for—this kid is so badass—and jumping into the crowd wearing nothing but a tiger-striped marble bag. Tigger, I’m so gay for you.

Jo Boobs and that fantabulicious Godzilla routine—entering in a tight dress and a Godzilla headpiece, losing all her clothes put keeping the mask—it gives me a boner that I’m rather ashamed of. Do I really want to bang Godzilla? I’ll tell ya—sexuality is the neverending mystery. Yes, come over and keep the mask on, Jo. But she takes it off, of course, and that lovely face and rue-thless hair and that SINtillating stare and those scinTIllaTing …well, y’all know Jo. Love her, mean it.

Perle Noir farewell-ing her best debut crown with special guest the Edible Akynos—slammin’ bump and grind to “Single Ladies.” Mm muthafuckin’ hmm. Los dos, por favor. Black corsets and glitter gloves. Left alone, Perle does some wicked floor work, puttin’ that ass in the air, and—what is it?—the way she holds her breasts before she takes her bra off… it’s like she knows she has value and is just watching her stock go up.

Julie Atlas Muz in a blue trench coat, hat, shades, brunette wig, shimmys out of the coat revealing a gold top and black panties.

She stuffs one glove in face and uses it as gag, rubs the other one up against her hoo-hoo and sniffs it—what’s with us New Yorkers wanting to sniff ourselves?—and gets in the chair, kicking both shoes off in the splits, and pulling a stocking off her legs and over her head. It’s a stick-up, kids, and at the climax she pulls a gun out of her G-string. I give. Take everything I got. A word: I had a chat with M. Muz after the show, and she’s every bit as charming and friendly as she was 10 years ago before she blew up. She’s a goddamn inspiration to all of these performers—actually making a living at this, less like a stripper and more like the legends did in the 60s—

and to any artist struggling to crack the nut. That means me.

Kitten DeVille, a tall, snarling Marilyn, knocked me out with her slit black dress showing a bra strap. It’s her hand gestures that sets her apart—kinked and unusual, reminiscent of Gwen Stefani. Hot and double hot.

And again, I could write a book about the pinche fantasico El Vez, who manages to combine live rock, both originals and classics—from Elvis to the Beatles to Bowie—and bastardized combinations, with Vegas glamour—damn, that red leather jumpsuit—with burlesque—he does take it off—and hilarious patter: “Better late than Sharon Tate,” “I’m mounting the tension.”

He played for over an hour and left us all exhausted.

Or so I thought. The kids showed no sign of slowing down… the after party at the Orleans piano bar was in full swing, the dance floor crowded and the stage packed with performers who hadn’t had enough of taking off their clothes. Julie Atlas Muz noted that most of the girls on stage were New Yorkers—figures—and the next time I looked she was up there with them. I had to sit down. I knocked a couple of cocktails back and took it all in. it’s a fantastic community—and this was the first time I’d truly seen it that way. As New Yorkers, we’re accustomed to perceiving such phenom as a “scene.”

But what an incredible family, and as I watched them cavort my cynical heart warmed a little. I wanted to take all of them back to my hotel and put them in the hot tub and serve cocktails. But I had a flight to catch.

As I walked out of the casino, I could still hear the music coming from the after party. It was Cyndi Lauper, “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.”

Kiss kiss,

JDX