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The Lovely Ladies of Capital City Burlesque, hailing from Edmonton in Alberta, Canada, milling about in the lobby of the Orleans Casino, Miss Exotic World Weekend 2009. Oh what a fantabulous weekend it was. Seen here from left to right: Ruby Gallows, Lucky L’Amour and Miss Motor Joan.
If you haven’t read it yet, check out JD’s piece that inspired the posting of this photo – Vegas looked like this at some other fabulous point in time, right? It wasn’t always tourists in shorts and t-shirts…
Photo ©2009 by Melody Mudd
The cast of The Three Sisters by Anton Chekhov barely fits in the Red Room on West 4th St. There are fourteen actors (14), who represent over a third of the living creatures in the tiny space on top of KGB bar. The play is also crammed full of personalities: the sisters of the title, their brother, his wife, the alcoholic doctor, the Baron, his ill-mannered friend, the school teacher, two soldiers, the elderly female servant, the elderly male servant, and the artilery commander. It’s a lot of emotion to pack into a space the size of a one bedroom apartment.
Like a silvery, slippery sardine is kind of how you feel when you sit down, elbow to elbow with other viewers, and with your knees poking into the actors. (The seats are set in the round, so to speak, on the perimeter of the play space that stretches the length of the floor.) This is not in-your-face, interactive theater like De La Guarda, where the performers dance with the audience during the performance, but I get the feeling that the large company, the director Jess Chayes, and the set designer Nicolas Benacerraf were making a virtue of necessity when they wrapped the audience around the players in an almost uncomfortable embrace.
LAMPHEAD by Melody Mudd.
Feeding the Monkeys in Thailand. Photo ©2008 Melody Mudd
I am so deeply ashamed that I will be unable to make it to Key West for what promises to be unprecedented bad-ass-ness, produced by some of my favorite people on the scene, Tatah Dujour, Marky Peirson (both of Key West), and our local lovely, Jen Gapay. Plus, I’ve never been to Key West and when I met Marky Pierson at the Slip he made it sound positively inscrutable. Plus, I bet it’s warm there. But as I keep sayin’ like a CD player stuck on repeat, soon as someone starts paying me for my trouble, the easier it’ll be for me to cover every scene I’m invited to. Well, that’s just J.D. singin’ the blues. As for the rest of you, if you have the means, I strongly recommend it. Drop by and check it out.
(The following is lifted blatantly from the press release:)
The first annual Burlesque Holiday Extravaganza takes over downtown Key West this week! Key West’s Marky Pierson & Tatah Dujour present a wild four day event with two huge rip roaring glamorific shows with over 25 amazing performers from far away lands. The first annual event is co-produced with NYC’s hot impresario of nightlife, Jen Gapay of Thirsty Girl Productions.
With performances by Dirty Martini, Michelle L’amour, Julie Atlas Muz, Indigo Blue, Lily Verlaine, Trixie Little, Jo Boobs, Little Brooklyn, Gigi Lafemme, Lux Lacroix, Roxi D’lite, Tatah Dujour, Nasty Canasta, Minnie Tonka, Darlinda Jus Darlinda, Ophelia Flame, Clams Casino, Harvest Moon, Cheeky Derriere, Moana Amour, and Anita Cookie… Hot Toddy, Tigger! The Evil Hate Monkey, Jonny Porkpie, Seal Boy, and Mr Marquee Vonfister, and featuring Murray Hill!
Tickets here and for all the info you could ever want check out Key West Burlesque. Please go! Since I can’t!
Marky & Tatah, break legs and world records!
kiss kiss,
JDX
Richard "Dick" Pricey (a.k.a. James P. Stanley)
How many times over the last ten years have you been embroiled in a conversation about what to call the last decade? The “Ohs”? The “Aughts”? I think part of the outpouring of relief two weeks ago when we entered the identifiable “Tweens” was due to having a commonly accepted label to put on our present historical period. When have the first ten years of a decade had anything in it worth remembering? What happened in 1905? What was the big news of 1810? Retro was popular in the 90s, but these days — sheesh! — you can’t swing a dead cat in a circle without hitting somebody who’s living like it’s 1899.
Is this a sign of national decadence and decline? The impulse to get back to a more wholesome time is surely behind the National Theater of the United States of America’s production of “Chautauqua!” at the Public theater.
Gelber, Manning and Joseph Jefferson
(lost items from the last decade)
Congratulations are in order to Patrick and Andre Soluri on the raging success of New Year’s Eve’ Eve Salon, once again at the Player’s Club. Night before New Year’s, piercing cold, the door had only been open for a half hour, and the line was around the block. When I did make it in, I checked the nexus of the party—the dance floor, ruled by the swingers, jitterbuggers and lindy hoppers, getting off to the fat sounds of George Gee’s Jump Jivin Wailers—stopped by the bar—seriously reeling by the unexpected masses—gave up, and ran smack into Andre. I told him the obvious: “The line is around the block.” He shifted his weight, a bit uncomfortably, and said, almost sheepishly, “We’re not really ‘line around the block’ people.” You are now! It’s worth mention, especially considering that a) the vast majority of the guests at the event were playing by the rules (i.e. dressed to kill) and b) that everyone I talked to seemed to know someone somehow connected to the event. Read: word-of-mouth goodness, low douchebag ratio.
Tanya O'Debra in Radio Star
Everything old is new again! At least that’s how it feels these days. Five long years ago the vogue in vintage was vintage 70s — 1870s that is. Remember when conservatives wanted to repeal income tax and Social Security? It was the new Gilded Age.
But ah, how quickly the worm turns! Now vintage styles in dress and drink reflect the more sober times of the Great Depression and the privation of WWII. Only we call it the Great Recession, and our great global war is being fought by guys with explosive powder in their banana hammocks.
Custom Mad Lib (JDX) with fill-ins by Gal Friday, Minnie Tonka and Jo Boobs
Have I said how much I hate Christmas? I know, I’ve been too busy to properly VENT, the way blogs were intended. Didn’t even post my much-needed-by-society “Subway Etiquette,” which should have been obvious to anyone who had to ride a train since Thanksgiving. Whatevs. Humbug. Carriage return.
IF I have anything to look forward for NEXT year’s holiday season, it will be a rerun of this year’s piece of inflaccid brilliance by Bastard Keith et al, “B.K. Saves Chanukah” as part of the Burlesque Blitz at the Kraine. Pity it was only went one night. I would have gone back. Effin hilarious, totally hot, and quite possibly the most seamless blend of narrative, nudity, and ne’er-do’well-otry this reporter has seen on a thrust stage. (I know, Kraine’s technically not a thrust, but it’s not a black box either and there just aren’t any good double entendre’s coming off of “proscenium.” Perineum? Peritoneum? Forget it.) If there had been live music—and a door man who didn’t blow smoke in my face, mumble “Ah’m ‘bout to kick someone’s ass” and then, when I said “Excuse me?” bark that he was “On the phone”—well, if there’d been live music, anyway, I would have been in pervert/nudey-junky/bad-joke heaven.
