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Broadway Brassy and Jenny Rocha and Her Painted Ladies, Aug. 12, 2010, Le Poisson Rouge
One question: why doesn’t Broadway Brassy have her own band? I don’t think I’m going to be truly happy until I see that woman fronting her own blues band, standing downstage center and belting before a line-up of drums, bass, guitar and a full-on horn section. As Brassy has grown and matured both as a vocalist and as a full-frontal personality—stretching those hosting muscles, et al—I keep asking: where’s the band? And Beatles Burlesque has only proven that where she belongs is leading a group of like-minded musicians.
The best thing about Revealed is… well, ok. The SECOND best thing about Revealed are the ludicrous mind-sausages that pour out of the attic grinder of Bastard Keith at the start of the second act, in the form of email exchanges between himself and Co-Producer Doc Wassabasco. (We’re still waiting on email exchanges between BK and Co-Producer Gigi LaFemme.) When these infonet chatterings are particularly hilarious, I simply have to share. -JDX
DOC:
Keith, I’m drunk. Summer is almost over. It’s enough to make a man listen to Don Henley records and cry. So I’m going to do that. How’s it going on your end? Any thoughts on this month’s show?
Your Boy of Summer,
Doc
KEITH:
Excelsior, Doc!
Man oh MAN has summer come and gone quickly! Let me tell you, when you’ve dedicated your life to entertainment as I have, all you do is sit at home and refine your skills and try not to get bored in your own company. But in May, I discovered that I had become unmistakably the greatest talent in the world and could not improve, so a lot of free time opened up. It’s been a delightful blur of wild sex, single-malt scotch, vintage Edwardian spanking pornography and childrens’ theater. Here’s a list of the best stuff I can remember:
I feel I would be remiss if I didn’t chime in on this excellent article by legendary sexpert Dan Savage. Not that I’m willing to tip my hand here, but his commentary aligns quite nicely with much of what I’ve been preoccupied with lately—the very long-term endeavors that have kept me from weighing in more regularly on the short-term comings and goings of the New York burlesque scene. I have to give it up to the Savage for raising the delicate—and always controversial—subject of criticism in burlesque. (Man, doesn’t that word just make you cringe, like “cancer”?) And I have to ding him on missing the elements that make such criticism possible—venue, tone, production, aesthetic, form, and perhaps most notably, a PLATFORM.
(July 28, 2010)
(Every Wednesday at the Delancey)
Half the lottery of going to a burlesque show is the crowd. What can you say when it’s d-baggy? The Slip thrived on random Saturday night UWS tourists and bridge-and-tunnel bachelorette parties—proof that everyone loves burlesque, even all of those who—cough—love it for the wrong reasons. That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about people who came for the free shots and literally tune out the free ti-tays. Yes, it happens. And you just want to smack ‘em. And it’s a friggin’ shame, because Runaround Sue is running a fantastic little show on the LES that is neither stage nor floor—it’s banquette.
Wednesday, July 21st
Science fiction writer Robert Anton Wilson is also known for his series of far-out, hippy-dippy conscious-expansion books. The first, “Cosmic Trigger,” is the best—a sort of miscellany or compendium of the occult, wrapped around Wilson’s personal story of mind-expansion, encapsulating Aleister Crowley, Timothy Leary, Carlos Castaneda, and a lot of other weirdos that I won’t bother to mention by name. (Or rather, whose names I won’t admit to knowing). If you’ve ever wondered about extraterrestrials, why the number 23 keeps popping up, or had a lucid dreaming experience, or if you’ve ever experimented with psychotropic substances, certain passages in this book will no doubt give you the wide-awake, pupil-popping, creeping flesh WILLIES.
But Uncle Oxblood? What do we care about some dead sci fi writer? We’re here to read about hot chicks! Well, my chillun, two reasons: 1. I have good reason to believe that a fair percentage of the regulars at Revealed know exactly who RAW is, and 2. It was RAW himself, when I saw him speak in person over 15 years ago, who taught me the Cosmic Schmuck Principle.
Angie Pontani and the Pontani Sisters successfully produced a long-running PG-13 show for tourists and the bridge-and-tunnel. “This Is Burlesque,” hosted by Murray Hill, brought in the uninitiated to Corio, a venue spitting distance from the Soho Grand and frequented by guests of said hotel, whose concierge apparently pimped the show. Was this a good thing for New York burlesque? Maybe. Hard to say how many “This Is Burlesque” newbies took their initiation seriously and sought out shows at the Slip or other venues, or dared to descend into more racy productions, or could afford the (blech) Box. But was it good for certain New York burlesque performers? Indubitably. So what happened? Corio closed. The entire venue shut down, and while “TIB” reopened in midtown, it closed again, quite suddenly, and so far I’ve been unable to get a straight answer out of what, exactly, happened. Not that it matters. ITE (In This Economy), such questions answer themselves. The real question becomes, What happens next? And not only ITE, but AS—After the Slipper Room—where is an enterprising performer supposed to go for a steady gig?
Producers all over are working double time to fill the gap left by the recent closing of the Slipper Room (more on this later—officially, it’s “closed for renovations,” but such definitions can approach infinity in NYC). New producers are popping up like wannabe starlets during pilot season, and bless ‘em all.
Enter Producers Bastard Keith and Madame Rosebud.
For me, Sunday was the best day at the BHOF. There was a panel of Legends speaking—which, more than anything I saw all weekend, aligns with Bertolt Brecht’s dictum that theatre should both entertain and educate. Plus the pool party. Plus the Sunday night show. Plus I finally got on the craps table—and came out ahead.
(Note: Friday and Saturday coverage are companion to another piece published elsewhere. Link TK.)
The first thing you learn about life is that you can’t do everything. The first thing you learn about burlesque is that you can’t know everything—not in an art form created by charlatans and perpetrated by con artists and outlaws. And the first thing you learn about Vegas is that you can’t always win.
Tempest Storm & Lou Lou D’Vil
(Note: Friday and Saturday coverage are companion to another piece published elsewhere. Link TK.)
Friday afternoon a herd of hotties could be found on East Fremont crowding in for the ribbon cutting ceremony at the new home of the Burlesque Hall of Fame Museum. It was a little hard to tell what was really going on what with all the flesh, but it looks like the space is shared with a coffee shop and a record store, which can’t be bad. It was the photo op of the year, and between the push of photogs trying to get the shot and the strippers trying to get IN the shot and the Vegas sun sharp and hot as being shot—well, you get the idea. The best photo op by far was the glamorous Tempest Storm standing with Lou Lou D’Vil, the brunette third of Finland’s Tease Queens, who has a tattoo of Tempest on her arm. This girl is barely in her 20s, from FINLAND, for crying out loud. It warms the heart.
The Tease Queens
The Plaza Hotel is basically a dump, surviving on penny slot machines and three-dollar craps tables. It’s never a good sign when you see grandma in a wheelchair pulling slots. Worse when she’s on oxygen. Worse yet when she’s on oxygen AND smoking.
The Thursday night opening bash didn’t start until 10pm since the theatre has a regular show (some Rat Pack BS). Cue standing in line in front of the theatre shmoozing before being ushered into a glorious space that, if you seen before seeing the casino, would have made you feel properly pimp. Big stage, big house, plebe seats crowded in between tiers of sexy booths—with table service. Palpable vibe of an awards show—less Oscars than Golden Globe— familiar and new faces in a blur of sensuality, glamour and charm, and the ratio of women to men looks like a whole number. Suddenly professional pervs like Don Spiro—and the aspiring, like me—look like genii.
Back in Brooklyn, I was hitting snooze while tuning out the tinny, pinched sound of a radio blaring from down the block. The song suddenly registered and I shot out of bed in a moment of pure eureka. It was the almighty sage Cindi Lauper, singing “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.” By Gum, I got it.
Tips for the diehards:
The first time you sleep with someone new, you’re enraptured, swept away, overwhelmed by the assault on your senses, soaking it all in. After a few sessions, you start to see your new lover as he or she truly is. This is the part where you figure out whether you really like someone, warts and all. Hopefully not venereal warts. Anyhoosie, this was me at the 2010 BHOF weekend—my second visit. The honeymoon may be over, but I still love Vegas on the first weekend of June. I have, however, learned a few things:
Never travel on the Monday after BHOF. It’s just silly.
If you’re a journalist or a photographer, do not plan any further west coast junkets after BHOF. Do your traveling early, peak in Vegas, get your ass in the chair and file those stories and edit those photos while the madness is still fresh on the brain. Read: major apology to my loyal readership (both of you) for having to wait so long.
If you are a performer, be prepared to perform even if you’re not on the bill. You never know when you might get asked to stage kitten.
Get there a couple days early if you want to do any gambling. You can totally forget to gamble—too many distractions.
If you want to do any tourist-y bullshit, see above.
Be careful who you make out with. Stripper lipstick smears like a motherfucker, and it’s embarrassing for everyone.
Pick at least one day to sleep in late.
If you plan on having any sexy time with a significant other, schedule it. Otherwise it won’t happen.
Get to the shows early—it’s the best opportunity to schmooze.
Go to the after parties and stay late—it’s the best opportunity to schmooze without anyone remembering it.
If you’re staying at the hotel hosting the shows, the pool party lasts all weekend.
If you drink, remember: it’s not a sprint, it’s a marathon. Mardi Gras rules are in effect. Pace yourself.
Eating healthy is nigh on impossible, so find an all-you-can-eat buffet with a salad bar and load up on fruit and veg.
HYDRATE.
Talk to the legends, talk to the legends, talk to the legends. They are far more interesting than you are.
See you next year!
Kiss kiss,
JDX
I woke up the morning after Calamity Chang’s second installment of “Beatles Burlesque” at Pubic Ass, I had glitter on my face and “Don’t Let Me Down” ringing in my head. If you want to hear letter-perfect Beatles music played by mop tops, you should stay home and watch “A Hard Day’s Night” on Netflix. But if you want to hear the Beatles’ catalog artfully interpreted by a brass balls banshee righteously rocking your soul, get your beatnik butt to the next installment of Beatles Burlesque. Oh, and you also get to see hot chicks take their clothes off.
Read the rest of this entry »
Miss Astrid eviscerated James Brown’s “This is a Man’s World,” Ms. Tickle was toppled with 3 trophies, and the crowd went literally apeshit for Monkey. As always, the Burlesque Hall of Fame Weekend was dazzling and completely overwhelming. Yes, there is much, much more to tell… but for now, the winners. I gotta get to the pool party.
Winners of the 2010 Queen of Burlesque (formerly Miss Exotic World):
Most Innovative: Ms. Tickle
Most Comical: The Evil Hate Monkey
Most Classic: Mimi LeMeaux
Most Dazzling: Ms. Tickle
Best Debut: Ms. Tickle
Best Group: The Chicago Starlets
Best Variety Act: Lola Martinet and Tila Von Twirl
Best Boylesque: The Evil Hate Monkey
Queen of Burlesque 2nd Runner up: Nasty Canasta
Queen of Burlesque 1st Runner up: Kristina Nekyia
Queen of Burlesque: Roxi Dlite
Congratulations to all the winners and to everyone who competed!
It was raining in Brooklyn this morning and the glistening, Spring-ripened trees gave off a lush, fecund aroma that executed the maneuver that only the olfactory can—transported me. I was back in Alaska, shuffling to work in my rain gear, rustling loudly with that “voopa-voopa” vinyl sound. I’d slept less than 4 hours, was facing another 18-hour day, and was ready for anything. I was young; I was stupid and I didn’t yet know it. There’s something magical about finding yourself in an unexpected place, meeting unexpected people, making memories that you’ll spend the rest of your days trying to live down. It’s a rite of passage, and this summer a group of much-more-gorgeous-than-I adventurers (and let’s hope, more intelligent) pick up the mantle to do their part in expanding the great American Dream: the Tour. That’s right: Dangerous Curves Ahead, the New York burlesque tour, is on the road. Be aroused. Be very aroused.
My mother lives in another state, which got me off the hook for the whole super-crowded, over-priced, awful-service brunch madness. Don’t get me wrong—Mother’s Day is by far the best of the Hallmark-invented holidays. Rather than make everyone feel awful about themselves and the sad state of their relationships (or lack thereof) like Valentine’s Day, this day encourages everyone in the land to—if nothing else—call their mothers. Which is a good thing. I sent flowers, but that’s because I’m still basically apologizing for everything I put my poor, long-suffering mother through in the 9 months I lived in her belly, the 18 years I lived in her house, and all the ensuing years that I’ve lived by the seat of my pants, worrying her that the cops will find me dead in a ditch.
Melody’s mom works on Sunday, so I had a photog. All of this was good for me—and good for you, dear reader, dear pervy pix collector, dear narcissistic burlesque performer—because we were able to attend the latest fantabulous Jen Gapay production, “A Salute to the Mothers of Burlesque” at the Highline Ballroom. (Sunday, May 9, 2010) Mad props to Jen—and to my fairy glam-mother, Jo “Boobs” Weldon—for putting this one together.
Our dear Miss Melody Mudd has been hard at work photo editing like a hurricane, and yours (cough) truly is pounding the keys. It’s been a busy week–Sunday’s double feature The Mothers of Burlesque and Lucha Vavoom, Monday’s Beatles Burlesque with Calamity Chang and Broadway Brassy, and Wednesday night we wished bon voyage to the lovely ladies of Dangerous Curves Ahead–the kickass NYC tour literally sweeping the nation. Phantabulous photos and hopped-up op-eds on all of the above ARE coming, very soon. Meanwhile, check out this humble video of yours truly hard at work on the latest piece.
JDX
This week, Princess Madeleine of Sweden broke off her engagement with D-bag-of-the-hour Jonas Bergstrom, allegedly because he cheated on her with slut-of-the-hour Tora Uppstrom Berg. She says that she didn’t know who he was. I can almost buy that. She’s quoted as saying, “Had I known, I would never do anything like this. I feel sorry for Madeleine for having an unfaithful man.” Yet she ran out and told a Norwegian gossip magazine all about it.
I liked this story, not just because it wasn’t about someone I’d never met whom I already knew WAY too much about, but because the story was neat and tidy and kind of righteous. Dude cheated, dude got caught, and the smokin’ hottie PRINCESS ditched him. Done and done. It’s been a busy year, and the names Jesse James Tiger Woods Sandra Bullock Tiger Woods Michelle “Bombshell” McGee Tiger Woods Bruce Springsteen Tiger Woods John Edwards Tiger Woods are starting to run Tiger together Woods.
Aerobella Trapeze (Harvest Moon & Mr. Fantastic)
(On Calamity Chang’s weekly show at Nurse Betty; Monty Leman & Don Spiro; “Beat Down” at Brooklyn Bowl)
Sometimes you can’t get a photographer, sometimes you can’t find the time to type it up, sometimes you can’t shake last night’s hangover to even get out the door. But we’ve got some kind of burlesque shindig happening every night in this town, and if you don’t believe me, check out the fab photog Ed Barnas’ running burlesque calendar.
Burning Bush? Let Daddy put that out.
“I think things could have worked out between us if I hadn’t lost the baby.”
“Don’t beat yourself up about it. Besides, those Jew-Gentile romances always go south eventually.”
But I couldn’t buy it. I wanted to believe that we had a future together. But we lost the baby. And not in the way that one usually uses those terms. I mean I LOST our baby. One minute I had the little nipper in my arms, and the next, I was drunker than Billy Joel at a tree-hugging festival and the baby was goners. My first born. And I totally had that lamb’s blood on the door and everything. But somehow, He knew that I wasn’t Jewish. Guess Darlinda’s love wasn’t enough to save us. I’ll never be the same. After all, I never tell people the truth about the name “J.D.” It stands for “Just Darlinda.” Or it did, before I lost the baby.
This all went down at the Red Fish—the curse of the Red Sea persists. I was brought up Christian, until I found myself in New York surrounded by Jewish women. Jewish women are my favorite. I’ve slept with a lot of women—and by “slept with,” I mean kicked out of bed and smacked by, and Jewish girls are just far less likely to kick you out of bed and smack you. Seriously, those Catholic girls are uptight. Dirty, sure, but they always feel guilty afterwards. Which is all by way of explaining how I, a gentile, came to be at Le Poisson Rouge to witness the battle of the ages, The Burning Bush: Passover vs. Easter, the ultimate smackdown. In name, I was there to cheer my heritage and support Father McTigger. But secretly, I was pulling for the Jews. Man, that Minnie Tonka is sweeter than Manischewitz.
If pole dancing is slowly making the transition from seedy strip-club standard to middle-class workout routine, what kind of entertainment is it? High-brow? Low-class? Exhibit A: Middle-aged woman takes pole classes to get a good workout, entertains her husband. Great for him, not likely to go viral on youtube. Exhibit B: Trailer park queen walks around a pole, bored, listless, and barely shaking it as the dead-end rednecksville crowd of canned-beer addicts stare at her through x’s for eyes. Passes as a kind of entertainment, albeit a little sad. Exhibit C: A mixed crowd of urbanites, gathered at an uptown Manhattan theatre that “fosters artistically and culturally diverse performing arts, literary, and film programs that bring artists and audiences together in an atmosphere of exploration and intimacy,” to watch the world’s most proficient (female) pole practitioners exhibit startling displays of athleticism, dressed in bikinis and high heels, to what would generally be considered “stripper” music, in a competitive format, in a venue that doesn’t sell liquor or, for that matter, beverages of any variety. A week and change later, I’m still asking myself, “What kind of entertainment is that?”
Bastard Keith (photo by Melody Mudd)
[Bastard Keith, the host, performer and self-styled "contumely adept" is, begrudgingly, one of the more satisfying anti-bromides in this twisted city. You can catch him on the third Wednesday of the month hosting Wassabasco's REVEALED BURLESQUE, and every month, Bastard Keith reads an "email exchange" between him and Doc. Last week's--falling as it did on St. Paddy's (vomit) day, was particularly side-stitching. In case you missed it, BK was kind enough to share his mixologistic insights. Written by Bastard Keith; neither I nor CC take any responsibility for what may befall you if you whip of any of these cocktails. xx --JDX]
The Irish deserve a holiday. There’s a reason Jewish holidays never get much traction on a national level, and it’s not just that no one likes Jews. It’s because no Jewish holidays revolve around getting dangerously inebriated and playing darts. Also, Jews also have no drinks named after a terrorist act. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never had a Gaza Car Bomb. I bet it tastes like lemons and sadness.
Speaking of that…here are the mixes for a couple of my favorite cocktails. And I promise, no more terrorism jokes. I am a gentleman.
The Kobayashi Maru: Sake, candyfloss and crack.
The Burlesque Photographer: Whatever you’re drinking, and then they demand credit.
The GOP: This one’s easy. Just piss in a glass and say it’s lemonade.
The Long Island Iced Tea Party: You can put anything in it and some idiot will drink it. Unless it’s a Black bartender, in which case they’ll send it back and call him a racist.
The Single Payer Healthcare: A drink that everyone else has but never seems to arrive for you.
The Democrat: This one started out as straight whiskey, but now it’s mostly water.
The Jay Leno: Expired beer. No one really likes it. But you keep getting refills when you don’t want them.
The Ann Coulter: A Slim Jim in a tall glass of raw 151. You can’t stomach it, but you’re kind of amazed something so vile exists.
The Rush Limbaugh: Three pints of boxed wine with bacon bits and Cialys floating in it, served in a hollowed out barbeque chicken. With a half smoked cigar garnish.
The Glenn Beck: O’Doul’s and the tears of confused infants. Never served with nuts.
The Bastard Keith: Pure Scottish Single Malt with just a HINT of meth, served on a silk napkin by a beautiful woman dressed in latex. And for that extra pinch of Keith, make sure you give it a twist RIGHT on the rim.
Excelsior!
–Bastard Keith
The inimitable Julie Atlas Muz @ Le Poisson Rouge
Thursday March 11, 2010 (with mad props to Angie Pontani & Sapphire Jones)
For New Yorkers, being away from New York is refreshing. While returning to New York may be like a fish being dropped back into the water, leaving in the first place is more like a jungle cat being given a weekend pass from the zoo. You discover things you’d forgotten… clean air, open spaces, people who are nice to you for no reason at all, patio furniture that isn’t bolted down to anything, women who don’t know they’re beautiful, people who like their jobs.
Murray Hill with the Schlep Sisters
Whenever I come back to New York after an extended absence, I generally revert to my old a-hole self inside of five minutes—it usually happens when I’m trying to get out of the airport. But I catch my breath, I try to remember how I got so relaxed in the first place, and I wander in a daze for a week or two. Sometimes, the feeling of healing is more lasting. Sometimes, like yesterday, I find myself walking a particular block of Midtown that I’ve walked a quadrillion times before and suddenly, for no good reason, am reminded to look up, to take it in, to remember that, for people all over the world, what I’m seeing is wonderful, spectacular, unusual—in other words, beautiful. It’s easy to forget, ain’t it? Again, I walked into a midtown eatery that I know too well (Variety, on 48th Street, if you know it) and wandered around like a tourist for a good seven minutes quite simply in AWE of all the fantastic food on offer. Hot sandwiches, cold sandwiches, every drink known to man, desserts, a bbq bar, and endless open displays of hot foods sold by the pound. So many choices! All under one roof! Ladies and gentlemen, most of the world just doesn’t have it this good!
Which brings me to the immortal preoccupation. Yes, we still have the hottest women in the world. Five minutes on the street—or four minutes on the subway—and I’m slap-in-the-face reminded of why I’ve stayed in this cesspool so long. So many beautiful women, all shapes, all sizes, all colors and all backgrounds.
So it was with particular pleasure, longing, and home-sweet-home-ness that I jumped at (insert superlative) Angie Pontani’s invitation to attend the Queens of Burlesque at Le Poisson Rouge.
by J.D. Oxblood
Because, really, it is like a drug. And I was on it. And don’t you just love an unreliable narrator? Doesn’t it remind you of the basic unreliability of memory itself?
Bourbon Street
Way back in October I did a brilliant thing—I convinced my entourage to get it together and bought plane tickets to New Orleans and I found us an apartment on Toledano a block off St. Charles—read: right on the parade route. How was I to know that the afore-known “Ain’ts” would win the super bowl and get the whole nation—Yankees included—yellin’ “Who dat?”
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
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.
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.
In that infamous dead week between Xmas and New Year’s, your friends at Wassabasco Burlesque—along with a who’s who of conjoining producers—are blowing up at the Burlesque Blitz at the Kraine Theatre. Sunday night the saga got rolling with the rollicking waves of Brian Fisherman’s band, an evening set up as a hallucination—Fisherman trapped on a deserted island with only his memories of Coney Island and its fair denizens—the dreamlike sound of the vibraphone spelling hallucinations for all of us.
Bastard Keith, Madame Rosebud & Minnie Tonka. Sketch by Luma Rouge
Last Wednesday—I know, I know, but aren’t we all running a little behind? ‘Tis the season for tardiness, crankiness, and all-round bad cheer—I managed to wrap up my other nonsense and slip down into the basement Under St. Mark’s just in time. I had come with a purpose: to see Minnie Tonka’s “Revealed” debut. Madame Rosebud greeted me warmly, called me her “favorite pervert”—which I don’t believe for a second, not with B.K. standing right there—and rubbed some body glitter on my face. Miss Astrid’s words were dancing through my mind like sugar plum fairies: “Body glitter: the herpes of burlesque.” The crowd was already rowdy, passing bottles of wine and yukking it up like extras, and somebody reeked of reefer—or maybe it was my wishful thinking. Minnie stood off to the side in a boxer’s silk robe decked out with a larger-than-life star of David on the back, ready for the ring. The joint was frigid, the twin turkeys already done.
Like I keep on saying, it’s the busiest time of the year and everyone should be excused for acting like straight-up maniacs. But no one’s excused. The complaint barometer is measuring tropical levels of homicidality, and even an average ride on the subway will send the most mild-mannered librarian’s blood pressure through the proverbial roof. Wait—is there actually a proverb about a roof? Must be, that book is like a hundred pages long. I digress. So the busiest night of the busiest season was Saturday, December 12th. I was triple-booked and sending regrets that I actually regretted. Top of the list was the Schlep Sisters’ Menorah Horah, which I totally missed, and was totally bummed. I heard that it was killer diller, but unfortunately the source of my news was none too forthcoming. Something something something about a Darlinda Just Darlinda act set on a musical medley ranging well over 12 minutes. Which Minnie Tonka corrected by saying it was a little over 6. Or something. I may have been drunkles by the time I heard that part. Oh, and I missed the Winter Ball, but Dr. K made the scene, so… I’m still bummed about missing it but you’re not. I DID have tickets to “Streetcar Names Desire,” about which I will keep my mouth shut. Not because I don’t have anything to say—come on, kids, this is your Unkle J.D. talkin’, and I got somethin’ to say ‘bout EVERYthing—but because what I think you really want to hear about is Albert Cadabra’s Birthday Party at the Slip. What? It’s—what day?—and you’re just now telling us about what you did last Saturday???
Busiest night, busiest time of year.
