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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.
‘Tis the season of holiday parties, corporate and otherwise. On the longest night of the year my companion and I dropped in on the SPI Marketing holiday party at the Rootstein Mannequin Showroom on West 19th Street and 7th Ave in Chelsea.
Hungarian Burlesque Legend La Savona signs vintage photographs of herself for fans at Miss Exotic World, Vegas, June 2009. Photo by Melody Mudd.
Friday, October 2, 2009. The Bell House, Brooklyn.
It’s almost impossible to imagine history, even in the clarity of hindsight—not that our hindsight has any clarity, since we were all younger and drunker when history happened and, thankfully, we’ve forgotten the dingier incidents. But seven years ago, two enterprising young women got it into their heads to start a burlesque festival in the greatest city on earth. Fast forward through the post-game of a terrorist attack, an economic sinkhole, the election of a black president—and now a thousand people have schlepped out to Gowanus and are screaming their fool heads off for a Japanese guy to take off his clothes. (Sergei—Japan’s George Michael Jackson.)
Thursday, October 1, 2009. A chilly fall eve as we stand outside in anticipation, a heat building in our hearts and souls for the love of glamour, fanfare, and… nekkid women. As they say in the south, naked is when you got no clothes on; nekkid is when you got no clothes on and are up to no good. Amen.
Sidewalk musicians on Bedford Avenue @ N 7th July 2nd 2009
By the end of June people who can afford it have left town for two months, or at least every weekend. The moneyed leisure class get tans, sit on the dock or the deck drinking champagne, and contemplate early retirement. The rest of us wander the streets between July 4th and Labor Day looking for a party on or off a rooftop, cruising the nearly empty streets and braving the inevitable spike in violent crime. The unmoneyed leisure class (a.k.a. the unemployed) have plenty of time for idleness, and idle hands are indeed the devil’s weekend in the Hamptons.
Madame Rosebud -- "Best Bikini"
by J.D. Oxblood
Pulling up a porcelain chair in the McCarren airport, I think, I could use some vegetables. I could use a drink that doesn’t contain alcohol. I could stand to inhale without sucking on a cigarette or breathing overly-oxygenated canned air. It would be nice to make a decision—about anything—without first weighing the odds and placing a wager. I need to sit without looking around for a cocktail waitress, to hear myself think without tuning out the din of slot machines, to look at a woman without immediately, instinctively imagining what she’s going to look like when she wriggles out of those clothes. A couple days in Las Vegas will do that to a man.
by J.D. Oxblood
Wow. What a weekend. I still can’t see straight, reek of booze & smoke, keep hearing slots in the background and am still finding body glitter in unmentionable places. In other words, we had a fantastic time at the 2009 Burlesque Hall of Fame Weekend. I can’t even count how many gorgeous women I saw in various states of disrobe–between the shows, the stripperiffic after parties, and the oh-my-dear-Kali pool party, I’ve got “me time” material for a decade. It’s gonna take a few days to put all of this overwhelming material into a readable format, not to mention the over 3000 photographs Melodie Mudd shot, kneeling at the front of the stage.
So you’ll just have to wait for the good stuff. We’re gonna do this fab weekend justice and give all the participants a blogorific experience that’ll make them think they’re still in Vegas, and make all y’all suckers who didn’t make the trip positively verdant with envy. You snoozed, you loozed. Tune in later this week for what promises to be a 4-part series of COMPREHENSIVE coverage on the annual event previously known as Miss Exotic World.
Meanwhile, I have to pass out some awards of my own. Sure, the judges made up some honorary awards–probably to kill time while they argued over who was gonna win best boylesque–but they had some trophies to back it up. I have no trophies, so… WINNERS OF THE 2009 BHFW “BLOODIES” WILL RECEIVE A MARTINI OF CHOICE ON ME. Dirties, Manhattans, Cosmos, what have you, courtesy of yours truly, payable the next time you see me in person–wherever we happen to be. Hey, that’s a $10-15 value, and you can’t drink a trophy. Don’t ever say that anyone loves you more than J.D.
(tympani please)
Best Reveal — Dinah Might
Most Badass — NANDA
Most Slammin’ (Badonkadonk Division) — Perle Noir
Most Slammin’ (Badinkadink Division) — Kellita
Most Overlooked — Peekaboo Pointe
Best Bikini (pool party) — Madame Rosebud
Most Devastating Glare — Miss Astrid
Most Likely to be a Contender in 2010 — Sapphire Jones
Hottest Photographer — Melody Mudd (no competition)
by JD Oxblood
The winners are in. Check back for my full coverage. Right now I gotta go to a pool party, play some craps, and schmooze the winners.
Best Debut: Melody Mangler
Best Variety Act: Gigi & Pop (feat. our very own Anita Cookie)
Best Group: NANDA
Best Boylesque: Hot Toddy
Hall of Fame Legend’s Award: Satan’s Angel
Most Innovative: Arabella Trapeze (Harvest Moon & Mr. Fantastic)
Most Classic: Amazing Knicker Kittens Burlesque Review
Most Comical: Little Brooklyn
Most Dazzling: Kalani KoKonuts
2009 Queen of Burlesque:
2nd runner up: Perle Noire
1st runner up: Roxi Dlite
Queen: Kalani KoKonuts
Congrats to all the winners and all the competitors! Last night was so hot I need a cold shower and a cold herring face-slap!
Oxblood Covers the Miss Exotic World Weekend
Gidde up, cowgirls, I’m Westbound and down, heading out to the City formerly known as Sin to gamble, cavort, and watch gorgeous women entice with abandon! The Miss Exotic World Weekend is on, this Thursday through Sunday. Check out the lineup at http://www.burlesquehall.com/. I’ll be taking it all in and writing it all down, and staff photog Melodie Muddd will be snapping the pix. Tune in next week for full coverage and candid snaps, and feel free to follow me on Twitter (oh, god, no) for up-to-the-minute Gonzo commentary.
[Ed.'s note: the Twitter widget is in a sidebar on the left side of the main page.]
OPEN CALL FOR HELP. Sadly, due to “scheduling conflicts” (read: paying gigs), I won’t arrive in Nevada until Friday, totally missing the Thursday night throw down, which features some of my favorite New York performers, like Amber Ray, Anita Cookie, Nasty Canasta, and Ruby Valentine, as well as some of my new-fave babes from beyond our borders who I got turned on to (and who turned me on) at last fall’s NYC Burlesque fest—namely Chicago’s Mimi First and Tokyo’s Violet Eva. Man, that Violet is stunning! So, to all my friends who work the other side of the curtain, and for anyone else who may be tagging along to Vegas to witness the spectacle, PLEASE OH PLEASE tell me all about what I miss on Friday. If you have any observations or—better yet, any pictures—of our famed city’s best doing their thing in Vegas, send it to me so I can spread the word. Gmail me, twitter me, text me, rub up next to me at the airport—just pass it along and I promise to give due credit.
EXTRA love to anyone who provides pix from the bowling bash. Man, what I wouldn’t give to see Dirty Marini bowl a few frames in heels.
Jo, I will pay handsomely for backstage gossip.
See you in Vegas!
Kiss kiss,
JDX
Rock of Love
Sunday night is Kitty Nights at Bar on A. I showed up because I heard Calamity Chang was debuting her tribute to Brett Michaels, and I had just finished a three day DVR marathon of Rock of Love. That and our star reporter has been feverishly packing his suitcase for Vegas where he will be covering the Miss Exotic World show, so he wasn’t able to make it. He is going to be giving up-to-the-nanosecond updates from the big event on Twitter, so if you aren’t following him already, do yourself a favor and put him on your list. You won’t regret it.
Christine Elmo
Last Thursday, May 21st, I clanked down the metal stairs of Jimmy’s 43 and into the subterranean bar completely and thoroughly confused. I had been invited by Christine Elmo to come to a benefit for a dance production she has choreographed and hopes to produce. Christine is a New York dance artist who has performed in the city and Europe extensively for the last two years. (Check out the video of dancing in Central Turkey and her CV here. Beautiful!) She’s a mover and a shaker in every sense of the phrase. So I guess I expected the benefit would be in a black box theater south of Houston, someplace that reeks of fresh paint and sawdust.
By J.D. Oxblood
It’s well-documented and downright hilarious that Attorney Generals are going after Craigslist CEO Jim Buckmaster for the prostitution ads on the well-worn website. Just last week South Carolina led the charge, offering up this tasty morsel: over a two-year period, sheriff’s deputies in Richland County have made 121 prostitution-related arrests from Craigslist ads, according to department figures provided Tuesday to The State newspaper.
But here, in New York City, despite the bum’s rush on prostitution following Governor Eliot Spitzer’s dramatic fall from grace, chasing after ladies of the night and the Johns who love them is JUST. NOT. GOOD ENOUGH.
By J.D. Oxblood
Through friends of friends I got on the guest list and passed by to check out the hubbub, bub. M2 is one of those Chelsea monstrosities that is everything you would expect—a long frickin’ walk from the subway, an enormous, cavernous room cut up by gargantuan furniture pieces guaranteeing that movement becomes impossible when the joint gets crowded and that no proper dance floor will ever erupt, grotesque hanging structures (in this case, faux-mirror balls constructed by crystals hung in sequence by 50-pound test) designed to remind you of the vertigo-inspiring height of the ceilings (nothing declares opulence in NYC like wasted space), louder than necessary, and a fantastic, state-of-the art lighting setup that is completely underused, like your grandma buying a Hummer and never taking it out of the driveway.
Murray and friends at Corio Saturday April 25 2009
Don’t get any funny ideas from the title of this post. When I say I spent Saturday night on Murray Hill, don’t think I was drinking at the Rodeo Bar.
I was the special guest of legendary Murray Hill for “This is Burlesque” at Corio. “That’s impossible!” I hear you say. “You’re just an anonymous blogger whose idea of a good time on Saturday night is to get stress management counseling at the Bay Ridge Community Service Center.” Yes, that may be true. But thanks to Twitter, I made a new friend, and he made my night.
Jo Weldon with her pupils Friday night at the Slipper Room
Friday night (April 24th) was graduation night for Jo Weldon’s New York School of Burlesque at the Slipper Room.
Each and every one of the women who performed are stars and gave standout performances. But natural talent only goes so far. Ms. Weldon not only knows how to pick them, she also knows how to train them.
by J.D. Oxblood
Our livery car driver has inexplicitly decided to roll all the way down Flatbush, which is like a Christmas Eve parking lot considering that it’s Saturday night in Park Slope. I’m wearing a gangster-fied pinstriped double-breasted jacket, my editor is in a full tux, and our other accomplice looks like a 1950s cartoon character. We’re rolling with three gorgeous women and a bodyguard; I somehow feel that we’re one gorgeous woman short—I like to ride with a spare.
We arrive at the Montauk Club, designed by Francis H. Kimball and completed in 1891. The story goes that he was inspired by a palace on Venice’s Grand Canal, and the imposing Venetian gothic architecture rises from the banality of the Slope like a monolith in a highlands desert. Stone. Mahogany. Stained glass. My jacket pocket feels suddenly empty—I really should be packing hooch to fully be in character.
Brian Newman and Broadway Brassy at Duane Park Friday April 4 2009
by J.D. Oxblood
We were so drunk off the feeling of great art—oh, and bourbon. Bourbon makes me feel drunk, too—that we decided to carry on and get our asses downtown to drop in on our old friend Brian Newman for his weekly residency at Duane Park.
I don’t feel bad giving Mr. Newman unbridled, overly-enthusiastic, heavy-handed praise for two really good reasons: 1. He’s a badass musician. 2. He’s a truly nice guy. And no shit—he’s really a nice guy. I’m a prick, and I know a nice guy when I see one. Brian was so excited to see us, he bought me a drink—and then he spent the rest of the night calling me “Mr. Oxblood.” So damn RESPECTFUL. And just when I had almost decided to kill everyone under 30.
I think you should go to Duane Park next week, and I think you should get there EARLY. We showed at around 11 and the place was already jumpin’—that is to say, PACKED. And it ain’t nothin’ to fill a space so far downtown on a Friday night. Obviously Mr. Newman’s experiment is catching on, and it’s not for nothing. (Ahem… ready for this one, B? You can quote me on this.) Brian Newman plays the trumpet like a bat out of hell trapped in a mason jar. His freneticism is balanced by a consummate control. It began with his first notes: as the bass and piano steadied the firmament under him, he let go with his “intimidation lick,” appearing almost lazy in his approach, as if to say, “I’m really not working that hard.” That quickly went out the window as his intimidation went from a lick to a full-on scoop of smack-your-mama, and everyone in the goddamn room knew whose show this was.
“Come on, let’s go downtown, Trixie and the Monkey are performing at the Slipper Room.”
“No, no… I’m drunk, I don’t have a notebook with me, I don’t have my camera—“
“Let’s just go see the show!”
“Ok, fine, but I’m not working!”
Famous last words. Hear me, O children, as I say verily unto you, once one has started down the path of wickedness, there is, truly, no turning back. And truly, once one has committed oneself to the recording of said wickedness, merely being wicked will never again suffice. Which is a long-winded way of saying, I went to the Slipper Room and totally blew my cover. It had been so long… I was just so HAPPY to be back in a burlesque venue, and the show was so show-stoppingly amusing, and I so show-stoppingly inebriated, that I just couldn’t HELP myself from talking to the performers and generally making a total ass of myself.
Hell(o) (t)here
I am truly in Hell. The only work I have managed to get is in the comic book convention world. Which, judging by the sold-out numbers of people at the Javits for the New York Comic Con, is still kinda recession-proof. I fell into the work, really. I don’t even read comic books* (Get the whole story here). And I definitely don’t “get” comic book geeks. I mean, they’re sweet enough, in their own, special, pasty, basement-dwelling way, but I mean, puh-lease. You weren’t all home-schooled, were you? There has to be an ounce of social skills somewhere in that cranium, right??? Whatever the case may be, these skills were not on display (yet again) at this year’s New York Comic Con. Actual snippet of overheard conversation on the crosstown bus on the way to the Javits:
Geek Girl1: So when I finally saw X-Men 3…
Geek 2: Oh you didn’t! It was HORRIBLE.
GG1: I didn’t think it was so bad, at first, you know, just taking it at face value, but then they explained to me how it was totally in opposition to the art and color scheme by so-and-so and blahdy-blahdy-geek-blah…
… and this drivel went on the ENTIRE CROSSTOWN RIDE. Nightmare. How do I get myself into these situations? Anyway, I was working a booth for my new semi-F/T gig with the longest running independent comic book convention in NYC. I have biz cards and everything! I am officially one of THEM. O.M.F.G.
... themmm
And I work for one of the top guys in the comic book collecting world. Somehow he’s one of them and not one of them at the same time. He knows them all, but he used to ski with the beautiful people at Studio 54. High and low, as it were. Anyway, scads of people come by his booth and I get to people watch them all. I could go on and on about the various freaks and geeks**, but the ones who really caught my eye were the Gothic Lolitas: you know, Asian girls in a mix of goth and maid uniforms, with a Lolita twist.
Essentially, these girls are walking manga. I was Goth, bitd, but this is a Japanese twist on an old classic. I talked with one self-professed Gothic Lolita, 18 year old Kana from Manhattan. She said she first got into the look 8 years ago after seeing J Rock artists on TV (example here). She saw the fans of that style of music and wanted to dress like them. It’s a very cute world with which to identify. As opposed to Cosplay fans at the Comic Con, Kana said this is her normal style of dress. She likes bands like Plastic Tree, and she and her friends get together for karaoke parties. She seemed really well-adjusted. It was refreshing, in this land of make-believe.
Kutie Kana
So I am officially an insider in this crazy comic book world. But I guess now I can finally finish my Sandman collection. I’m only missing #2 and #43. Christ. Kill me now.
*Except Neil Gaiman’s Sandman in the 90’s. Brilliant. Oh, and the occasional Betty and Veronica when I was little. Can you say cat fight? Me-ow!
**New rule: Guys, if you’re wearing spandex, will you PLEASE wear a cup?!?!?!? I am still scrubbing those lumpy images from my brain.
By J.D. Oxblood
“I can promise you, if LAST CALL AT THE STARLINER LOUNGE isn’t one of the most original shows that you’ve ever seen, then I will eat a pack of cigarettes.” With an offer like that, how could I refuse? Yes, that was the inimitable Snuffy Patterson, and I was half hoping the show would suck so that I could watch him suck ‘em down. No dice, but it turns out I still won: he eats a cigarette in the opening as an ad for “Turkish Cigarettes—the cure for halitosis.” The sourpuss face on this kid is priceless.
We’re back at Corio, another night of hopeless debauchery, shaking off the post-holiday season delirium tremens. It’s a Wednesday night and cold enough to freeze the rye on my breath. Seems that all the gorgeous dames in this place only work the Pontani shows; the skirt serving us hooch is looking a little long in the tooth. Maybe it’s a good thing that she’s not in a corset.
Brian Newman and his band loosen the crowd with a couple of standards, starting with “All of Me.” This kid looks about two days past getting his draft card, and so thin you could pick your teeth with him. He can warble, though, so damn well I wondered if the horn in his hand was just a prop. But he made a sucker of all of us and blew the damn thing better than Gabriel. He’s backed by keys, skins, a bull fiddle who can lay down a bass line that walks with a ten incher down the left leg, and a sharp-dressed urbanite blowing a thoughtful motif on a tenor sax.
I settle into a cold one and tried to follow the convoluted plot.
Helen Pontani, Angie Pontani, and Peekaboo Pointe
Big thanks to Angie Pontani for her love. She must have liked our ridiculously thorough coverage of the burlesque festival, and invited us to come and see her show at Corio (Weekly, Thurs.-Sat.). And by “invite,” I mean free tickets, which is a big deal considering how completely broke I am these days. Congrats to Murry & Angie: this recession-proof extravaganza was sold out for both the 7:30 and 9:30 shows!
Chapter 3:
Sunday, 9/21: The Golden Pastie Awards Show at SOB’s
By J.D. Oxblood
Photos by DJ 13
Helen Pontani, Angie Pontani, Jen Gapay
Needless to say (but I’m gonna say it anyway), I stayed up till 7 in the freaking morning with miscreants and derelicts, and Sunday had a hangover the size of Wisconsin and could. Not. Believe that I was going to look at more T&A. Is there no limit to what a man can endure? Someone has to do it, folks, and that man is me.
The single greatest thing about Sunday’s Golden Pastie Awards was that the audience was full of performers. All the great, hot, sexy women that I’d been drooling over all weekend were there, in the crowd, with the scumbag likes of me. What’s hotter than watching hot women with a bunch of hot women?
Chapter 2:
Saturday, 9/20: the Saturday Spectacular at Le Poisson Rouge
By J.D. Oxblood
Photos by T-Bone Caruthers, Willy G., and Jane Smith
Ruby Valentine
[***3 kisses indicate J.D.’s faves.]
The crowd at the Saturday Spectacular was decidedly older and more well-heeled. And completely sold out. Turns out that getting people to the West Village is easier than getting people to Gowanus—who knew?—and the place was weirdly, if not wisely, laid out to accommodate VIPs at tables close to the stage and standing room only everywhere else. Which is to say that if you didn’t pay the tab or have the connections to score a dope seat, you couldn’t get within fifty feet of the stage. My entourage and I were lucky enough to find a quaint little spot wedged in between the exit door and upstage left, putting us in the path of performers entering from stage left (Trixie Little rubbed up against me! I’ll never wash that shoulder!) and I had the added pleasure of having Jo Boobs sit right in front of me for the first act in her civvies. It isn’t just that she’s so hot, you dig?—like any man, I can get hot pushed in close to a middle-aged Puerto Rican woman on the morning G train—but, this woman is, like, a legend. You can feel it steaming off her. And I am honored to be so close.
Chapter 1:
Friday, 9/19: Premiere Party at the Bell House
By J.D. Oxblood
Photos by Jane Smith
The Love Show
[***3 kisses indicate J.D.’s faves.]
I showed up early and was hit in the face by the smell of wood varnish. The space is brand spanking new and I can’t really figure out why they opened a venue of this size in this location. It’s Gowanus, people, which sounds like something you get from raggedy chicks on Craigslist and might very well be. The walk from the elevated F/G stop at Smith and 9th was like a descent into something from Dante’s imagination. Or Cleveland. You choose. And this joint is the kind of high-ceiling, wooden beam affair where you expect to see moose heads on the wall. And the crowd in the lounge? These are the kinds of guys that make you ashamed to be an American—guys who are used to yelling at each other in somebody’s kitchen. They still reek of Bolognese sauce. They’re so psyched to have a bar in their neighborhood they might never go home. Fortunately, the big room was, in fact, very big, so it was possible to get close to the performers. The crowd was mixed and fairly young—those brave enough to make the trek to Gowanus—with an extra helping of young dudes rubbing up against their young babes with the unbridled optimism of knowing they’ll have something to do with their boners when the show is over. Ah, the fantasy of a threesome. Girls, don’t be upset that your boy isn’t thinking about you; just be glad it’s you he’s fucking. The first two gogo dancers were, um, not much of dancers and less of gogo, but they were soon replaced by a smokin’ hot black girl with Supremes sensibilities, and a big, fleshy redhead who was so generous in spreading her ass for the crowd that I considered trying to take her home and skip the whole damn festival. It would take the entire weekend to work THAT out.
THE MOST COMPREHENSIVE %*&#! COVERAGE OF THE 6TH ANNUAL NEW YORK BURLESQUE FESTIVAL ANYWHERE ON THE INTERWEB!
Roxy Dlight Friday at the Bell House
(Sound of Alka Seltzer plop plop fizz fizzing. A Zippo lighter clicks, lights, clicks shut. Venetian blinds are drawn. J.D.’s voice is heard; a voice scarred by cigarettes, Hendricks Gin, and late, late nights of carousing with half-naked… er, people.)
If I sound exhausted it’s because I am. Tore up from the floor up. Shredded like my mini-wheats without the frosting. My four-day stubble has four-day stubble. My front room is knee-deep in beer and whiskey. I think I may have seen too many boobies. Let me say that again. I think I may have seen too many boobies. The last time I saw that much flesh it was Mardi Gras in New Orleans and Katrina was just the name of a sweet young girl from Kansas who took a left turn at Albuquerque.
You gotta hand it to Angie Pontani—the lady knows how to throw a party. Four days, four venues, eighty-eight acts by my count—adds up to well over a hundred performers—and so much hotness the Devil himself had to go back home to cool off. My knees ache from standing at attention, my [unmentionable] aches from standing at attention, my feet are swollen, my fingers are nicotine- and ink-stained, my lungs are crying out for non-nicotine-flavored air, my liver has straight-up packed its bags and left me—AND it took the dog—my sinuses are about to fall to the floor and I’m pretty sure I raised the GNP of Columbia this weekend. I’ve given out a dozen fake names, and at least four other people have claimed to be me in the hopes of getting free schwag, which basically adds up to a half dozen people thinking they had sex with J.D. Oxblood this weekend, or a half dozen people who don’t know they had sex with J.D. Oxblood this weekend, depending on your point of view. Murray, I told you, that’s confectioner’s sugar, it’s Monday morning, and you need to get the hell out of my bathtub. Anita, you can stop acting drunk, it’s over. Let me call you a car, and yes, I’ll call you. Purrhaps. Scotty, I meant everything I said and at least half of what we did, but that doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends.
Cultural Capitol wants to send a giant shout out and big up to Jen Gapay and the wonderful women (and men, and other) of the New York Burlesque Festival. We had a great time covering the events. Here is a list of the festival winners:
Biggest Media Whore: Tie: Angie Pontani / Murray Hill
Best Booty Shaker: Gigi La Femme
Best Gams: Delirium Tremens
Best Dressed: Amber Ray
Best Body: Dirty Martini
Most Charismatic: World Famous *BOB*
Hottest Freshman: Roxi Dlite
Most Likely to Win on Survivor: Nasty Canasta
Sexiest Eyes: Indigo Blue
Sweetest Smile: Anita Cookie
Classiest Dame: Michelle L’Amour
Biggest Diva: Dirty Martini
Biggest Tease: Roxi Dlite
Biggest Cougar: Jo Boobs
Most Likely to Go Gay in 2009: Tie: Broadway Brassy / Pinchbottom
Most Likely to Turn Name into an Unpronouncable Symbol: Tigger!
Congratulations to you all!
Sarah Palin is conservative eye candy.
Why did McCain pick her? Because she will be the ultimate Miss Moneypenny to his James Bond. She’s clever, hot, and most definitely subordinate to The Man. She is the ideal conservative VP: a totally bangable chick whose only job is to be a foil to highlight the masculinity of the Great Leader.
The first great thing I have to say about the New York roller derby scene is this: the Gotham Girls want everyone to come to the party. The pre-party at a bar near the venue was touted on their website — an open invitation — and while I was still patting myself on the back for my uber-super-reporting skills at getting an invite to the after party, I saw the open invitation in the program. You gotta love a bunch of tough girls who want everyone to come and get drunk with them. But here’s the bad news: there’s a reason why you need a “pre” and a “post.” There are no alcoholic beverages served in the basement of Hunter College, and between the metal detectors (read: metal flasks) and the hand searches (read: sniffing water bottles) it’s nigh on impossible to smuggle in booze. And that, my pretties, is the only bad thing I can say about Saturday night’s bout between the Bronx Gridlock and the Queens of Pain.
By J.D. Oxblood
Success! We totally hit it! Over 2500 people hit the blog in one day last week, all because I decided to talk trash about somebody famous. When my editor said, “We got linked by Gawker,” I put my hand to my mouth like a Japanese schoolgirl. “Is that, like, the internet’s way of getting fined by the FCC?” I thought, finally, I’m busted. It was almost a relief. But it turns out, unbeknownst to me, that Gawker is some, like, really famous website? Where, like, EVERYone who’s ANYone goes to get their dirt on the celebs? And, like, you SO totally have to check it out, like, every day? And there was little ol’ JD getting linked by the big boys, and all the ga-ga girls and pretty boys hyper-linked over to cultural capitol where JD told them to… get a life. Ah, the circle of cynicism is complete.
