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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.

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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!


By J.D. Oxblood

Hunter College, Friday night, September 12, a perfect way to recover
from lingering Sept. 11 syndrome -- and the endless exploitation of a
day hallowly remembered -- roller derby!  Hot chicks on wheels!

Well maybe, just maybe, some of you slackers out in cyberspace are
actually reading these missives, as the Friday night bout was sold out.
Folks lined up for hours (well, ok, an hour) just to get a glimpse of
the Gotham Girls giving their all with guts and grit. The gym was
packed, energy was high, and the all-around theme of the night was
just like my last date:  hot and sweaty.

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(Editor’s note: This is the first post by Cultural Capitol writer J. D. Oxblood.)

On Dining with Strangers

By J.D. Oxblood

I live on a small island off the coast of the United States of America. That may be technically untrue, but it’s more true than the truth. I live on the Island of Long, in a small corner that is vastly different from the rest of the island and—like the neighboring island of Manhattan—the rest of America.

This is a story, like all New York stories, about what makes us different, if not exactly special. We live in tiny, tiny apartments and pay anywhere between a third to half of our income on rent. This is alarmingly obvious to New Yorkers, but if anyone’s reading this out in flyover country (that’s right, I said it) read that sentence again. It’s insane if you really chew it over, and yet we do it, year after year. And as I was recently reminded whilst dining with out of town guests, it’s always all about the rent. As my visitors were wondering why we were paying $15 for a cocktail, I noted the address: we’re half a block from Rockefeller Center. Guess what—while the cocktails are weak, the service is crap, the décor is overdone and like something some rube from the suburbs would call “so New Yorky”—these people have to pay the RENT.

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