One Fine Saturday

Well, I played hooky from my niece’s first birthday party this weekend, and my nephew’s third. With fourteen (soon to be fifteen) nieces and nephews, it’s inevitable that sooner or later I’m going to fall short on the uncling duties every now and then. On the other hand, I had the best excuse ever: boobies.

Yes, it was once again time for the New York Burlesque Festival, and like last year, we went to the Saturday Night Extravaganza at BB King’s. More on that in a moment.

We spent the first part of the day at Manhattan Theatre Source, enjoying the first week of the Estrogenius festival, which has grown into a sprawling, five-week celebration of women-produced, women-centric theater. (That isn’t to say that there are no men involved; there are, at every level. But there are women central to every short play; the Bechdel Rule wins the day here.)

(Incidentally, this seems to be a habit for us. Each year, before we go the the NYBF -- which, while a woman-centric art form, has at its core an admitted amount of objectifying -- we've gone to see other woman-powered art. Last year was a collection of short films by Chick Strand at the New York Film Festival.)

This week’s plays were produced by TheatreSource’s executive director (and my good friend and first—albeit fictional—wife) Jen Thatcher. Five short plays that ranged from two older women rather testily discussing the college dean that bound them together to a zombie attack in the land of fairytales. Quite a range, and every play in the show really hit the mark. For the fifth week of the festival, one show from each of the four weeks will get an encore, as determined by audience demand. Me, well… as much as I loved Olivia Rorick’s performance in Katherine Clark Gray’s “Pussycat,” I’m hoping for more zombies. (That play, by the way, was called “Snow White Zombie,” written by Brenton Lengel, directed by Lita Tremblay.) Estrogenius continues through October 30.

Then, after a stop for crepes, we were off to the Burlesque Festival, meeting our friends Mike and Maria in the line outside of B.B. King’s. And oh, what a show! There was a little something for everybody, as the show began with Mimi First dressed like a cross between Zatanna and a magician’s rabbit, stepping (one leg at a time) out of a giant top hat. There were classic peels, as done by Miss Indigo Blue and Adora Derriere (who used sound effects to great advantage, following the advice of animal sounds telling her to remove fur, feathers, and eventually, a whalebone corset). There were sillier moments—such as Delilah’s attempt to climb into a giant pint glass of PBR, but her tight dress was simply too constricting to get the job done properly, Dr. Lucky’s portrayal of Marie Antoillette, or when the Evil Hate Monkey, well… peeled his banana. There was room for a little geekout: witness Lux La Croix’s energetic robot dance, or Gigi La Femme’s transformation from Episode IV’s diaphanous Princess Leia to the Leia costume Jabba prefers. And there were a few social statements as well: Ms Tickle made a thought-provoking transformation from blow-up doll to a Live Nude Girl, still trapped in the same station; later, Tigger took on the persona of a merman in the oil-choked Gulf of Mexico to a lounge version of “Black Hole Sun.”

As Lyle Lovett sings, there’s more I remember, and more I could mention —and hell, let me tip my hat to the amazing Miss Saturn, who managed to disrobe whilst twirling hula hoops!—but description to a certain extent diminishes these acts. These were amazing, eye-popping performances that pasted a smile of disbelief on my face and kept it there all night.

And there’s only one word for that, as emcee Murray Hill well knows: Showbiz!

Rob

Showbiz!

I saw a sweet country girl reveal her biker-chick side, and a donut-munching cop turn into a crook. A woman turned into an angel, and girls defied gravity. I learned there's more than one way to make lemonade. And I saw Goldfinger, which isn't something you soon forget.


The New York Burlesque Festival's Saturday Spectacular was eye-popping, jaw-dropping fun.. and a hell of a way to turn almost forty. Thanks to my pals, and my glorious wife, for coming out and having this kind of a crazy good time with me. And thanks to everyone involved in making this amazing show happen!

Rob

Rob's Getting Old! Everybody Shimmy!

In a few weeks, my friends, I will be 40. And before that happens, I want to celebrate. Because I could very well bust a hip or something if I wait until afterward.

So, on October 3rd, five days before the clock strikes old, Kathy & I are going to the New York Burlesque Festival at BB Kings. We're buying $25 general admission tickets. The doors open at 6:30 p.m., and the show begins at 7:30. Meet us in line (we'll probably line up around 5:30 for good seats), and we'll all go in together!


If you haven't been to a burlesque show before, let me tell you what it isn't: It's not some sleazy strip club. There ain't no lap dances, ain't no "champagne room." What it is is a bunch of grownups putting on a sexy, funny show, full of bawdy jokes, risque dancing, and maybe even a little carnival sideshow thrown in for good measure. It's so much better than stripping: It's what you thought stripping was when you were a little kid. You'll have a blast.

So check out the link above, and this video preview. Or read this review of a Starshine Burlesque show from a few years ago. And join us as I get old before your very eyes!

Rob
(P.S. No gifts, please -- tickets are 25 bucks apiece, plus service charges, so go easy on yerselves!)

(Also: I realize this *is* an expensive night out. If you can't make it, I totally understand.)

Sexy Beasts

If I hadn't spent a late night in the city last night, I'd be watching the debate here.

What fun!

Rob

Zowie!

One hell of a good night last night.

Kathy and I headed downtown to Lucky Cheng’s Fortune Cookie Cabaret to see Starshine Burlesque’s tribute to the New York Comic Con, which involved lovely ladies dressed as superheroes, takin’ it off. And having a wicked time doing it.

But first, we stopped for dinner at a French bistro on Orchard Street where we dined outside in the temperate night air. We’re a week away from our 5-year anniversary, and since we honeymooned in Paris, this was like taking a little micro-honeymoon. Kathy enjoyed some steak frites, I had some delicious boeuf bourguignonne over fettuccinni, and we shared a goat cheese tart that makes me think that chèvre might be the queen of all cheeses. (Why not the king? No idea... I just get a sense of femininity about it. I imagine there’s a king and a prince and a jack and a jester as well.. there’s room for a great deal of cheese royalty in my court.)

Then, off to Lucky Cheng's, where we had a drink at the bar served by the lovely Lila (who stresses politeness), but we soon headed back to the Fortune Cookie Caberet, where Plum Manchego was setting forth with the pre-show go-go, in a green and white outfit that had me saying “My God... She’s full of stars...” So I already had my geek on, but for a while I was so deliriously happy that I had totally forgotten what the theme of the night was. I was just happy to be there. I told Kathy: “If I die, and all of this isn’t going on around me... I’ll know I’m in hell.”

And then... the main event. The World Famous *BOB*, dressed as “Wonderful Woman,” acted as our mistress of ceremonies. Warm and witty, she threatened to use her lasso of truth on the audience, and at one point harangued an audience member whose cell phone rang: “Is it your mother?” she asked. “Is it your dealer?”

The dancers were a blast, of course. Weirdee Girl started out the night in a spectacular 60s-era Catwoman costume. Spurned by the handsome Adam West Batman, she contemplated (and committed) suicide, dispatching several of her nine lives before deciding he wasn’t worth it. Fem Appeal followed up as “The Incredible Cook”: Imagine the Hulk (her style was more Hulk than She-Hulk) doing the angriest cooking show in the world, ripping her clothes off as she went. This woman was painted green, head to toe. Ninety-five percent of her was green, pals and gals. I once dyed less than a third of me yellow for a Homer Simpson Halloween costume, so I can tell you this: That grief takes commitment. Rounding off the first act was Leyla Rose, visiting from the UK as a wolf girl (maybe Li’l Abner’s Wolf Gal?), revealing a fur bikini and a really funny sight gag.

In the middle of the first act was Ravi the Scorpion Mystic. While everyone else was having a great night of dress-up, this guy had genuine superpowers. Billed as “The Elastic Boy,” he contorted and twisted himself into stomach-churning shapes, and even managed to slip his body through the hoop of a tennis racket. Throughout it all, I was agog. (Later on, we saw him in the subway. He looked like a regular dude with a tennis racket. Secret identity, indeed.)

The second act had even more fun -- beginning with Nasty Canasta’s Poison Ivy routine (to Alice Cooper’s “Posion.”). This was followed by the comic highlight of the show, as Little Brooklyn danced out in a massive foam-rubber Thing costume -- to the Commodores’ “Brick House,” of course. Shedding bricks right and left, she was eventually left with just a rocky orange bikini... and a Kirbyesque surprise underneath. Throughout it all, she kept her big rocky Thing head on. Surreal? Hilarious? Awesome.

Finally, Creamy Stevens showed us the importance of remembering to put your costume on under your clothes before you leave the house, in case a quick change is needed to fight crime. Some kryptonite-induced stripping later made her Superwoman routine an extra treat.

And then, if all that wasn’t enough, just to emphasize the point that the show could have been narrowcasted to the pleasure centers of my brain -- World Famous Bob encouraged us all to get up out of our seats and do the Robot... as the Fresh Prince of Darkness played Styx’s “Mr. Roboto.”

Domo Arigoto, ladies.

Rob

Cue the Drunken Trombones

So last night, after intending to do this for years now, Kathy & I finally made it to a burlesque show in NYC. Starshine Burlesque was having its final performance at Rififi, and we decided we wanted to see them before they moved.

Man, was it a good time. The pre-show go-go was by Scarlet Sinclair, shakin' it in a black, KISS-inspired outfit. Nothing says "kiss my ass" like big pictures of Gene Simmons and Peter Criss on yer heinie. (Update: Scarlet's posted a photo from last night on her livejournal page.)

The show itself started late -- around 11 p.m. instead of the posted 10:15-ish start time. Because of the packed crowd (and despite Ms. Sinclair), I was getting a little cranky -- I was in a winter coat and sweater, and was dyin'. Then, when we got to the stage area, we found ourselves in a standing room only area behind two very tall women. I was getting a little grumpier.

But then the show began. And man, what a good time, right from the start. First up was Tigger, our transvestite emcee. We'd actually seen him before, on Pants-Off Dance-Off, but here, he was really in his element. He got the crowd cheering and dancing to the "national anthem" (that Old-Time Stripper Music Whose Name I Know Not), ran a drinking contest, and gave out spangly awards to members of the crew and the audience. All the while introducing dancer after dancer: Jo Boobs, Darlinda Just Darlinda, Julie Atlas Muz (who performed what was probably my favorite routine of the night, putting clothes on and packing up to "Another One Bites the Dust") and Miss Delirium Tremens.

Last but not at all least were Starshine's producers, Little Brooklyn and Creamy Stevens, who said goodbye to the joint. Brooklyn's routine was the title song of Rififi, joined by her husband, dressed all in black to offer her shadowy assistance in disrobing. Finally, Creamy Stevens' final routine was to "Auf Wiedersehen" from The Sound of Music. It's not a song that I'd ever imagined I'd watch someone take off her clothes to -- but now that I have, I doubt I'll ever forget it.

What stands head and shoulders above everything else, though -- even above the talent and dedication it takes to pull a show like this off, every week, with such panache -- is the sheer amount of joy in the room. The people on stage love what they're doing. The people in the audience--as many women as men, if not more so--love watching them, and they love the experience of watching them, which is a little different than the watching itself. The hoots and whistles and cheers -- it's all participation. Everyone has their own little piece of the action.

And when it comes down to it, don't we all want a little piece now and then?

Rob

Bump and (Slow) Grind

Flew into Vegas last night, arriving a little before 8 (or a little before 11, according to my body.) Ordered room service and watched the season premiere of Lost (didn't expect to see him again...at least not so soon). Then...at 10 (or 1 a.m., my time) I went out for drinks with some coworkers and other industry folks. After some gin and some margaritas, most everyone called it a night -- except me and Wild Turkey (the co-worker, not the drink). We headed off to Mandalay Bay to see a burlesque show at Ivan Kane's Forty Deuce.

Overall, it was kinda disappointing. I was hoping for some old-time dixieland combo with the Burly-Q (sort of like the photo at left), but instead it was a rock band called Royal Jelly. (I should have checked the listings better -- Thursday was specifically the "rock & roll burlesque," so I should have known.) So instead of the dancing to the old-time stripper music I learned to play in 6th grade (seriously -- I had a trombone solo of "Basin Street Blues," possibly the stripperiest of stripper songs ever), we got to see a girl dance to "Girls Girls Girls" and "Once Bitten, Twice Shy." She was a good dancer, and fun to watch, no question. But the music was kind of a let-down, since you can hear Crue in almost any strip club in America. At least is wasn't "Pour Some Sugar On Me," which The Daily Show called "the National Anthem of Stripclubistan."

But the thing that really killed the night was the pace. We got there just as the band was leaving the stage. The bartenders took down a platform they were using to perform. Then... leisurely... they installed a pole on the bar. Then, after a bit of a wait, the dancer came out and dance to her two songs. More dancing than stripping, she was dressed sexy from the start and stayed that way, just losing a ripped teeshirt along the way, revealing a spangly bra. And then she left the stage.

And then we waited.

And waited.

And then the bartenders took the pole down.

And then we waited some more.

And more.

Had another beer.

People-watched. There was a redhead in the corner who looked like the insanely lovely Kari Byron from Mythbusters. No dice, though.

The bartenders put the platform back, checked some attached lights.

And we waited.

I asked a bartender, and he assured me that there'd be more dancing.

So we waited.

The guitarist came out.

Then the drummer.

Then the bassist.

The did a bit of a sound check.

And then they started playing Aerosmith's "Walk This Way." It was kind of a reverse karaoke -- they were playing their instruments, but they were piping in Steven Tyler's vocal track. And then the dancers came out, dressed nearly identically in zippered, brightly colored sexiness. And it was SPECTACULAR. They were all good dancers, having a blast onstage, and eventually the topclothes came off, revealing hotpants with hearts on them and (frankly kinda weird) wiry bra-type things. There was wild applause as they left the stage before the song finished. Then the band wrapped up the song, getting some more applause (but a little less hearty).

And then they put their instruments down, and left the stage.

And the bartenders dismantled the platform.

And Wild Turkey and I left (without me even talking to "Kari" as I'd planned to. Totally chickened out there -- but what would the point be, anyway?).

One song. That was it.

Still, it was a decent club, and there was no cover, and we had a good time. And it wasn't a strip club or anything, with the lapdances and dollar-by-dollar stripper extortion. But it also wasn't the good time we'd planned on.

But man... pick up the pace. Respect the momentum.

Rob