|
That, and he likes spot-checking to make sure that
my love life is still messy, absent, or unfulfilling.
It makes him feel all warm inside.
I wondered, therefore, if this call was
made from some kind of nuthouse. The first thing I
could suss out from his moist-sounding sputters was,
“The dwarf – she fuckin’ stripped,
man!”
My mind leapt to drunks throwing beer cans and Cheetos
in a dirt-floored arena before a cock-fight. But evidently
he’d taken his teen-age son (to condemnably
boy-bond/piss off his ex-wife) to something called
the Velvet Hammer Burlesque.
Burlesque. A whorling tendril of a word, tasty, conjuring
sequins and fan-dancers and top hats. (And Milton
Berle of course, the first tranny comedian, who started
out there; accessorized, legend trills, by a rather
long schlong.)
From about 1840 to 1960 , before TV ruined the world,
Burlesque was a preferred pastime of low and high-born
alike. It was a ‘variety show,’ all fun,
risqué in word and deed, satirizing leaders/war/social
mores, punctuated by goofiness and naughty vamps in
states of undress.
“How could that possibly translate to today?”
thought I. Aye, those were simpler times. I mean,
you can’t exactly correspond a flash of thigh
to some chick shooting eggs out of her snatch.
CUT TO: POST-THANKSGIVING FRIDAY ANGST — NIGHT
‘Angst’ because in just 364 more days,
I’ll have to writhe, yet again, through the
heinous gorging rite that exists only to provide the
starting shot for Yuletide shopping, and exalt America’s
first minority slaughter.
The moon was full, though, the weather mild. I was
on my way to see the Velvet Hammer Burlesque for myself,
and actually by myself, as my mood was a
triple shot of Bleak with a Hormone back.
The show’s venue was the El Rey Theatre which
I must say, begrudgingly cheered me a tad. Its just
my style — authentic Art Deco, slightly seedy,
with pandemic red velvet and a balcony lounge. Raised,
round tables scallop either side. You can bring drinks
to your seat, rare in Nazi L.A.
The crowd surprised me, despite my new life motto:
Don’t Be (fuckin’ stupid enough to be)
Surprised. Ever.
‘Twas a motley coalition, inside and out. Chic
and butch-y lesbians/gay men, of course. Clots of
straight guys with mealy pick-up smiles. Several families,
three with grannies. Beautiful, pale retro-Goth girls
and brooding swains, the hot kind with long hair and
long coats. Couples. ‘Dates’ — snigger
worthy —one with the she-half waddling in Mt.
Everest heels and a rabbit ‘wrap,’ clenching
a microscopic Vuitton purse… the he-half forgetting
to close his mouth when he gawked at her ta-tas.
Now, I’m as attached to my sorrows as the next
skirt (believe me) but it was hard to stay dank when
the band whooped up that caliente sax-heavy
film-noir grrrind music — the kind that swells
up when The Hussy makes her entrance. A smoke machine
puffed; a dusky rose scent filled the air.
The show was authentic Burlesque, the same basic
template as a hundred years ago: Comedy! Girls! Girls!
Comedy, (Hot Girl) Magician, Girls! The bulbous, bewigged,
faux-Limey emcee, ‘Basil Crackup,’ was
intensely charismatic and intensely silly, and roused
us jaded scenesters to our feet for some loopy audience
participation.
People dropped their shit. The grannies and pierced-tongued
united as one. It was awesome to see.
The ‘Who Gets Rich & Famous’ list
is so inane, it simply must be concocted by soul sales
to Satan. There’s more talent under piers than
in the oeuvre of E! News. The Velvet Hammer comics
were a scream, fame-worthy; bawdy, but ‘clean.’
As a gal who covets the phrase ‘fuck you, motherfucker’
like a thousand rare pearls, I’m here to say
that while I cherish the obscene… it was durn
refreshing to gut bust without it.
As for the strippers, compadres, I must confess,
with the heaviest of hearts, that my soul is still
crying. What the fuck have we done?
To the splendor of the Feminine, I mean; ‘we’
being God’s Red Menace, the U.S. of A.
I’m not a big fan of being human. Its boring
to pee, you age, there’s pain and, as of late,
its damn expensive. But now and then I will melt into
the groove of our weird primal pith and the spells
it casts.
I had forgotten how beguiling we females can be.
Alfred Hitchcock always ‘signaled’ how
his movies would end. This trick, strangely, didn’t
compromise the suspense, but increased it. And so
with classic stripping. Each act started with a ‘character’
— we’re talking high amusement here: Dorothy
of Oz, Snow White, Marie Antoinette, A Ballerina (toe
shoes)… book-ended by the stacked Gypsy dwarf
and all hail, our king, Elvis.
The coquettes whittled to bottom and bra, then peeled
to a g-string and pasties while dancing, really dancing,
with charm, humor and grace. Sexy grace. Allure. It
was like a drug and I wanted to smoke some.
No crotch thrusting. No flicking tongues. It wasn’t
‘Fuck Me.’ It wasn’t ‘I Am
Woman, Hear Me Roar.’ It was ‘I Enjoy
Being A Girl.’
All of these chicks were ‘alternative’
types, tattooed, kohl-eyed, a bow to Old Berlin. No
implants. No perfection. Real bodies, well loved by
their owners. And it was hot. “Its not the meat,
it’s the motion” took on a whole new twist.
|
