A wet chill falls over the dirty people of Brooklyn. And it's Monday night. And Columbus Day at that. What a shitty reason for a holiday, but God help him, discoveries are always made upon the backs of others. You just don't have to put small pox on their backs as well. But thankfully, I needed the day off, and people need to be able to profit from bastards eventually. Perhaps by the time our generation and the remnants of the Bush Admisitration are long gone, people will get to take a whole week off for President's Day. 'Cause they'll need to do some serious reflecting.
But yes, I was worried about the Mojo for Monday night's Smut. Didn't know if I had it. Thought perhaps I had smoked it all out of me that cold afternoon. Fortunately when I arrived, Barman and local shaven cutie Chris was there with my gin and tonic (having urged me away from the white russian I was tempted to indulge in... as far as I know, quinine is always good for you--or at least scurvy. Milk isn't. Especially Bad milk. Milk gone wrong. Deviant Milk. That's a damn good band name people... I hope someone is collecting these pearls... of deviant milk). Sometimes I don't like to drink before shows. But it's hard when you perform in bars. And you want to keep pretending that you're there to have a good time too... And then entertain everyone cause that's really what you want to do.
Fortunately the Galapagos crowd is always pretty kind. Or at least tamed into submission by work when happy hour arrives. And I had a friendly and fantastic line-up. Local Jewish & Japanese guitar-strumming patootie Danny Katz was there to give me schnerbles (although no tongue this time. He was sick) shortly after arrival. And I did the weathered underpaid comedian bitch 'n moan with Michelle Maclay when she arrived. I went outside to go over my opening set and have a smoke. By the time I finished the smoke, I realized how little of a set I actually had, and just decided, yet again, to give over to the crutch of winging it. 'Cause who really gives a crap, it's free. That's what one must remind themselves when performing. I mean, hell, you're just letting them get you a little liquored up so you can provide them with entertainment they couldn't possibly come up with themselves. Who really cares?
Contrary to popular belief, that's almost always the beginning of a great show.
When I came back in, Rachel Shukert had arrived, in her Werther's Original grampa sweater and undercover pilgrim/French chambermaid dress, and an entourage of local superheroes, including peroxide blonde, solo-rocker and lead of Semi-Precious Weapons, Justin Tranter (I feel like such an ET! correspondant, name dropping like that)... oh yeah, and her boyfriend, but whatever...
After waiting around for about 30 more people (who wouldn't be coming until titties were on at 10), I decided not to see the establishment as more than half-empty, but to see the actual bar itself as entirely full. That's a good sign. The celebrated "seasons" are back in New York, and we're all doing what we do best. Drinking and Fucking. Those of us who missed out on Smut this past Monday night... *ahem* (you know who you are) were obviously participating in the (if you do it correctly) cheaper of the two options.
After in engaging in my poor black girl kvetch-fest, and throwing out my dick and pussy jokes, I invited Michelle, comedian, writer, actress, producer of The Social Experiment, up to tell us about her sex life. Which, like mine, boils down to manmade girl porn, wearing super-plus tampons, and of course, who could forget, fantacizing about being gang-raped by 16 year old boys. My friends Adia and Marie adored her. I cackled, some people at the bar tittered, and everyone else listened like it was a book report. Not physics revision notes, guys, you don't have to get this all down. It was kind of like she was giving a book report though, with the podium and composition notebook. Perhaps some 8 year old will read her journals one day and have to tell her classmates about it through an intepretive skit.
Danny Katz, although sick, was in an amazing form. He sung the song of all of us relegated to internet dating... for all of us who realize, once too many clothes have been taken off, that we signed up for a loser and a bag of empty, sexually-gratifying promises. He also sung some more of his serious, just pensive, plaintive, pondering penis ballads (okay, the first three were true, the last, because who's ever suprised when a penis pokes its way into a situation, especially when queer internet hookups are involved), which I actually hadn't heard before. So the set was appropriately fleshy to end with his pop-folk cover of Missy's "Work It."
He was also so kind as to hand a stick to me and run the fuck away as I blindfolded myself and railed on our nation's current misappropriation of attention toward baseball and other current public diversions that are centered on escapism and shriveled nuts. It was fun. Scotty the Blue Bunny (one of the favored performers I have met in my time performing in living rooms and in front of bodegas around town), who was there to feature in burlesque that night, gave me accolaides, and the advice that there is a true performance piece in that rant, perhaps involving the dessimation of a Thanksgiving ham. Turkeys already got it so rough. And then, of course, an Escalade full of closeted homothugs rolled by, with a few sideways comments about our favorite sapphire sequined rabbit, and Scotty at to swish some impromptu fierceness from his fluffy rear appendage. His tail. Tail.
And Rachel, as always, was effulgent in her interpretive Columbus Day dance, making sure first to attach a token Jew (Woody Allen) and several bags of plastic squaws while the sounds of "Half Breed" blasted out the doors. Aside from being able to come up with the most inspired insulting insights (re: Danny Katz' geneology "You're the biggest JAP of all!"), the kindest of personal affections and explosive movement for drunken old men in Brooklyn, her work is smart, fun, and always honest. As well as highly educational from a social-historical perspective. I secretly long for her and Mr. Lower East Side, Neal Medlyn, to collaborate on a performance festival centered around the oeuvre of Alicia Bridges... which I think is just that one song, right?
But yes, I was worried about the Mojo for Monday night's Smut. Didn't know if I had it. Thought perhaps I had smoked it all out of me that cold afternoon. Fortunately when I arrived, Barman and local shaven cutie Chris was there with my gin and tonic (having urged me away from the white russian I was tempted to indulge in... as far as I know, quinine is always good for you--or at least scurvy. Milk isn't. Especially Bad milk. Milk gone wrong. Deviant Milk. That's a damn good band name people... I hope someone is collecting these pearls... of deviant milk). Sometimes I don't like to drink before shows. But it's hard when you perform in bars. And you want to keep pretending that you're there to have a good time too... And then entertain everyone cause that's really what you want to do.
Fortunately the Galapagos crowd is always pretty kind. Or at least tamed into submission by work when happy hour arrives. And I had a friendly and fantastic line-up. Local Jewish & Japanese guitar-strumming patootie Danny Katz was there to give me schnerbles (although no tongue this time. He was sick) shortly after arrival. And I did the weathered underpaid comedian bitch 'n moan with Michelle Maclay when she arrived. I went outside to go over my opening set and have a smoke. By the time I finished the smoke, I realized how little of a set I actually had, and just decided, yet again, to give over to the crutch of winging it. 'Cause who really gives a crap, it's free. That's what one must remind themselves when performing. I mean, hell, you're just letting them get you a little liquored up so you can provide them with entertainment they couldn't possibly come up with themselves. Who really cares?
Contrary to popular belief, that's almost always the beginning of a great show.
When I came back in, Rachel Shukert had arrived, in her Werther's Original grampa sweater and undercover pilgrim/French chambermaid dress, and an entourage of local superheroes, including peroxide blonde, solo-rocker and lead of Semi-Precious Weapons, Justin Tranter (I feel like such an ET! correspondant, name dropping like that)... oh yeah, and her boyfriend, but whatever...
After waiting around for about 30 more people (who wouldn't be coming until titties were on at 10), I decided not to see the establishment as more than half-empty, but to see the actual bar itself as entirely full. That's a good sign. The celebrated "seasons" are back in New York, and we're all doing what we do best. Drinking and Fucking. Those of us who missed out on Smut this past Monday night... *ahem* (you know who you are) were obviously participating in the (if you do it correctly) cheaper of the two options.
After in engaging in my poor black girl kvetch-fest, and throwing out my dick and pussy jokes, I invited Michelle, comedian, writer, actress, producer of The Social Experiment, up to tell us about her sex life. Which, like mine, boils down to manmade girl porn, wearing super-plus tampons, and of course, who could forget, fantacizing about being gang-raped by 16 year old boys. My friends Adia and Marie adored her. I cackled, some people at the bar tittered, and everyone else listened like it was a book report. Not physics revision notes, guys, you don't have to get this all down. It was kind of like she was giving a book report though, with the podium and composition notebook. Perhaps some 8 year old will read her journals one day and have to tell her classmates about it through an intepretive skit.
Danny Katz, although sick, was in an amazing form. He sung the song of all of us relegated to internet dating... for all of us who realize, once too many clothes have been taken off, that we signed up for a loser and a bag of empty, sexually-gratifying promises. He also sung some more of his serious, just pensive, plaintive, pondering penis ballads (okay, the first three were true, the last, because who's ever suprised when a penis pokes its way into a situation, especially when queer internet hookups are involved), which I actually hadn't heard before. So the set was appropriately fleshy to end with his pop-folk cover of Missy's "Work It."
He was also so kind as to hand a stick to me and run the fuck away as I blindfolded myself and railed on our nation's current misappropriation of attention toward baseball and other current public diversions that are centered on escapism and shriveled nuts. It was fun. Scotty the Blue Bunny (one of the favored performers I have met in my time performing in living rooms and in front of bodegas around town), who was there to feature in burlesque that night, gave me accolaides, and the advice that there is a true performance piece in that rant, perhaps involving the dessimation of a Thanksgiving ham. Turkeys already got it so rough. And then, of course, an Escalade full of closeted homothugs rolled by, with a few sideways comments about our favorite sapphire sequined rabbit, and Scotty at to swish some impromptu fierceness from his fluffy rear appendage. His tail. Tail.
And Rachel, as always, was effulgent in her interpretive Columbus Day dance, making sure first to attach a token Jew (Woody Allen) and several bags of plastic squaws while the sounds of "Half Breed" blasted out the doors. Aside from being able to come up with the most inspired insulting insights (re: Danny Katz' geneology "You're the biggest JAP of all!"), the kindest of personal affections and explosive movement for drunken old men in Brooklyn, her work is smart, fun, and always honest. As well as highly educational from a social-historical perspective. I secretly long for her and Mr. Lower East Side, Neal Medlyn, to collaborate on a performance festival centered around the oeuvre of Alicia Bridges... which I think is just that one song, right?
posted by DesTheRay at 9:12 AM
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