Someone start a boy band. Okay, someone already has. A lot.

Okay, stop it.

Usually there is a considerable amount of female energy at Smut, considering that it is sometimes a distinctly feminine thing to want to discuss stuff that other people are much more comfortable doing and then shutting the hell up about. But this past Monday night, I was the only one representing the yoni, and I am surprised I didn't leave with ejaculate on any of my belongings.

The crowd was fantastic. Thanks guys. It's amazing what can happen when you get some Grade-A man meat down at Smut.

After my first foray into a herpes bit that is so far, going surprisingly well in development, I introduced the first performer of the evening. The lovely Aaron Lawry, who is a new babe on New York's doorstep, narrowly escaping the confines of Tuscon, AZ. Those confines being a lot of wide open desert, I guess, and a bit of reaction to songs that we might listen to go to bed here in New York. He is an excellent pianist and songwriter, and I wish that our sound system had picked up on him a lot better, because I realized 2 lines later that he had said something hilarious or poigniant, but that it couldnt be heard in the balance of the sound. Ray is an excellent tech maestro, but was maybe just a bit too cute for his tight yummy britches that night. That sounded dirty... even though I totally took a bite out of him. He'll show you the scar.

And then, my love, my life, MCC/MC(squared) (and any other thing he wants me to call him instead of his name so he doesn't get Googled and have total strangers know about the teenage boys he jerked-off... when he was also a teenager--calm down) took the stage. In amazing and jittering form (as the name of his blog would suggest, the kid can throw up just thinking about it), he exposed the yummy inner workings of his psyche, which have allowed him to be both Christian of the Year and Homecoming King as well as seducing all the straight football players at his sleepovers ("Let's see if we can make the white stuff come out."). The authenticity of that newly-deepened young man voice saying "I heard what you did with Mark. Wanna do it with me?" is so spot-on. It's comforting. I am telling you, that kid is going places. I've seen him do a million things at this point. He keeps constantly surprising me. Soon he will have my job. Seriously. And I'll be the only motherfucka that'll be surprised.

As does gin apparently. I am having this problem where I am getting old. And in addition to that, I can't hold my gin lately. So I have two and I am all screwed. Only not in the fun way, like with someone else. It sucks.

And Stuckey was there, and Murray was there. And they were Stuckey & Murray. And God saw that it was good. And then he let me have some. And it was a Stuckey & Murray sandwich. And I was the sweetmeat. Although, technically, I suppose that would make it a Desiree sandwich, on Stuckey & Murray, which kind of sounds like a bread of some sort. Or a bun. They show their buns on the cover of their album "Destination: Rock Bottom." I got one for free, cause they did me. I am starting the rumor, and you heard it here. They played some lovely songs at Smut, that made the whole world grin for a moment. I particularly enjoyed the moment that I explained to a girl (that had them) what DSL were. And when the next verse came around, S&M kindly explained that it would involve a high-speed connection from her lips to their (collective) weiner. We also found out what a few of their favorite things were, which I think involve brazilian-waxed coochies, face-sitting while channel surfing, period boobs, and not when their farts bleed, or Carson Daly. Ew. The Milk ad.

Okay so, would it be like a tuberculosis-cough spatter of blood, or would you fart, and just have a slow dribble down your crack?

Moving along...

Oh yeah, and Mike Daisey is a genius. In case you didn't know. You missed it. I mean, I am sure it's a story he could tell again, but it won't be the same. And I am guessing he wouldn't. He has such a comprehensive insight into stuff, that I am sure there are millions of things he could expound upon. This sounds like I am writing an essay. He told a story about getting stabbed. Yeah. Stabbed by a big crazy masturbating rapist with a butter knife while at work. And you know because of the intricacy of that phrase I am not just making it up (it would have taken more patience than I have). Oh, there were intimate details, and I know you want to look at a picture of his face and think, oh come on... I mean, perhaps he needs to get some shit tattooed on his face for you to know that he is a fuckin' killa. (In the cool sense, not in the, I-just-blew-his-alabi sense). He's actually super sweet. In the center, especially. I got some good Mike Daisey sweat on me after the show. I know.

(I also understand that I use to many parenthetical notes. Please don't write me.)

Where the hell were you smutty-smutsters? Has the chill frozen your crotches; barely-covered by hip-hugging, crack-baring, low-rising pants? Why was a PHENOMENAL evening of performances greeted with the (albeit warm and glowing) crowd of loose matchsticks from Monday night. I am talking off-the-hook kinds of smart Smut. And there were like, 12 people there until 9:45 (also known as "a quarter 'till titties").

It was an all-boy night, and leave it to me to be in rare reject form. Monday night was my descent into the bird flu (how could I be betrayed by that wonderful, proletarian, common-man meat chicken? How?) and as my friend and gay father, Regie Cabico would say, laughter was scattered like loose pearls hitting marble. Everyone's got to have their study-sessions, where the pajama bottoms, glasses and scrunchies are on... and you're just trying shit out. I was doing all sorts of spatterings of race material I rarely do, just to see if anyone connected. Not so much. Shit is tired, apparently. Or at least people tend to tune out if you go through the front gate with that stuff. Best to sneak around back so people see the real shit when those burglar deterrant light sensors go off. Managed to bitch about the dentist (Vicodin--cause there's always pain) and swing back around to my favorite story about ghetto pre-teens on the train.

As Mr. Flaxen Curls Justin Swain was waiting for his posse to show up, the illustrious Bob Powers agreed to read first. I think he's the first man I've met with a sexy lisp. Mostly we want to kick these people in the teeth. For a guy like Bob, you kinda just want to give him a hand-job.

He read his tales from men who have watched their wives have sex with other men and have loved it and hated it, as well as his testimonial from a man who has had sex with another man's wife while that man watched (and of course, spread a web of genetal worts to unsuspecting couples, like any adoptee would). I first saw these stories on his site from his WYSIWYG Talent Show performance. I was squealing with laughter with my headphones plugged into my computer while, I am sure, the phone I was supposed to answer at work rang several times, and lots of happy young gay interns at my office were cheering about yet another thing they did sooooo well!

Then Bob matched his fantastic tweed jacket and salmon dress-shirt with a warm and fuzzy tale of work-related love at the company picnic. In addition to being hilarious, much like the threesome testimonials, it was actually fairly sexy, in the way that water-slides and whipping wet hair back, and de-snotting flooded noses and big wet boners is sexy. Which, when you think about it, really kind of is.

Speaking of noses, Justin Swain filled us all in, shortly thereafter, about his big honkin' nose-fetish. Proof again that you don't have to try hard for a man's affections. Guys like openings. Whatever you've got, they've thought about getting inside... Particularly if you've got a powerful nasal blow, and you expand fantastically in a dreamscape to 50 feet tall. He also shared the most amazing break-up revenge story ever, involving one of those "crazy times on coke" and getting naked and slicing off his own dick before he ever made it to the bedroom where his girlfriend was fucking his best friend. It went from cute angsty boy in A-Ha Video to one of those teen-awareness assembly "Junkie"-type plays that show you just what a "bad trip" can be. Although, this was much more raw and virulent than all of that, and I was impressed that some dude who had just come to see the show before (and incidentally I blindly hit on from the stage) came and performed, and was one of the highlights of the evening as well.

Incidentally, my friend Michael Creighton who went to Emerson, believes this curly blonde to be a classmate who revealed his schlong-dong accidentally during a play and turned out massive audiences for the next evening (as though he were going to incorporate that into his performance in Inherit the Wind or Glengarry Glen Ross or the Crucible or whatever fucking play he was doing). Brilliant.

Last, but never least, was Jeffrey D, singing some dirty songs I hadn't heard. He started with the New York Titty song (not the name of it, but I have always wanted a T-Shirt that said this, so I thought I would just slip the phrase into the collective unconscious and see if I can't find the shirt on St. Marks in a few months), which is always a crowd pleaser... and fortunately for him, by this time, he had a bit of a crowd. He commented on the fact that he came to perform at a reading series, and performed songs, even though he has a new book out. Since he neglected to shill his book, for love of the rock, I am going to do it for him. Cause he brought it. So make sure you read I, An Actress: The Autobiography of Karen Jamey. Cause it will tickle you in a clever and probably creepy way.

He also did a fantastic stripper song, featuring my favorite line of the evening "make this boner expire." I love the thought of an epitaph reading "Here lies the boner of Jeffrey D... not for long! --or-- he is risen! --or-- finally buried in his mother just as he dreamed! Okay, that's not nice. I am sure his mother is a wonderful lady. And I know him to be the kind of man of taste and decorum who would fantasize about other's mothers before his own. This, of course, was all wrapped up with the "let me see your pussy" song, on which he will probably collaborate with Ween and Lenny Kravitz for a club edit... once he moves to LA that is.

What is up with that? Both Jeffrey D. and Justin Swain are moving to LA. Who does that kind of shit anymore? I mean, I hear tale, again from Mr. R. Cabico, that there is an underground arts scene in LA. And yeah, I've seen a cool band there or two. But unless you are finally ready to sell it, which is what it is good for, it doesn't necessarily seem the place for that underground community. Although, who am I to say. I felt like NY was played out before I got here, and after being here 5 years, I am realizing that I am just playing it. And it's fun. I think that LA can and will experience it's own, nouveau rennaissance, once all that restless youth comes down off the latte and realizes that the pace makes people too lazy to go anywhere else, but not too lazy to do something different. That damn place has been needing something different (and not the well-recycled "same") for decades.

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?

Learning how to Count

I am compelled to begin this blog for Galapagos' reading series "Smut" for a few reasons:

Smut is one of the best shows on the planet. For those of you who have not been paying attention, wake up and smell the raw pulsating flesh and throbbing brain matter that is Monday Nights at Galapagos.

Everything has a blog at this point. People need ways to look like they are working when they are not. Why not look at Smut that won't give your computer a virus?

I want everyone to know about the fantabulous performers, past and present, at Smut.

Also, Nichelle Newsletter, a fantastic writer, blogger, performer, friend, crazy lady, etc. just started a blog which I have to toot my own horn and credit some inspriation to a piece that I performed at Smut where I give annotations on all the people I have done. She's a big proponent of "keeping your number down." My number has now surpassed my age, and doesn't look like it's stopping soon. I am just going to have to keep getting older. And start doing the same person. Sometimes it's like re-using a tea bag (gets weaker and weaker every time) but still...