Written via Blackberry on Thursday March 24th, 2011.
***
After a long day, at the end of a long week, one quarter of a tiring and trying month, I just needed to get out on my own and do something that old Kurt would have done, or maybe something old me wished he did.
Bowery Poetry Club, a place I don't frequent nearly enough considering I fancy myself a poet, is having a burlesque graduation performance tonight. Seeing as how I'm beginning to put my (own spin on) erotica out there, I decided this would be a good first step to get out into the world of sexy performance artists.
I know that writing on its own is a hard sell, so doing live readings is definitely key, especially with my work. But if I could somehow incorporate my writing with girls getting naked and dancing on stage, well that would really get some notice now wouldn't it?
And I figured what better place to start this journey than seeing girls who are doing it for the first time. Then we're all a bit awkward right? Well so far, sitting in Bowery Beef, waiting to enter, I feel pretty awkward but not quite the crippling social anxiety I'm used to, so a good first step.
With $37 burning a hole in my pocket ($32.50 after a beer at good ol' Botanica to stave off the nerves) and two open bars in the LES lined up for later, I'm ready to go. I exchange $7 for a stamp on my hand and I'm in. After two PBRs I'm down to $17.50 but I've got beers and a seat in the back so it's all good. So far.
Marinara Stardust. Dancing to David Bowie.
She was a bit chubby and tall so you know she needed the attention. Maybe that sounds brutal but it's the truth. She's not unattractive, far from it, just larger framed and you can tell she has a big personality to match (if the indication of sheer number of friends in the audience who screamed her name from their seats). She wears a crocodile mask and a green fleece zip-up. She's daring and bold and other than the veil-like mask, she shows no indication that this is her first time. As first girl out, she owns that moment.
Moustache Terrorist. Classy Cuban music, vintage and authentic. She's leaving NY so she's got a suitcase, a cane, and a boa. That's it. She's stark naked and with a fantastic body, though slight turn of the skin across her stomach, a stretch of skin down her right shoulder, it seems like something must have happened to her, some accident. But what didn't kill her made her stronger, and with a thrust of her moustache-tattooed pubic area this girl captivates the room.
Vivian LaFlam. Pump it up.
Then comes sporty spice, adorned in leg warmers, loose sweatshirt, and bounding across the stage with weights in hand, she's the tomboy. You can tell she loves wearing jeans, and might like to burp after a good meal, and she's down to have a beer and down some wings. But she's pretty, cute a lot of the time, but she wants to be sexy. She doesn't go there totally, a moment of hesitation as she go through the routine, but it's not so obvious that the casual member of the audience would notice as they found themselves checking out her curves.
Corvette LaFace. Nerdlesque.
Now this was the girl, the best for last, the hipster sensibilities represented. Immensely tall brunette, short shoulder length crop, dork glasses, and full standard sexy nerd tight black slacks, white shirt, and black tie. Now I've always had a thing for girls in guys clothes, not to mention glasses, so as she did robot-smooth dance moves along to some indie underground band (probably from Bushwick), with a geek guy assistant sitting off to the side, iBook in his grip, watching her as she lays pieces of clothing on top of him. She is girly-amazon, and whips off her top revealing two Apple logo stickers covering her nipples.
I leave a business card on the bar on my way out and head on over to meet Laura Lee at Dressing Room in the Lower East Side. We do a couple of Miller High Life/cheap whiskey shot combos (the 'Waiting Boyfriend' special), and then a friend of hers swings by so we don't get much chance to talk things over and smooth out a bad night we had before. I feel jealous of her going out to see this band that she's friend with, mostly because the main character in her graphic novel falls for a character she based on the guy in the band. A writer. Silly, I know, but it makes me sad.
I push her away when she has to go to the show, and I stumble off, cigarette in hand. I hit Parkside Lounge and get a PBR on tap and wait for the free Jameson. I have sort of coupon I should find out about. Two slutty chicks in Jameson short dresses have handed me it and so I hand it to the bartender and I get a large plastic glass with whiskey in it. I vaguely remember drinking it before stomping out and down the sidewalk. Somehow that's the end of my cash. So no reason to stay here I feel.
So I leave. Fuck everything. I'm going to go home and cause a huge mess when I can because fuck it. I fucking hate everyone anyways. I can barely survive in the east village these days without some sort of back up.
That's about all I wrote Thursday night before somehow making it home on the G train and making a very small mess, then passing out on the floor, where I apparently half-consciously sent a stream of unintelligible self-loathing texts to my girlfriend. I'm not proud of it, but between feeling the need to confess and understand what the hell is going on in my head, I write about it.
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