Since Thursdays are the new Fridays and the new Saturdays, it’s no surprise that I had three separate soirees I wanted to hit on Oct. 28th. My first stop was Obliterati, Nick McGlynn‘s monthly literary fete. The event was sponsored by NearSay and when Trevor — NearSay’s Head of Products and Marketing — told me to give them feedback about how to make their site better, I quipped, “Well, you could publish some of my writing!” Ever the consummate salesman, he responded with something cheerfully noncommittally as I moved into the bar. But I did receive a follow-up email acknowledging my inquiry, so stay tuned!
After picking up a beer, I wove my way through the crowd to the back garden in search of our host. I met Nick when we were both in Vegas for the Adult Entertainment Expo, at a party in a high roller suite. A suds fight in an enormous bathroom with Jonno, Jamye Waxman and a dozen other members of the sexerati culminated with us sharing the jacuzzi bathtub. He recently moved out to LA, “just for something different,” he explained, and, as one might expect, he is missing New York City. Well New York misses him too! We burbled about our Halloween itineraries, promising to sync up somehow via our assorted gizmos and social networking platforms.
Photo by Nick McGlynn
From there I strolled over to The Delancey for The Mudd Club – Club 57 – New Wave Vaudeville Reunion. To be honest, I’ve only been to The Mudd Club once. My cousin Inger Lorre and I drove in from suburban New Jersey to see Fear on a snowy night seemingly a lifetime ago. Or maybe a few lifetimes. So I wasn’t expecting to recognize anyone. As we approached the club, the swarm of reunitees on the sidewalk threatened an extended wait. “I’m on the list,” I told the door guy, giving him an imploring look. He shook his head, indicating the impatient masses behind the velvet ropes. And as though on cue, my friend Georgie (Delancey’s events manager) appeared, grabbed me by the hand and pulled me inside. “Quick, man, it’s crazy out there,” he said as we hustled down the hallway. “Give her a stamp,” he instructed the clipboard holder. I thanked him profusely as he disappeared into the club.
After a second beer and a few songs from three women of a certain age, I decided it was time to head out to Le Poisson Rouge. “Don’t leave yet,” Georgie flailed, finishing up a phone call. “I’m on my way to BadAss,” I explained. “It’s their last monthly and the lineup is incredible. There were air kisses and goodnights on the sidewalk before I jumped into a cab. My gizmo chimed. “You want I should hold spots for you up front?” texted Alex. “Yes, in a cab, almost there,” I chimed back. Ah, nothing like having someone scouting the territory for you!
Getting out of the cab on the corner of Bleecker and LaGuardia, the sidewalk was jammed with eager audience members. “Oh, I simply cannot wait in that line!” I grumbled. The man at the rope explained that everyone was waiting; the doors weren’t open yet. With impeccable timing, Alex Colby appeared in the doorway. “I think I’m on the list,” I ventured, hoping for the best. He ducked inside and returned seconds later, instructing the rope man to let me in. I laughed as Alex ushered me to the clipboard guy. “Are you Abby?” the handsome young man inquired. I laughed out loud. “Yes, indeed I am!” I replied. It sounded like he was asking if I was Madonna, but I’m sure what he meant was, “Are you the person this friend of yours just asked about?” I was, indeed, on the list and seconds later I was seated, front and center, at the foot of the stage.
Vulgaras opened the show with a a deafening set and the live show was followed by the debut of their latest video, “Bruja Rising.” Then Mistress Formika took the stage in her inimitable aggressive fashion. “Hello, putahs!” she welcomed us. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you all,” she continued, “especially this putah right here,” she said, looking down at me. Formika and I go way back, to the messy days at Kitsch Inn, and we didn’t part on the best of terms. But it’s nice to know that after enough years, that crap can be forgotten.
Now I am the first to admit I’m a jaded cunt. Nothing impresses me and I’ve seen it all. Well, at least I think I have. But I do love to be surprised. It’s been a while since I’ve been to a burlesque show. I have seen, literally, hundreds of acts: bump, grind, pasties twirling, blahblahblah. I KNOW! I told you I was jaded! But BadAss always amazes me. Something about the name of the night, perhaps, or the vibe of an event that begins so late in the evening — not to mention the mere presence of the show’s bad ass producer, Velocity Chyaldd — conspires to create an atmosphere where performers feel comfortable baring more than their breasts. They consistently amaze me. But I was, seriously, stupefied. Seriously!
Sorry, folks, but I’m exhausted and I’m in New Jersey with a house full of people prepping for the big Stewart/Colbert rally in DC! So I’ll finish this up with additional details (performers and, ideally, pix!), um, probably sometime after Halloween blows over!
Photo of Velocity by Alex Colby