Burlesque AND smelly garbage? Say it isn’t so… well
unfortunately, I can’t. But I’ll get to the smelly garbage soon enough.
The night started out pleasantly enough. I was all set to go
see my dear friend Rosie Cheeks perform a special St. Patty’s Day Burlesque
show at Nurse Bettie on the Lower East Side. My two gal pals and I pre-gamed it
at my place by sharing a bottle of Prosecco before heading into the “city.” These
days we were all slumming it in Astoria, Queens, and our trips to the island
for anything other than work were sadly too few and far between.
We arrived at Nurse Bettie and met up with another friend,
who was waiting for us by the bar. It should be mentioned that Nurse Bettie is
a spectacularly beautiful venue. I adore the place. In fact, it was my
neighborhood joint back in the days when the Lower East Side WAS my
neighborhood. The bar is super tiny and
it was hard to imagine how they were going to fit burlesque performers in
there, but I guess there’s nothing like getting up close and personal to
someone shaking their tassel-clad tatas.
The Singing Siren was our host for the evening and the name
says it all. In Greek mythology, “Sirens” were femme fatales who lured sailors
to devastation with their beautiful singing. I don’t know if there were any
sailors in the crowd, but this woman could certainly belt out a tune like
nobody’s business. She was equally adept at comedy and poked just as much fun at
herself as the audience, remarking at one point that her accent kept
fluctuating between Irish, Jamaican and British. She told me I apparently have
a burlesque doppelganger named “Dot Mitzvah.” Good to know my “inner
exhibitionist” is being released by my counterpart, who, like me, is also
Jewish. Thank you, Dot!
As for the burlesque performances… they were amazing. Each girl
had her own unique tribute to St. Patty’s Day. Of course, the highlight of the
evening for me was Rosie Cheeks. She entered to “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,”
wearing a beautiful green gown. And what’s at the end of every rainbow? Well if
you’re Irish, it’s a pot of gold, of course, and Rosie had one of her
own—appropriately placed over her hoo-hah. The icing on the cake was when she tossed
chocolate gold coins to the audience—and yes, I did dive for those treats and
managed to snag three!
I’ve been to several burlesque shows now. Does that make me
a “burlesque groupie?” Perhaps, and I’m okay with that. What I’ve realized is
how creative the art of burlesque actually is. We all know the end result going
into one of these shows—the clothes are coming off. However, what we don’t know
is HOW and WHEN they’re going to come off. There are different costumes, music
and movements. The good burlesque performers have a story to tell and I am
continually impressed and proud of Rosie’s skills at coming up with her
stories. She’s been an “Ice Cream Woman,” “Frankenfurter” from “Rocky Horror,”
a “Snowflake,” a “Lady in Red,” and now an “Irish Lassie.” What’s next? I guess
I’ll have to go to more shows and find out.
And this is about where I get to the smelly garbage… After
the performances were over, the girls and I turned back to the bar and as I sat
down, I smelled the most horrific odor that almost knocked me right off the
stool. I thought to myself, “I hope that’s not my friend. She really needs to
shower.” As if she read my mind, she turned to me and said, “The person next to
me smells like GARBAGE!” And I immediately replied, “Oh thank God. I thought
that was YOU!” It didn’t relieve me of the stench, but at least I knew the
perpetrator was someone other than my friend.
Then… just as we thought we had the smell contained to one
person, someone else approaches the bar—this time a guy. As he uttered, “Excuse
me,” while leaning over to order a drink, his kitty-litter breath hit all of us
square in the face, and we simultaneously crinkled our noses in disgust. To add
insult to injury, there was a tall dude floating around the bar who smelled
like french fry grease! Is this some kind of subculture I’m not aware of?
Perhaps they have meetings, and are obliged to wear dirty clothes and aren’t
permitted to shower or brush their teeth. Maybe they assemble in some dingy
basement pounding their fists in the air, cheering: “Stinkie people of the LES
unite!”
Maybe I’ll form my own club, complete with my own cheer. What
would be my battle cry? “Clean freaks of the world, hold up your vacuums!” Or
maybe it should be something about Jewish Italian girls and their double whammy
of guilt… dunno. I guess that’s a different story for another day…
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