Here at Cultural Capitol’s unofficial Jonny Porkpie month, we’ve kept you well-versed in the upcoming and ongoing atrocities spewing from the mind of Pork. It all came to a boil last Saturday at Lurid Pulp!—the promised show-based-on-a-book-based-on-a-show tie-in to Jonny’s new book from Hard Case Crime. I already feel like I’m repeating myself, I’m getting overwhelmed just reading the back of the program (busy beavers at Pinchbottom—check out Naked Girls Reading a Christmas Carol, Filthy Lucre, How the Pinch Stole Xmas, etc.) and I got this avian-flu-bearing turkey breathing down my neck, so let’s keep it short—no spoilers! This is a murder mystery!—and dig the pix.
Don’t forget, Lurid Pulp! Plays this Saturday at 45 Bleecker so it’s not too late.
True to the promised itinerary, Jonny sits at the book-signing table and signs away. Hard Case editor Charles Ardai gives a nice introduction in an unfathomable accent but with penetrating charm. Jonny’s cast starts to wonder what his book has in common with the performers in attendance—and the anger ferments. Cue Jonny reading from his book with old-school interrogation lighting. Cue the other performers lining up to read, realizing they’ve been had, storming out in anger. Madame Rosebud, with a new do—short and screaming platinum blonde (Bastard Keith called her hair “like porn Annie Lennox”) —walks off and gives the finger. Jo Boobs—man, even my crush on her is developing a crush on her—storms off shouting, “I wear thigh-high boots and everybody fucking knows it!” Indeed we do. Clams Casino reads and I watch with interest as she gets serious—the tendon in her neck twitches and I find it irrevocably arousing. Why, I have no idea. Can we sign her up for NGR? “I will reach down your throat and pull your heart out through your ass!” Maybe that had something to do with it.
You know where this is going, even if I don’t. Jonny strips to the El DeBarge classic (not) “Who’s Johnny?” and gets promptly bludgeoned to death (I love that word, “bludgeoned.” Sounds like something Rachel Ray would do to Nigella Lawson in the studio kitchen of a porn cooking show.) by an unseen assailant. (“Assailant.” Def Nigella.) Cue Nasty Canasta in gabardine plaid and a fedora over a Louise Brooks wig, smoking like she invented the nasty habit, all noir chiaroscuro with sin-black garters. Brushes on a snare drum. Chairwork jujitsu. Sam Spade, eat your fucking heart out.
Gigi LaFemme’s show-stopping splits.
Dirty Martini’s super slo-mo disrobe—the kind of control that makes your thighs ache to look—like that moment in a heist film when the hero ALMOST trips the alarm—but doesn’t.
Clams Casino’s Roy Lichtenstein “Biff! Pow!” cutout.
Madame Rosebud’s studded gimp mask, painted-on body stocking, and ultimately, the gaff tape over her mouth. Scratch that—the high point here is Rosebud’s devious mind.
Jo Boobs, reaching behind her to untie a corset, and then—umph!—pulling on the strings to TIGHTEN the thing, waist even more impossibly waspish, the rest… well, you should have been there. Pluperfect.
Nasty Canasta. Full stop.
Support your local burlesque this holiday season. Think of all it’s done for you.
Photos © Melody Mudd 2009