1. Kids get free candy.
2. Everyone gets to dress up as weird as they want.
3. By strange virtue of (1) and (2), kids of all ages act more provocatively, allowing everyone to have a wild-ass time.
They pretty much had us at free candy—you, me, and every American we know. It’s really almost sad that much of the rest of the world is ignorant of the Best And Most Non-Religious Holiday Ever. You don’t even have to hang out with your FAMILY. What gets me about Halloween is it’s either all or nothing—either I have one of those years where no one I know throws any parties, or I have one of those years where EVERYONE I know has something going on and I run myself ragged. Sort of. Truth be told, I have a wicked bad habit of staying out too late on the night BEFORE a big night, and being emotionally crippled (slang for “alcoholically indisposed”) on the BIG night. Well, this year was a combination. Major social obligations, one night of “oops! I overserved myself!” and the daunting reality that Halloween was made for strippers. I mean, a dress-up holiday for people who dress up for a living? Snap! There were so many freaking Halloween burly-Q events in the Big Apple and Surrounding Worms this year that NO ONE could have made all of them. And that’s just New York—you wouldn’t believe the out-of-state madness I was invited to! I’m still upset with myself for missing the Horror Show… although Anya Sapozhnikova didn’t seem to notice so I think I got away with it. Note to self: Self, next year, hire interns, buy some disposable cameras, and get mad coverage of EVERYTHING.
For this year, I did manage to attend a MAD private event (more on that later, maybe) as well as the delightfully off-its-rocker “Monsters a Go-Go”
(Thursday, Oct. 27, 2010 at the Producers Club, by Glitter and Gin.)
Well, it all starts with getting beat up. We get to the theatre and the room wasn’t ready, which meant a long wait in a bar packed with young gung-ho people excited about New York theatre. Reminded me of me like a decade ago. Oh, kids, this town will beat it out of you. I mean, girl behind me in the theatre literally said, “I just became sexually mature two months ago,” and I don’t think she was joking. Do I sound cranky? Ok—it’s because I took a REAL beating. I said, “That GoGo Harder really is something. If I swung that way, I would date guys like that.” Then I had a moment of insecurity, leaned to Melody Mudd, and said, “Do you think I could get guys like that?” And she PAUSED. She blinked. I mean, I was like, crushed. I said, “Is it because I’m an old Grandpa?” Well, is it?
Fuck it, it’s Halloween, and I’m sure I could get that blonde bimbo behind me who’s been sexually mature for two months longer than the brunette sitting next to her. All it takes is some clever lines. Let’s get on with it.
Premise: Gogo Harder ad Jezebel Express are at the movies, it’s the 50s, they’re eating popcorn and then they eat each other. In the hot way, not the zombie way. Then the zombies enter, who want to eat them in the zombie way. Zombies are one part gimp zombie and one part dead kitty zombie. Now we’re set up, and G&J will spend the rest of the night running around New York, checking their iPhone to see what horror movie is showing nearby, and running from the creatures that come out of the screen.
First off, Gogo Harder and Jezebel Express are fucking CHARMING. They’ve got this drama club Burns and Allen thing going—two kids from the back of the bus that found a way to turn on the charm and get some. As hosts, they’re ridiculous—and I mean that in the best way. Jezebel has a dry delivery that you don’t see coming even when you see it coming, and Gogo simply drips charm.
Which they need at the Producer’s Club. I mean, there were some issues, technically, and I’m not talking about what inspired Tigger’s stoic perseverance. That’s just burlesque. But, kids, the venue must give you access to the lights. The stage lights. Those work lights are just. Not. Flattering. Anyhoo.
I was totally moved by BB Heart, who entered as Nosferatu in a bald pate, big ears and vampire teeth, biting at the audience and then—“One… singular sensation…” Yup. You can tell who’s got a theatre background, and this is a great inside joke for this young, gung-ho crowd. She adds a hat and cane and does Fosse, building up to the natural climax of the song to jump out and go “Bleah!” and instantly wave it away with a hand and mouthing “just kidding.” Oh, and she strips. Hot, cute, and still creepy, the total Halloweeny triple threat.
Jezebel Express set up a small-scale model of Coney Island for her 50-foot woman act, allowing her to enter the scene and stomp and destroy “Joe’s Condos,” much to my satisfaction. If y’all haven’t read the news in the last two days—it’s fucking apt. Ruby’s didn’t get a new lease. RUBY’S, MAN! But the model of the Wonder Wheel turns out to cleverly be two large fans, which Jezebel proceeds to use. The Wheel also bore the sign “white cars do not swing,” which turned out not to be true—she flaunted pasties that were white Wonder Wheel cars, and, well, swung them. Delicious, and also a little sad. The state of Coney Island truly leads me to ponder the possibilities of the Molotov cocktail.
The total newbie—to me, I mean—was Christopher Bousquet, who turned in a Grade-A contortionist-cum-hand balancing act, dressed as a zombie and to the overused yet underutilized Portishead. (BTW, you should really check out their THIRD album.) He dropped right into it, doing a single hand balance, moving onto stands to balance, and then doing the classic contortion, chin on floor and feet in front of said chin. He rips his bloody shirt off to mad screams from the audience, and then bends his feet under his ribcage, again putting his chin to the floor. Totally and completely freaky.
Jo Boobs busted out her Godzilla act—fabulous as always—and Tigger! his alien silver spaceman act. You know, the one with the weird German music and the hula hoop. And Ruby Valentine surprised me yet again turning in “Plan 9 from Outer Space”—a movie that truly makes no sense whatsoever—Vampira, a truly fantastic look for her, all black with her pale skin, working it to theramin music with impossibly blood red nails.
As for the charming Gogo Harder, I’d have to see that act again—I got lost somewhere between Bach’s “Tocatta con Fugue” and “Sunshine and Lollipops.” I did however, get completely and totally freaked out when he whipped out his dead, black zombie cock. I can’t explain it. It’s a guy thing. It’s why we all cringe when we see someone—even, say, Valerio Ferrari.
Halloween is over, and anyone who wants to come grab a corndog at Paul’s Daughter and get drunk with me at Ruby’s next weekend, please give a call—we’ve got little time left.
Photos ©2010 Melody Mudd. For usage, please contact the photographer at firstname.lastname@example.org. And come find her on flickr, twitter, facebook.