Naked Girls Reading Literary Prize – EVERYWHERE until September 1, 2011
Naked Girls Reading present: Trash at Madame X, New York City – Thursday, June 16, 2011
There’s one more story about Vegas—ok, a hundred more stories but one I’d like to tell—that, like many of my favorite stories, makes me look like a jackass. I was really looking forward to this first Vegas installment of Naked Girls Reading, because I like good literature and I like naked ladies and there’s something wonderfully delightful about hearing naked ladies read good literature. Or tell me that it happens to all the guys—I mean, once you’ve got a naked lady talking, she can read the back of a grocery receipt and I’ll tune in. But I love this schtick and I wanted to check it out. Not until the DAY OF did I realize the program said “email for more info,” since it was in an undisclosed location and couldn’t accommodate that many people. So I sent an email and was immediately written back by one of the producers—the fantastic Brett Rollins, one of the unsung heroes of BHOF for many years running—that it was already booked up. But I had also dropped in on the lovely Amber Ray at the bazaar and asked her to text Michelle L’Amour, who got back and said, “Yes, tell J.D. to come,” but by then I had skipped out, and Amber didn’t have my phone number. Le sigh. So I missed it, like a total bush-league chump. And I was looking forward to pimping the Naked Girls Reading Literary Prize because—YES!—the NGR are actually sponsoring a real prize for real money for real writers. I’m telling ya, I loves these peoples.
So, in an attempt to make up for my loserness, I dropped in on the New York contingent’s episode of “Trash.”
NGR founder and she-of-the-luminous-skin Michelle L’Amour could not have chosen a better emissary for New York than Nasty Canasta. Nasty may have the heart of a stripper, but she has the brains of a crooked Wall Street accountant, the easy stage presence of a Broadway veteran and the no-nonsense expressive tenor of a voice-over actress who doesn’t do car commercials. Oh, and she looks hot naked, too. But that’s the thing—as anyone who’s ever worked as an artist’s model knows, if you sit there naked long enough, you forget that you are. And the reverse is true, too—if the rest of what’s happening is interesting enough, you kind of forget that the woman you’re listening to is naked. You just listen and watch her lips. Ok, you’re dirty. Really dirty. I SO didn’t mean it like that—get your mind out of the gutter.
Nasty, with fuck-me teased hair, a quickly-dropped lacy white negligee, and 70s blue eyeshadow matching her turned-down lacey blue socks—oh, AND she’s chewing gum—reads from the original “Bat Boy” article, her voice almost flinty, her face so compelling you almost forget to look. Almost. Yep, it’s “Trash”—summertime beach reading, pure garbage.
I actually read Piers Anthony in middle school. Turns out that Xanth trilogy is still growing, since it’s the only thing publishers want from him, according to Piers. So Hazel Honeysuckle read us some. It hasn’t gotten any better. And can you believe that the name of this book—for Young Adults—is actually “The Color of her Panties”?
It’s so… um… wrong. So Hazel has a flat, level voice that’s apt to dip down, and a skillful reserve in holding for laughter, and the occasional nice, coquettish drawl. She’s also not a hundred percent waxed, which those of us who are old school appreciate. Sometimes a little mystery is nice. Add to that the gentle curve of her hips and her porcelain doll face and the overall ghostly white complexion and—ok, it’s no fucking mystery that Hazel is hot, so why is she holding the book right in front of her? Watch Nasty, and Learn. Nice reading though—that book is awful. Oh, and Mr. Piers Anthony? You were one of the first people to give me the idea of becoming a writer, so FUCK YOU.
Nasty cracks a Tab and reads from Canterbury Tales. REALLY. And then Barbara Gordon, the Naked Librarian—who is an actual librarian, and apparently pregnant, possibly with twins—sat us all down on the carpet and read us a picture book called “Here Comes the Garbage Barge.” “It’s exactly like when you were four years old,” she said, “except you’re drinking and I’m naked.” And it was. The book was based on the true story from Islip, the pictures were great, and the reading was incredible. She really had that teacher’s action down—exaggerating, getting us to intone certain key words, like “garbage.” She did the accents, she did the “toot toot!” of the tugboat—which got a laugh out of nasty. PLUS, you just don’t get to see that many pregnant women naked in day-to-day life, and that kind of porn rubs everyone the wrong way. ANYway, 162 days later, the garbage that left Long Island returned, and burned for hours before being buried in a landfill. Great story—share it with your kids. Maybe not naked. Oh—and as she was leaving the stage, I finally realized that Barbara Gordon was wearing kitten heels. What a fucking incredible woman.
For the second act I was invited to sit in the very front row, which was downright gynecological. Seriously, I got a wonderful crick in my neck and kept having to smack my own hand—it was digging in my pocket for singles to throw over the rail. And so Nasty, that woman after my own crazy drug-addled heart, began: “Ether is the perfect drug for Las Vegas.” Let me tell all you internet-searching adrenaline junkies out there—ether is the perfect drug for a spring break in Dallas if you want to try to stab your roommate. “Most acid fanciers can handle this kind of thing,” Nasty’s voice loomed, but if she said “There is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a man in the depths of an ether binge,” I missed it, because I was having a flashback. Yes, that heartless bitch was reading from “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,” and now I have to either marry her or murder her. We’ll come back to that.
Winding up the night was the dark mistress of burlesque Velocity Chyaldd—towering over us like Kali in the flesh—reading from the Nikki Sixx section of “The Dirt: Confessions of the World’s Most Notorious Rock Band.”
And holy shit, is it hilarious. I mean, not if you have any respect for yourself or your body or women, but if you can step outside of the light for a moment, and truly listen to the growling, unforgiving rasp of Velocity’s voice, and really get inside the fuck-it-all attitude of a rock star exulting his most grandiose claims to gutterdiving, it’s goddman funny. The “punk rock poser” who got a nail driven through is ear, pinned to a table by Sixx, or even juicy turns of phrase like “four male degenerates dressed like female sluts.” Or how he fucked a girl in a closet for a bit, then ducked out and sent Tommy in to take over. When she showed up the next day, having been raped by someone else, “at first I was relieved, because I hadn’t raped her.”
“In that zone, consequences didn’t exist.”
“I even tried to fuck Tommy’s mother.” And Tommy’s father said, “If you can get in there, you can have it.” Um, that got a huge laugh. You people should be ashamed.
My fave was when he landed a new girlfriend, who basically did nothing but get him high on cocaine and Quaaludes and fuck him. “That was great, because I didn’t have the money for blow and Quaaludes and I couldn’t fuck myself.” Aah, such wisdom, Master Sixx. Thank you, Velocity.
Write some shit yourself. Send it off to the Naked Girls. If you get lucky, maybe one of them will read your shit in November. Which is about the best thing that can happen to you as a writer. Seriously—no one else gives a shit. So take a jump, send in some goodies, and support your local Naked Girls. Deadline is September 1.
And if you’re in New York, don’t miss NGR’s rendition of—holy fucking fuck—”Glengarry GlenRoss,” Tuesday, August 9th at 8:00 pm at Madame X.
No photographs allowed at this event—DUH. Try reading. Use your imagination.