Clip Show
Oh 2010, you have been the end of my Concrete Bunker, my couches, and my car. Tomorrow, you will be the end of MEAT, but there is one thing that remains constant: the Hubba Hubba Revue soldiers on. This month marked Hubba's 4-year anniversary, which we celebrated with a "Best Of" clip show including thirty acts from the last four years. We Go-Go's donned our traditional costume of bustiers and feathers and shook our butts to music of above-average danceability. L and I drank White Women's Tears, a drink concocted by the upstairs bartender. Let it be known that White Women's Tears are delicious. From now on, when I cry, I shall cry into a sponge. I was molested by what appeared to be a bachelorette party. People who mistook the burlesque show for a strip joint threw dollars at the stage. Many of my favorite acts were reprised, including Rubenesque Burlesque's Fat Camp act, which ends with the fat campers cannibalizing their perky exercise instructor, Sparkly Devil's black-and-white-to-color act, and Lady Satan's overbearing stage mom act. Calamity Lulu disappointingly did not mark the anniversary by pretending to cut herself and bleeding all over the stage as she did in that One Incident That We Will Never Let Her Live Down. Presumably Kingfish did not want the stage covered in blood because he is a killjoy. Sister Kate did their bellydancer/showgirl thing in new costumes that caused me to quote the immortal words of Daphne Gottlieb, a woman with profound insight into the femme psyche:
it's on but
i don't know
whether i want
to be
her, fuck her
or borrow
her clothes
Oh Daphne, it is not or, it is and. I prefer to think of this poem as a checklist.
Ambitious plans were made for future Hubbas and I came home woozy and tired, so tired that when J handed me a plate of late-night migas, I took one bite before my head hit the pillow. We slept so soundly that we missed some festival in Japantown with good bands, a lousy fashion show, and substandard food. Sleeping was better. Je ne regrette rien.
it's on but
i don't know
whether i want
to be
her, fuck her
or borrow
her clothes
Oh Daphne, it is not or, it is and. I prefer to think of this poem as a checklist.
Ambitious plans were made for future Hubbas and I came home woozy and tired, so tired that when J handed me a plate of late-night migas, I took one bite before my head hit the pillow. We slept so soundly that we missed some festival in Japantown with good bands, a lousy fashion show, and substandard food. Sleeping was better. Je ne regrette rien.