Archive for February, 2007

If cable television has taught me anything it’s that there’s a fine line between feminism and soft core porn. That lesson was illuminated for me in all its glory the other night as I experienced for the first time: AMATUER FEMALE JELLO WRESTLING!

As run by Dana Sterling (the Grande Dame of Jell-O wrestling) and her crack staff, this is definitely NOT your creepy Uncle Jack’s back room dollar bill fueled filth fest. And honestly, I would’ve been cool if it were, but what these ladies have created is a for girls by girls good time that’s more about showmanship and sisterhood than it is about raunch.

The wrestlers in waiting arrive around 6:30 to discuss character development, create a costume, go through a safety orientation and take a lesson in saphic, slapstick stagecraft. Turns out, just like in real life, success in the Jell-O octagon depends on open communication and learning how to fall properly.

At 8:00 the party kicks in with a dj and a live band. In keeping with the Grrl Power theme of the evening they try to book all female or chick fronted bands. The night I went they had a funky rock outfit named: Rotten Cherry.

The event is handily emceed by Veronica Vicious, a curvaceous, saucy tongued Marv Albert in a tiara and pink prom dress channeling the late, great Anna Nicole Smith. She keeps the audience whipped into a froth with her wrestler interviews and improvised ring side announcing.

Sample Dialogue:
Superslut (a wrestler) - “I’m gonna slut ALL over her!”
Veronica- “Wow! That sounds wet!”
I defy you to find a wittier discourse anywhere in the wide world of sports casting.

Sample play by play analysis during a match:
“Tiger Lily fights with Native American power while The Claw has…A Claw!… and now a hot ass is up in the air. Screw the boys ladies, that is a hot ass! Now let’s see some SPANKING!”
-needless to say, I’m helplessly in love with Ms. Vicious.

The whole night is a sticky tour de force of feminism at its bustiest best. With names like: Tinkerbelle,; Acid; and Lady Venom, these ladies tongue firmly in cheek are blazing a trail of gender equality with class cascading out of their cleavage and pride pouring forth from their pantalones.

Sure, I sported wood through most of the proceedings, but these babes are no mere mindless objects of lust, they are blue- blooded, drunken embodiments of all that is righteous and true. In a word these young ladies are America! And I, for one, applaud their courage and their feminine mystique.

Amateur Female Jell-O Wrestling is an experience I would recommend for all and sundry. I went in looking for greased up nipple slips and malicious wardrobe malfunctions. I came away though, wiser,with a new found respect for the ladies… and a wicked case of blue balls.

What You Need To Know:

• Next Jell-O night: March 11 @ Don Hill’s on Spring and Greenwich
• For more details go to: Jellowrestle.com
• Those standing ringside WILL GET WET!

Again, left by Travelistic as a comment, but we think it’s so cool we’re sharing it with you:

Ah. There are some things that I think I may never, ever tire of.

A well cooked meal, a beautiful summer afternoon in Prospect Park, a well-written, well-drawn comic book and titties.

Titties!! With some many different shapes, sizes, colors, and jigglability, how could anyone ever tire from nice pairs’a juggs? But, with the proliferation of implants and internet porn, sometimes something is needed to enhance the appeal of a fine set of tetons.

Burlesque offers us real, tangible breasts, but with a classy, artistic veneer to cover up such a base desire. Some refer to it simply as Striptease but with fancy costumes and comic elements. Burlesque is said to have originated in France in the 1890’s with a woman slowly removing her clothes is search of a flea crawling across her body.
The art form has expanded and evolved a fair amount since the heyday of Gypsy Rose Lee and Mae West in the 20’s and 30’s. Here in New York in the past decade or so, Valentine’s Day Red-Headed Hunnies show at Galapagos Art Space in Williamsburg. Starring: Gal Friday, Ginger Fringe, Roja Rouge, and the organziner/manager of Monday Night Burlesque, Galapagos’ resident Red-hot Redhead: Miss Allison!

The girls were in top form. Gal Friday kicked off the night with a sultry old-fashioned long-hemmed dress with a hip-level split which she removed, revealing a Heart-Shaped “Box” (complete with a furry red bush) which she opened to reveal a delicious chocolate inside. An almost immaculate performace, if the box didn’t jam at the end and when she broke it open, the chocolate fell to the floor. It’s all right, happens to the best of us at times.

Ginger Fringe followed with one of her trademark jump-blues, fast-movin’ strip-teases. A pefect compliment to her kinky red curls and sparkle-red lipstick. Ginger’s moves are always fierce!

Miss Allison followed, offering us a classy, old-fashioned throwback of the classic days of burlesque: Her hair bobbed, her eyes done up in enormous fake lashes and sparkling eye-shadow. She offered to her adoring crowd, one of her personal classics: the feather fan-dance. Of course, her elaborate birds and skulls tattoo across her back reminded us that we’re definetely NOT back in the roaring 20’s.

Finishing off the first half was an act to remember! Roja Rouge blew the audience away, coming out on stage dressed as a naughty schoolgirl, and set to S.O.S. by Rihanna (that addictive “Tainted Love” dance

floor remix you may or may not hhve heard on Z100. . . What?) And engaged in a absolutely shameless ode to narcissism by writhing around stage practically making love to a mirror with professional stripper-level jumps and splits before whipping open an envelope full of headshots, signing one of them, and flinging them into the crowd! (complete with her myspace profile written on back.)
It’s amazing what some girls will do for fame. In this case, it’s awe-inspiring what some girls are proud to do for a little local celebrity.

Bravo ladies. And yes, the drapes match the carpet.

By Guest Reviewer: Dan Meltz

The Annual Black Hearts Party. A mix of “best kept secret” and “infamous underground”, just finished it’s seventeenth—and final— year. This invitation-only anti-Valentine’s Day party had one rule: wear as much or as little as you like, as long as it was black.

The whole party, from the decorations, to the beverages, to the dress code, to the hors d’oeuvres, even the toilet paper, was all done in one colour. Black.

In the spirit of anti-Valentine’s there were signs declaring the reader unwanted, unloved, and entirely uncool. Even the hand-stamp at the front door said “Loser”.

But in the spirit of Valentine’s the walls were adorned with Kama Sutra photocopies, condoms for the taking and pictures of animals in rut. There were stickers to declare one’s sexual preference: red meant you like boys, yellow meant girls, and green meant “anything goes”. More and more people showed up wearing less and less clothing– men wearing Speedos, women wearing corsets, and the occasional person in costume.

The dimly-lit back room featured two walls that had curtains over them, providing “privacy” areas. Throughout the middle of the room, garbage-bag-created “make-out” booths hung like ominous black pods from the ceiling. On the far wall was “The Wheel”, which people would spin and obey its directives, which included such instructions as “Kiss. Tongue. Now.” and “Lick Victim’s Ear”. It was simple, sexy, and just outrageous enough to make it clear that this party was not like others.

As the evening progressed, dancing involved more and more groping and fondling. Necklines dropped, hemlines soared, and underwear was more visible. Kissing became a way to greet a complete stranger. You may have arrived alone. You may have even gone home alone. But at some point during those few hours, a few hundred people made sure you knew that you were not alone in being alone.

My first Black Hearts Party was the last one ever. I already miss it.

“Contemporary art is a discourse always explained but never understood.”- Patrick Mimvan. This quote was surreptitiously placed on a huge billboard outside the Nicole Klagsbrun gallery on 26th st and 10th avenue. Keep that quote in mind as I try my best to illustrate the punk rock ass kickery that is Ted Riederer’s, “The Resurrectionists.”

The concept behind the exhibit is that Ted and his friends beat the holy hell out of a drum set, two guitars and a shiny red bass. Then in the grand tradition of Humpty Dumpty he methodically puts all the pieces back together again. Then this poet/ warrior composes a piece of music and records it using the reconstructed pieces!

“But why? Dear God Why?”’ you may ask.

He does this to illustrate his love of one word: NOTHING! He believes the word nothing, “…does not point to our insignificance or our unhappiness, but on the contrary to our fulfillment and our divinity, since everything is in ourselves.” Pretty kooky, huh?

The whole instillation is set up on three walls in a sparse all white room that’s maybe 12 x 12 feet. The left hand wall is a painting of the destroyed instruments in a jumbled scrambled egg pile.

The right hand wall has a series of printed individual brown and black .45 records pinned to it. One says: “Q- the use of the living for the dead.” Another one states: “A- the use of the dead for the living.” Smack in the middle of the wall is a large print of a funeral wreath composed of dried sticks bound with barbed wire.

The center of the room is flanked by two real life funeral wreaths, both of which were bare sticks wound with barbed wire. The one on the left read: “Immaterial Substance” The one on the right had lilies pinned to it and sent the message,”Insoluble Bliss”.(Admittedly, this would all seem really creepy and morbid, but the underlying message here is personal fufillment.)

Between them were the instruments, all put back together and displayed in their resurrected glory. The back wall had a big screen flat panel television. On it was a room in a warehouse.

We get to watch as in alternating slow and fast motion Ted and three of his buddies thrash and pummel the instruments into splinters. The whole time we are treated to a spacey orchestration that Ted wrote and recorded using the instruments in front of us.

The duality of something so simple yet intricate all at the same time made me an instant fan of this dude I never heard of before. It also blew my fuckin’ mind!

Bad News:
• The exhibit ends on Saturday night
• It will subconsciously make you want to destroy things in a Hulk- like fashion

Good News:
• His work can be seen in Altered, Stitched and Gathered at p.s.I/ MoMA.

*BE THE COOLEST KID ON YOUR BLOCK*

• 26th St. between 10th and 11th is a cornucopia filled with a bunch of warehouses each with a gaggle of different galleries in them. This block has art for everyone from post modernists to hard core porno coinsurers. Definitely worth checking out!
AND IT’S ALL FREE!

“A refreshing new reason to LIVE!” Is how they describe themselves. Well, maybe a little hyperbolic, but glam-pop quintet The Fabulous Entourage is definitely a reason not to give up on the New York LES rock scene.

The Fabulous Entourage has been grafitti-bombing their logo across Williamsburg streets, and if it weren’t so clever, I might be put off by it: A mushroom cloud in the shape of a heart. See, the word “sensation” likes to get thrown around in the arts-world far too often, lot, and whether or not its deserved, The Fabulous Entourage treat themselves as a sensation, and often that can make all the difference. Their stage dress includes in black and white (shirts and slacks for the boys,skirts and blouses for the girls), accented with day-glow pink and green, complete with boas, bouffant wigs and striped pants. Thankfully they do it with coordination and class. Much like their music.

Comparisons have been made to Devo for image,but musical style seems more of an evolution of the Elton John vein of operatic rock, (complete with retro-kitsch outfits, lyrics and passionate delivery.) But I’d be more inclined to see them as a beautiful but shamed lovechild of the B-52s and The Cure.

Front and center are Kyle Jarrow, the lead keyboardist and vocals, with Travis Chamberlain on Bass and back-up vocals, and on dual accompanying vocals, the beautiful duet Libby Winters and Pamela Quinn on accompanying lead vocals.

If that’s not all, it’s not unknown for Libby to pick up a guitar as well, Pamela to break out a flute and Kyle, during one of their more spirited jams to pull out a small trumpet for the bridge. Though their image is right out of Love Shack, the spirit and sentiment of most of their songs’ lyrics seem more along the lines of The Cure, or Heart.

“Woe” would be the best word for the F.E.’s general demeanor. Woe to this sad, painful life of unrequited love! Woe to this world of want and desire and war, but of course, beneath it all, is a deep satisfaction that if we have to face a world of anguish and desolation, you’d better BELIEVE that we’re going to look good while we do it!

And they look damn good.

Okay, so experiencing free street art can be quite serendipitous and downright trendy, unless it’s fucking cold outside at a windchill of 16 degrees. Along with a handful of other teeth-chattering city-goers, I stood at the exterior of New York’s Museum of Modern Art (MOMA) to experience Doug Aitken’s Sleepwalkers, an outdoor exhibit consisting of 8 huge moving images appearing on the architecture of the museum itself depicting the lives of 5 seperate people through 5 seperate stories. Each story, quite simple in nature, lasts only 13 minutes. Upon completion, each story then appears on a different screen, creating an ever-changing and individual experience for each viewer (pretty creative really).

The only soundtrack…the true sounds of the city: sirens and traffic and people talking and wind, etc. Ryan Donowho, Seu Jorge, Chan Marshall (aka Cat Power), Donald Sutherland and Tilda Swinton portray the 5 characters in the stories representing people from a full range of bluecollar to white collar careers. We get to witness them going about their mundane everyday lives (Think ‘The Office’ without the comedy). Each story unfolds slowly with routine activities such as waking up, putting on shoes, drinking ones beverage of choice out of one’s personal drinkware (a paper cup, a colorful mug, a recycled jelly jar), standing in front of one’s mirror. Then, we see the monotanous commute to work (be it bike, subway or fancier mode of transportation) , the mindnumbing activities faced daily at the job, endless photocopies, lonely hallways/tunnels, the characters achingly drag through the non-adventures of the day.

Oh, such comments on the sometimes sad and lonely nature of our very existence and the state of peoples lives in America at the moment. The characters live realistically on screen, having absolutely no reactions or interests until they each experience an intense moment of passion/joy/release- but this is only an adventure in their minds, while their bodies continuously stay consumed with the blah blah path of everyday activities. This adventure thankfully takes them away from an unforeseen, yet possibly lifechanging event. Could this be a wakeup call, cityfolk??!!??; warning us not to sleep through our lives in disheartened melancholy? Could this be reminding us to live with the intensity of the creativity burning within us all? Hmmm… have to think on that one.

And hey, by the way, all you crazy cats with cellphones can dial into #408-794-0886 for some interesting & helpful introductory commentary on the artwork, brief comments about the artist’s vision & useful location information. Although, if you don’t know this before you go, then no technical advances for you sucka, as this is not well advertised at the exhibit and, therefore, not understood by most passers-by and/or event visitors.

Image screens are visible from 53rd and 54th Streets, from the concrete throughway in between and from the Abby Aldrich Rockefeller Sculpture Garden. The exhibit lasts through February 12th and is viewable each evening from 5-10 PM. Oh, but don’t go grab a coffee or bring your own thermos of hot cocoa to try to warm up, because MOMA won’t let you use the facilities to tinkle!

Overall, a very unusual and interesting concept- very cool and artsy idea. But, hey MOMA, next time let’s do this in the spring or summer- you’ll get a much better turnout & we’ll be much less worried about getting frostbite!

Somebody is smoking crack at the Museum of Modern Art. How else to explain exhibiting Dog Aitkin’s “Sleepwalkers”, an outdoor exhibition, in the middle of frigin’ WINTER! The night I ventured out into the breach was the first time in my life I could literally empathize with a witch’s tit, and not in a good way.

However, once my extremities got acclimated I was actually able to appreciate, if not fully enjoy, the sublimely unique New Yorkiness of what I was experiencing. The main stage of the exhibit was situated in the outdoor sculpture garden, which is barricaded on three sides by the glass walls of the museum itself.

Six separate films exposed themselves on the naked exterior of the buildings with only the cacophony of the city acting as their Philip Glass-esque soundtrack. At first sight it was a truly breathtaking nocturnal panorama.

The movies were 16 minute shorts each depicting a solitary soul slogging through the drudgery of their daily lives. The movies, though autonomous, flowed together as one through the use of perfectly timed edits that occurred simultaneously in all six pieces at exactly the same moment lending a soothingly mellow synchronization that was wicked cool.

Another super sweet aspect was that every so often each of the six films would flash the same image; such as a sunset, facial close up or high speed traffic scene, creating a multiplied mirror effect that I found quite trippy.

I took advantage of the audio commentary, which was cleverly accessed through a cell phone number. I learned that the artist told his actors to, “dissolve into the landscapes”. His belief is that a city is heat and energy without boundaries and that the city itself and the people in it are micro and macro reflections of each other. I dig that, but as my balls burrowed deeper into my belly I began to get increasingly disturbed.

NOBODY was smiling. None of the actors in the films, none of the hundred or so audience members, NOBODY! The movies themselves ,while gorgeous, were intense and bleak. Even the physical projection on the windows gave them a bleached out, spectral look.

The thing is: Mr. Aitken created this instillation to showcase the organic heat of life in our city, but what I experienced was not the city I know and love. To me it wasn’t so much a celebration of New York life as it was a depressing homage to the remorse and alienation one feels riding the L train at rush hour. Then again, that’s just one humble kid from Jersey’s opinion.

HIGHLIGHTS:

· It’s FREE
· They won’t bust your balls if you light up a smoke
· It truly is a unique piece of art
· The cell phone audio commentary is free and enlightening: 408-794-0886
· Connolly’s Irish Pub is right across the street on 54th, and a $6 shot of Jack goes a long way after freezing your ass off in the winter night for half an hour.

Friday night Rob Gorden and Mark Douglas brought the Rob & Mark Show to the Parkside Lounge, and added even more color to the tinselly stage. The word on the street was that these guys are gut-splitting. They did not disappoint.

First of all, they look like they would be funny, and that’s not to say they’re funny-lookin’. If you’re a fan of the film “So I Married An Axe Murderer”, and you probably are if you’re uncool, you might expect Rob to spew “Harriet…Harriet…” all slam-like, because of his resemblance to Mike Myers. And Mark has the look of a sitcom actor who is one audition away from stealing Matt LeBlanc’s jobs, you know, on the shows that are supposed to be funny.

They’re a combo with chemistry. “No one wants to read your blog!” Rob sang, while Mark strummed the acoustic. “The Blog Song” elicited appreciative cheers from the audience. And a few sheepish laughs as well from those guilty of clacking away at the keys about something mundane, like shopping for toothbrushes, in this ultimate modern-age display of what I call capital-narcissism.

They also played a song about having a man-crush on “24”’s Jack Bauer. And let’s not forget guest comic Michael Birch as womanizing boozer Ben Franklin, who claimed he created bifocals so his penis would appear larger. (If anyone caught “The Office” on Thursday night, you will recognize a reoccurring theme here. Ben Franklin is bringing sexyback, I guess.)

But the real treat was the Pink Floyd jukebox musical, set to a story about kids at fat camp. If you don’t laugh when Rob and Mark shout, “Hey, Fatso, leave those chips alone!” you should have your pulse checked.

Rob and Mark wrapped up the show with “Karate Kid The Musical”. They covered all the major scenes of the movie, switching from one character to the next with ease, from Elisabeth Shue’s Ally, to Johnny The Blonde Guy who appears in most popular eighties movies, to Mr. Miyagi and his infamous phrase, “Wax on, wax off.” It’s worth it alone just to hear Mark say “But, Sensei!” in one breath and “Daniel, son!” in the next. When Rob hobbled up to the mic, Ralph-Macchio-with-a-broken-knee style, and positioned himself in the crane, I became a knee slapping laughing freak.
And of course, there’s the “Glory of Love.” But I won’t spoil the ending.

This video was sent to us, courtesy of Liza from travelistic: