It’s an all-girls hotel that has gone through many owners. It was originally incorporated by a religious order called “The Righteous Order Of Frustrated Spinsters With Too Many Cats” and envisioned as a reformatory residence for girls gone bad.

See, the spinsters believed that if you took a girl away from her nefarious environment and surrounded her with cats, she would no longer crave illicit temptation as there would be so many warm friendly pussies to snuggle up with.

I will hosting this week’s show & the cast is:  Jenny C’est Quoi, Gal Friday, Calamity Chang, Go Go Harder and more!

Hotsy Totsy is is part of the Burlesque Blitz: A week of burlesque at the Horse Trade Theater Company in NYC. We will be performing at The Kraine Theater, 85 East 4th Ave (Between 2nd & 3rd Ave) NYC – Dec. 28th – 8pm – for tickets and info go to - http://horsetrade.info

And we have a new sponsor: Sailor Jerry Spiced Rum, who will be supplying awesome swag and drink specials!

Brother, did they ever deliver:

The saxplayer handed me a pretty sweet business card right afterwards, though none of the URLs on it are coming up right now. As near as I can tell, they’re called the Funky Nassau Band, and you can catch them in the subway underneath the Financial District, more or less. They’ve got a ton of stuff on YouTube, too. I especially love this slow jam in a Miami Vice suit.

Brandon and his wife and me and my girlfriend hang out together and do couple stuff together. One of these days, we’re going to get D.Billy and his lady involved and have the biggest, brunchiest, triple-couple bouge-a-thon that Brooklyn has ever seen.

I was having lunch with Brandon and his wife the other day, and he told me what he’d been working on. “It’s pretty fun, man,” he said. “It’s a video piece that we’re going to call ‘Hot Chicks of Occupy Wall Street.’”

I was a little surprised. He didn’t really strike me as that kind of a dude, to be honest. “Just watch it,” he said. I did, and now I totally get it.

Now, I present to you: “Hot Chicks of Occupy Wall Street,” by Steven Greenstreet and Brandon Bloch:

Hot Chicks of Occupy Wall Street from Steven Greenstreet on Vimeo.

Not exactly what it sounded like when you read the title, was it? That’s kind of the point. As Brandon told me, “We noticed that all the coverage coming out of the Occupy Wall Street movement was either of freaks or young, unusually good-looking people. So we decided to both be honest about our motivations and make fun of media’s tendency to seek out pretty people, and we ended up with an inspiring, moving story. We just kept the title because we knew it would get some attention and hey, look — the kind of person that searches for and watches a video called ‘Hot Chicks of Occupy Wall Street’ is probably the kind of person that actually needs to hear this message pretty badly.”

He’s right. If they’d called it “A Sober and Respectful Look at the Underrepresented Womyn’s Voices at Occupy Wall Street”, would anyone have watched it?

Unsurprisingly, the Internet had decided to lose its collective mind over this. The response is both shocking, and not surprising at all. There is a particular type of person that is happiest when they are riled up and offended about something. This sort of person is found both on the right and the left of the political spectrum, and they just LOVE to write a blog post about their manufactured outrage.

From Feministe:

It’s the dipshit fratboy vibe of “Ohhh yeah, let’s go to this protest thing because there are hot chicks there, and then we can make a video where we sound kind of, like, deep, you know? Because we can like talk about community and stuff and how even though these hot chicks got us there, we realized that there’s something, like, important happening, you know dude? I’ll wear my favorite Livestrong bracelet.” It’s the idea that women are at OWS to be oggled by dudes, or to inspire some polo-shirted nitwit to Care About Something More [than titties] (TM). It’s that he’s taking pictures of women without their permission or knowledge and posting them on the internet as masturbatory fodder. The one upside is that the Hot Chicks of Occupy Wall Street tumblr is like Steven Greenstreet’s very own I’m A Creep bat-signal (he may also be a 9/11 truther? Lots of warning signs here). May he never get laid again.

And Salon:

This video is sexist. It’s an example of women participating in public life — political, professional, social — and having their participation reduced to sexual objectification. That’s what happened here, nothing more, nothing less.

All this outrage is just wonderfully stupid. If you ever catch yourself saying or writing the phrase “I, for one, am OFFENDED” unironically, it’s probably time to just think about the things in life that you consider fun. It probably won’t take long.

On the one hand, the fuss is a good thing. It’s getting people to watch the video, to see the actual stories that come out of the Occupy Wall Street protests. Maybe people will start to understand why it’s happening in the first place.

On the other hand, this is sad and embarrassing for the left. All this humorless infighting is distracting and it’s why we can’t get organized. Steven Greenstreet and Brandon set out to tweak people’s biases with an eye-catching title, and it’s working. They’re getting tons of views, and they’re playing on people’s preconceptions.

It’s just sad to see self-avowed feminists playing themselves in the process. Without that title, the video would be a little on the voyeuristic side, but otherwise safe for broadcast television and not exceptionally remarkable. With the title, all of a sudden the sky is falling.

One of the only publications that really got what the video is and isn’t about summed it up this way:

I would actually argue that Greenstreet has consciously courted controversy, albeit subtly, by not making a leering video that amplifies his subjects’ sexuality, but which uses a title that makes is seem as if he did. Clever boy, and even more clever in that the word “hot,” though I ran it through the sexist wringer earlier, could be reasonably construed to define a woman who is so intellectually engaging that she becomes a hopeless object of desire.

Would there be anything wrong with that?

…

I would further argue that whatever outrage people are feeling about this video is as faked as the supposed exploitation of the women in it. If it is real, then the outrage springs from a deep-seated immaturity about both life and sex! Appreciating someone’s sexual appeal does not automatically dismiss their other fine qualities, but denying their attractiveness literally does. It may be inappropriate to express that appreciation in certain settings, but the idea here seems to be that even recognizing the fact that there are Hot Chicks that Occupy Wall Street is a denigration of them as activists fighting for a cause.

This excerpt comes from a piece on the AVN’s website. AVN is, of course, the largest trade publication that serves the adult film industry. Their site, and the preceding link, are never, ever safe for work. Unless you work in the porn industry.

For what it’s worth, Brandon’s wife is smart, qualified to appear in that video, and has an abundantly healthy self-esteem. She and I both think that maybe it’s a little more important to focus on the issues the protests raise rather than something quite this distracting. Half of our parents’ generation met at protests, and it wasn’t a shared love of bongo drums that got them there in the first place. Nobody that matters cares what gets you down there, as long as you have an open mind.

It seems like copy-editors are getting laid off left, right, and center – as though nobody cares anymore. Sure, typos happen when you’re writing and posting fast. And everyone knows what you meant to say. But it’s like giving a big presentation with your fly all the way down. Sure, people know that you meant to put pants on. And your wang is probably still covered. But it still makes a distinct impression.

It looks like a rogue copyeditor took the red Sharpie to this Uniqlo ad on the C train. They just couldn’t take it anymore.

Good for them. It works better now, doesn’t it?

It’ll make more sense in the video, I swear.

I have told this story in various incarnations over the years, but I happen to feel that this performance at the Moth at Southpaw in Brooklyn on Labor Day this year really nailed it. Hope you enjoy it:

If you’re interested, you can actually hear two tracks that we recorded at practice here:

Royal Quiet Deluxe, April 1998

Exotic Newcastle Disease, by Royal Quiet Deluxe

If you happen to see this today, and want to see more like it live in person, I’m putting on a show with my awesome and talented friends tonight at Union Hall in Brooklyn. There will be stories like this, burlesque striptease and a sword-swallower. For real.

Click here for show info and a cool poster: And I Am Not Lying Live at Union Hall

You can get advance tickets here.

Everyone who can remember September 11th, 2001 has a story. That includes me. I wasn’t in New York or DC or rural Pennsylvania, so mine’s not that dramatic. But if I went around trying to win suffering contests, I’d imagine that my life would look a lot different than it does now.

Both the phone and the electric company caught up to me on the morning of September 11th, 2001. I had a story due to Richmond.com at the time, a freelance project that had been filling a hole in my tattered writing income. I didn’t really need the electricity that morning anyway — I didn’t own a computer in the first place. I’d sneak into campus computer labs or squat at friend’s places when I had to, typing down handwritten notes in order to get the thing written as quickly and efficiently as possible.

So I did what I always did when the deadline was tight. I climbed out my bedroom window onto the row house roof and jimmied open my neighbor’ Kate’s office window with a credit card I didn’t deserve. Then I climbed in, turned on the dialup modem and made my final edits while the connection hissed and fused.

I sent the piece in and then cleaned her cat’s litter box to show both gratitude and penance. Then I called the office. Kate answered – she was a writer there. “Who is this?” she asked, recognizing her own number on her caller ID. “Uh, sorry” I said. “Listen, we’ll talk about this later. Turn the TV on, now,” she said, and hung up the phone.

I turned it on and watched a few minutes, trying to make sense out of it. Then the second plane hit and everyone in the world realized what really happened. A few seconds later, the station feed jumped to a scene from a Frank Zappa film. Cotton smoke boiled through a cheaply made model town, cars crashed into styrofoam gravestones and Zappa’s face hovered over top of it, grinning. Then whoever it was at the TV station fixed the problem and the news came back on.

I’m not sure if any other Richmonders saw that too, or not. I’ve never discussed it with anyone, actually. That was far from the strangest thing that happened that day and pointing it out never seemed that important.


I watched the planes hit, people jumping, the buildings collapsing and the huge wave of smoke and soot moving uptown on television. Then I went outside, shellshocked like every other American. I remember cars parked sideways in the middle of the street, just pulled over and abandoned, taillights blinking.

The rumors were flying around that planes had hit Camp David, that there were nuclear bombs going off, that the subways were burning. We saw the escort jets shoot overhead a few times, and then the sky was silent.

I remember holding strangers’ hands at a coffee shop, telling each other it was going to be okay eventually.

Eventually it got dark. We sat out on the porch, looking up at the sky and seeing nothing. No blinking lights from the airport, no stars, nothing. We talked about how everything was going to be different from now on, and nobody knew what it was going to be like.

The consensus was that it was pretty much going to suck.

I’m fortunate to not have lost anyone I knew or loved that day. I never knew anybody who even went down to help out and got sick. I can’t imagine what that must be like for the victim’s families and friends. But I feel like we all lost each other that day. Ever since then, things have gotten more hostile, more polarized in out public discourse. People are divided over their beliefs like never before. And they’re overlooking the one deepest belief that every human being should hold the dearest:

If we’re going to make it through the world, we’ve got to make patience our default setting.

There are a lot of more poignant 9/11 stories flying around today, but this one is mine.

I’ve seen a lot of whining about the ceaseless cable television coverage of the 9/11 anniversary, and I’ve done a little myself, saying on Facebook:

I actually wasn’t in danger of forgetting about 9/11/01 anytime soon. While I think it’s important to memorialize the victims and make the day a part of our history, I don’t really feel like reliving it on TV and the Internet.

I thought about it a little more, though. And it’s mostly still true. But this happened in America, to Americans. And nobody ever said that we were a culture that understood restraint, respect, and somber dignity. That shit’s for Swedes.

This thing affected everybody. And most people aren’t that good at communicating deep, profound experiences. It’s just not a priority for most normal human beings. But that doesn’t mean that something deep and profound doesn’t happen to them. And when it does, they deserve to share their stories and take part in the great feedback loop that is sharing, listening, and healing.

After all, nobody’s making anybody watch television or click on anything online. I suspect that most of the people who have read this far have done it because they’re my friends and they care about me.

It’s okay to leave the TV off, turn the TV on, do nothing or wave a cheap American flag and listen to Lee Greenwood. Whatever you can think of to get through something traumatic is fine by me.

As long as it doesn’t involve passing the hurt on and making some other strangers grieve just as badly.

I told a story about the experience at The Moth at Housing Works Bookstore in SoHo, NYC back on June 23rd — you can see video of it here:

Willie is one of those rare people who is both a classic archetype and a completely unique individual. I can see how someone might see my story and think I’m reaching for this cartoonish stereotype of an older cracked-out street character, not unlike Chappelle’s Tyrone Biggums or Richard Pryor’s Mudbone. Except I’m white, too, and I worry sometimes that I could be perceived as indulging in a reductive racist stereotype on top of whatever else is going on in that story.

Then I think “fuck that, just because I’m white doesn’t mean I don’t get to have a real, complicated friendship with a black man who is literally too funky to function within mainstream society.” It really happened, you know. You change things around a little to make your memories fit a story arc, but Willie is real as hell.

Possibly too real.

Here is some video that I took of him near dawn on the night that we met, dancing in my living room to “Ghetto Life.” It’s pretty short, because a) I was plastered myself and b) I have always believed that you’re either documenting something or participating in it. Shortly after I took this I chucked the camera and started dancing right along with him.

These are a few photos of Willie and his Lady that I took later on in the summer, getting drunk on my front porch and dancing to, you guessed it: Rick James.

Willie told me, in all seriousness, that although I may be “mostly bitch”, the spirit of true blackness resided in me all the same. “You made that sculpture, man? You made that thing? That thing black as hell, nobody but natural-born nigger-hands could make that thing live like that,” he said, cackling. Then he gave me a fragrant half-hug.

I can’t say that I miss Willie, exactly, as he was really, really hard to be around a lot of the time. But I miss those laughs, and that incredible, loose, free funk that he could hand out like a wizard giving presents.

The last time I saw Willie he was wearing two grass skirts: one in the classic position, and the other under his armpits, encircling his otherwise bare chest like a festive tank top. He had a police whistle in his mouth and was directing traffic in the middle of the road in front of a church on Sunday morning.

I don’t know if his body is still alive or not. But I hope that insane funk like that never dies.

I would have mentioned this earlier, but I’ve been crippled with a bog monster infestation – a whole bunch of them set up shop in my sinus cavities and have been using my lungs as a fricking waterslide. I coughed so hard the other night that I think I gave myself a small hernia.

That’s got nothing to do with what I’m talking about here, though.

What I’m here to talk about is that we had us a show a few weeks back, and it went really well! I had a ton of fun, despite some really frustrating technical difficulties in the beginning.

The Kraine Theater is this dank, crumbling space in the East Village, the sort of place that feels like it’s haunted by a bunch of old men in long raincoats. It made a certain kind of sonic sense to hear someone kick over a beer bottle during the show, and when an old lady showed up in a sun hat with a Mike-Tyson face tattoo drawn on with eye liner, I wasn’t even surprised. OF COURSE we had one of those. It was that kind of show.

Don’t get me wrong, though. I still wanted to kick the wrinkles out of that old bat when she started heckling the comedian. I like weirdos in the audience and all, but I really prefer when they stay quiet.

Still, I had a ton of fun, and I’m pretty sure the crowd did, too.

I talked to the theater director about the show today, and I think we are going to start doing this quarterly.

One thing I know, though: we’re bringing this show up to Albany, NY in mid-August. We’ll be performing in Saint Joe’s Church, what appears to be this amazing crumbling cathedral in downtown Albany. I’d love to make a little tour out of it, maybe play in Boston, Providence, BUffalo, what have you. If any of you book shows in bars, clubs or theaters in that area and want some storytellers and burlesque people to come up, do please let me know.

And if you happened to be in the audience on Sunday, thank you so, so much for coming. It was a jam, for real.

Our good friend and fellow storyteller Tracy Rowland just made us a magnificent trailer for Sunday’s show, and I’d be remiss in my mission to promote awesomeness on the Internet if I didn’t share it here. There is some mild language, almost- nudity. Which is maybe a selling point:

The music is by Richmond, VA sweatrock legends RPG, permission given by Matt Conner. Show info after the jump:

We’re putting on another variety show on Sunday, April 17th at the Kraine Theater – for a measly $8 you get:

Storytelling by

Brad Lawrence
Cyndi Freeman
Jeff Simmermon

Burlesque by Apathy Angel and Cyndi Freeman

Comedy by Matt McCarthy

Puppetry by Z.Briggs

Belly Dancing by Madame X

Here’s a poster/flyer – hope we see you there.

Naturally, I went over there and took a few pics:

It’s still fully functional. I wonder how long it takes for the magic to wear off for the firefighters that get assigned there.