The NYC talent, of course, is reliably pathetic, best summed up by The Fun Club crew missing the point with sexual fantasies about a nine-year-old girl and lame hippie humor that plays like street theater. It’s left to Teutonic hostess Miss Astrid to suggest that the East Coast scene can be sexy. She’s also clever enough to preempt criticism by proudly declaring, "Burlesque is all about stupid." That’s not true, but it’s a nice cover for anthropological failings.
Modern days aren’t looking any better at the Rock Offs party at Mission, with Corn Mo standing out as the only person in the room who doesn’t look like he’s auditioning for a Smirnoff ad. It’s the usual mix of wan go-go girls and new-wave classics, only dignified by Corn Mo working his cheese-sandwich concession on the George Foreman grill. This prompts me to comment that his New York Press cover story has done wonders for his career.
"Yeah," he happily replies, "I’m making cheese sandwiches!"
Conversations with Corn Mo usually go like that. It’s about five minutes later that he casually mentions that he just appeared on Jimmy Kimmel Live. Conversations with Corn Mo usually go like that, too.
The new Gong Show project has also come calling for Corn, although he’s more impressed by my heading out to the Gong Show fundraiser at the West Side YMCA. It turns out to be exactly like any dopey Gong Show benefit that would be held by some Methodist church in Columbus, OH. Except, you know, it’s hosted by Chuck Barris. "This is great–it’s sorta like Americana," announces the host to the crowd of 125 people in folding chairs.
It’s also sorta like Broadway, with laughable talent and one big name to make it a proper event. The only difference is that nobody’s asking $150 at the door. Those non-celebrity judges are pretty vicious, too, though the act with little kids naturally wins. I was rooting for the woman who did a Topo Gigio routine.
Over at Siberia, the band Flaming Fire has the decency to gong themselves, but that’s right at the beginning of their set. Vulgaras also appear with their usual fine display of lesbian s&m and bloodletting, cleverly distracting the audience from their music. Still, they’ll just be a Genitorturers knock-off as long as everyone on stage is still alive at the end of their shows. Where’s the vision nowadays?
I’m mainly attending for the evening’s superhero costume contest, which has me straining to use my x-ray vision on a big blonde in a Supergirl outfit. This gal does more with a tight t-shirt than our city’s burlesque queens manage with trunks of boas. As sadly expected, it’s mostly males getting in on the contest, as typified by the guy in a Crow outfit who looks like a collision between two Lees–Brandon and Sara.
It isn’t until he goes on stage that I remember that he’s the Vulgaras’ lucky token male guitarist, so that’s a hearty last laugh on us heterosexuals. I just go home and watch my VHS of Ms. Magnificent, the famously redubbed 1977 porn film that would’ve been a Superman parody if DC Comics hadn’t called in their attorneys. I watch it for anthropological reasons.
