text:
Interdisciplinary Art Source
Louis DeVaughn Nelson
New York is the easiest and the hardest place to get laid in the world, ever.
A long time fan of the convenience of transient sex - rampant when I was in the slut town of Berlin which is prone to superfluous amounts of sex tourism that supports its already infamous economic growth, I try to aim towards avoiding that superlative state of desperation to get laid. My kid-in-a-candy-store days are over, and though the novelty has worn off, I still every so often find myself at the epicenter of anonymous sex.
"Du bist deutsch?"
Is a common turn of phrase I wasn't expecting to be saying on a regular basis since my return to America, but it seems as though I'm cursed and blessed all at once.
I was brazen enough to interject some rather latent content into an article that I wrote for this Broadway Blog. I had Walden in tow - the new Jew not really in my life who I have a not so secret crush on. I've been flirting in my typical way, mostly through correspondence rife with double entendre and witty nothings that seemingly could possibly mean everything. This is not to say that I'm being passive aggressive about my letting on my attraction towards him; I'm just well aware of the fact that the affect he doles out to me must be kept on a leash. Though putting it up in a public forum aside from my typical erotica audience was a feat and kind of a naughty undertaking.
I knew New York.
A little over 5 years ago I wrote A Letter to my Favorite Scorpio.
While the annals of the duly noted Virgo Jew plays in the background by way of poignant latent correspondence – I've somehow managed to breathe in the air of more dirty virgins but before I proceed I have a confession to make.
It was bound to happen.
I knew that my return to these pages would be sparked due mostly in part to the main things I've been trying to avoid for so long: emotional lust, sexual fascination, and Virgos.
Three months ago I penned this portent; I am such a Cassandra. I knew very well that as soon as I was comfortable and happy enough - I would be ready for the hunting aside from betwixt the thighs, no matter how much of an exhausting and ambitious undertaking it would become. Now here I am again, like we've all been, suffering through that moment when we least expect it.
His pseudonym will be Walden.
All of his characteristics besides that astrological one are desirable. He has this vampiric look about him that I've come to desire more often than not, with his pale skin and dark curly mane...inherent of his Jewish background. So of course he is hairy and witty, and you know what that does to a girl. His height bares good clout and he's meaty enough but not overwrought with muscle or fat; a good combination of the two. There was a certain tidiness to his unkemptness. Though he was completely unstylish and dressed all in black with his shirt untucked, it seemed put together in a way that did not cause a fuss per se but rather became the visual cue to cause waves in my want for smooth sailing in the Man Department. I could not help but to succumb to his submissive way about him. He was so forthcoming with hospitality and servitude I could not resist. I assumed that this unrelenting doling out of pleasure was derivative of something Freudian; another pang to my heart. And he was remarkably intelligent. His brain was such an attractive organ that I wonder what it looked like with all its precious wrinkles. We got along swimmingly and without much effort we were wading - I thought to myself I could wade tread forever. I actually got to the point where I stopped talking out of fear that I (we) would never stop, thus I was preparing myself for a not so distant end to all of this sensory overload - and then he touched my knee...
"When is your birthday?" I demanded.
"September 19th," he replied obediently.
"I see," I pondered with obvious uncertainty tinging with disappointment and intrigue.
"Is that a bad thing?" he asked with fortitude, ready to do whatever it took to change this newfound turbulent course.
"Um, no?" I lied. "You're a Virgo,"
"What's that mean?"
"Funny enough I know a lot of September 19th people, most notably my Mother,"
"Well then she must be a super cool amazing lady then."
"Those aren't the words I would use to describe her."
I haven't been writing for several reasons though none of them are reasonable. The primary source of my being indisposed is that I am making a major career change. I am no longer a writer.
As he started to fumble with the key to the door he became even less mindful of the bleached white towel around his waist and the few fingers gripping onto it and let the thing fall down into a makeshift drape on his frontside leaving his backside exposed. It was a meaty, hairy ass and I playfully squeezed it as I gave him a naughty wink. After the quick stumble with getting the door open he walked in and effortlessly released the towel onto the floor and to my surprise there was another man already in his room - the man I saw earlier, the one with the Yankee's baseball cap.
Both of them were middle-aged chums with moderate attractiveness, very typical man's-man kind of men. The former was graying in most areas and had a few scraggly tattoos hither and tither on his weathered skin whilst the other bore a completely unfettered milky brightness about him sans the hefty patch of near black fur between his legs and under his arms; he was wearing nothing but a Yankee's cap. I was pleased with this circumstance as unexpected as it was. It was just another story in my never ending one, and though I had came to this place just to kill time I found out rather abruptly that I would be killing two birds, both stoned.
When I entered his hole it felt like sunshine.
I was overcome with a feeling of warmth that radiated throughout me. Inserting myself within him was such a welcoming surprise considering that the analogy is so appropriate. A cloud of darkness had flown over my sex life and his opening became this bright interjection. His puckered slit was inviting but still in a sense a gate that needed a bit of prying to allow access to the chute which was downy soft. Much like his entire body, that glorious ass of his - wide and voluptuous - was covered with hair that was slick by the time I introduced my brick hard dick at the passageway. I already heeded to the portent of this wondrous utility when I had earlier stuck my finger in it and grunted regrettably for I knew that this would later become a constant interruption to regular autonomic thought. I sunk into him slowly and steadily though admittedly I was sucked in completely; he had a very experienced ass. He had his legs held and locked behind the hinges of his elbows and I dared not look him in the eye. Instead I pondered the beauty of watching my darkness being enveloped by his lightness and we became a team of incredible pleasure.
When I kissed him it reminded me of the sensation one gets when you bite into a peach. That along with his marshmallowy sphincter made me let out one of those unintentional "mmmm" sounds as I plowed deeper into both orifices with reckless abandon. He was still wearing his baseball cap.
Cyclops we'll call him (and I'm not telling you why) was that quintessential boy next door type on the outside and full blown recovering Catholic freakazoid on the inside. I'll try to describe him more accurately though I might have to water down my words a bit as I am in a public setting writing this and just thinking about his presence and all we engaged in is already giving me chub.
He's about 5'9" but tall from side to side. Yes, he's meaty, but not fat. He has a worked out body and a military background so all of that heft of his is mostly muscle. He's white (duh) and pale enough that he could be Irish or English or both. His hair is auburn (ish). His eyes are hazel (ish). He looks very clean cut blue collar cop meets contractor. He's one of the hottest men I have ever been with.
I didn't really trust him at first. Perhaps it was because he was so gorgeous that it brought out each and every one of my insecurities. I was shy in letting on how incredibly attracted to him I was. He had beauteous legs and hands, my favorite part of a man - and his voice was deep and articulate. I could go on and on.
He told me he was a Taurus and I almost slapped him in the face (I have a "thing" for those humorous, hedonistic, flesh obsessed Taureans) - for I new that this was going to be a nice ride at the rodeo I've come to know and love. Did I mention he was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt and boots and he never took off that fucking baseball cap? Like a good bull he was very complimentary and flirtatious and an expert at wooing me, and I could tell he was getting a good kick at watching me squirm. We were talking for a long time about our interests and backstories and then he told me the most remarkable thing any gentleman caller has ever uttered: "My perfect man is Karl Malone."
Tarried Away
3 minutes, 3 hours, 3 days, 3 weeks, 3 months, 3 years, 3 decades, 3 cities, 3 men, 3 friends, 3 lives…
There is a constant theme of trifecta in my life that sways between the desires of want versus need and remains a source for the establishment of a battleground for my id and ego. There are choices, decisions, and demands – all of which add up to a seeming ultimatum.
Three months ago I was flying over Philadelphia by way of Frankfurt by way of the Wonderland that is Berlin. I was poised to start everything all over again in a new or old place that would be the asylum from my last tumultuous yet prosperous adventure. My stomach was rife with taut knots of ambivalence as I saw the azure shaded, metallic colored, neo-modern skyline of the place of my homecoming with those ever-present reminiscent nuances of art deco that I grew to love to hate and hate to love after so long. What was so familiar looked foreign and then again familiar all after a few augmented heartbeats. I felt that feeling of home that I hadn't realized since I left it.
When I first moved to the city of brotherly love circa the turn of the century I was crafting a longwinded plan in regards to those three precious vitalities that we all gauge as the barometer of our success: home, career, love.
It all started with perhaps the tiniest efficiency apartment known to man - at the fading border of south Philly, that was climbing more and more north at the time. Named after the respective hospital that was center to the area, Graduate Hospital, I fell in love with my little mini flat owned by a gay couple who were more than willing to flirt with me unabashedly at any given rendezvous.
I made the place my own, my first own place. I painted the walls, made my own window treatments, built a storage bed, trash picked some stunning vintage furniture, and made it my home. I had a fireplace, central air (heating), a space heater and an electric blanket. Long gone were the days of roommates of cold climate descent, so finally I could afford myself the luxury of my own ancestry.
Mine (and other gays) moving there was a caveat for the gentrification that was to come (as I did previously in the now glorious town of Collingswood, NJ that used to be a shit box). Many of the gays were scooping up properties in the area at the time, cleaning up bullet shells, turning dilapidated buildings into fancy condos, and bringing some culture to a part of the city that was inhabited with squatters, drug dealers and prostitutes. Many times I had to watch my step for used condoms and used syringes. After a few years, the neighborhood was a highly desired area. Numero uno was complete.
Per usual, I was overextending myself job-wise. I was working at this hotel (see previous post), I was waiting tables, bar tending, and temping in my "spare time". I got rid of my little hatchback car that somehow managed to survive without the proper mechanics of a real working muffler - but I was going to be a city boy so the need and expense was unnecessary. I was until that time traveling over the Ben Franklin Bridge from south New Jersey everyday. When Bush was elected and gas and toll prices augmented, I knew it was time to just be where I always was anyway as I had been working in the city since I finished college.
|Kevin Burkett - Wikipedia
Once upon a time I worked at a reputable gay owned and operated boutique hotel located in the center of the gayborhood in Philly. It was a quaint place with about 48 rooms and boasted its historical lovability through its restored and renovated interior and exterior - as well as the claim of being one of the first buildings in Philadelphia to have an elevator installed in it.
Each room was gayer than the next. The owners (a bitchy old queen couple, one a Jew, the other not so much) adorned the place with an art deco meets modern art (the real 20s - 60s movement) aesthetic, with refurbished contemporary bathrooms, sea green, poised pink, and dusty sand colors on the walls. Still to this day I have never slept on a more comfortable bed, having been snowed in once or twice during my stint working there. The ottomans were fabulous and downstairs adjacent to the front desk there was a European styled breakfast room, with a grand chandelier masking the environment from the harsh gritty overtones of east coast metropolitan sensibilities. The newest technologies were hidden behind and/or inside of purposeful elegant furnishings the likes of secretaries and armoires, all made of rich and hefty dark woods. This was a different time, a little more than ten years ago, and when we were not so adhered to electronic devices.
Never one to limit himself, I was not only the first shift Front Desk Agent, but I was also the Breakfast Attendant. I would (happily) arrive around 5-5:30am to set up the breakfast and handle any late night calls coming in from the west coast, all while organizing the schedule of arrivals and departures during the day, checking for the regulars and facilitating their requests for corner rooms or higher floored suites - as the place filled up quite quickly during certain times of the year, and it was our duty to accomodate the devoted patrons first.
I had just started blogging while I was working there. During the slower periods in the beginning of the summer and winter, I would spend a lot of time writing, especially if I picked up a shift that wasn't my own - those downtime things that could drive a person like me crazy without a distraction from the idle mind. Especially in a Devil's workshop like this place particularly.
After I set up the breakfast for the bed folk, meticulously, my shift ran from 730am - 330pm, though it was rare that I ever left before 4pm. I had to double and sometimes triple check to make sure the rooms were clean and in order (hopefully finished off with Windex and paper towels), help with laundry if the housekeeping staff was overwhelmed and/or needed more cigarette breaks than usual, take calls for reservations and general questions, attend to rooms that needed this or that, do wake-up calls, clean up the breakfast room, expedite check-outs and early check-ins, call taxis, make entertainment suggestions and dinner reservations, give directions, and recommend how people should spend their time in Philly.
The clientele was primarily made of upper middle class white gay men in their middle to upper forties. Hence the gracious smile on my way to work everyday before the sun rose. There was also a bevy of gay couples, male and female, with a light spattering of colored folk and hetero families who caught wind of the place during peak periods where it is almost impossible to get a reservation anywhere in the city.
My favorites were the well-to-do Johns and Hookers who would sometimes ask for a by-the-hour price, and with a smile and a wink I told them that the price was always the same and the best in the city anyway (we had rooms for under $100 at the time). I also had another favorite customer.
By the time I left the place, or better yet, I was fired - fired for being a half an hour late after years of being the only brave soul to trek into that place prior to dawn - I learned that there was an undercurrent of sleaze and drama that is to be expected at this sort of establishment. I wasn't so much naive to the circumstances, but I understood very well to stay away from them and not heed to any sort of expected conundrum of working in a gay hotel.
Sure, many times I would have a guest call down for a plunger or an extra space heater or blanket or towel and being the ingenue that I was at the time, I would heartily oblige the request with a beaming smirk on my face only to be surprised over and over again to find said guest sprawled out on his bed masturbating himself with the door ajar just enough for me to accept or refuse his offer. I never accepted. Only politely offered the decoy he suggested and walked away alarmed and amused.
After working there I found out about the codes and the language that people would use in order to get the staff to pull out their staffs and exchange fluids and money for amenities rendered outside of the specs of the brochure if you know what I mean. Many of the boys I worked with (all of varying delectable personality and physicality) supplemented their lives with the offerings and takings of the guests while navigating their way through the already tumultuous task of being gay at the turn of the century in an almost-gay friendly city.
I heard of stories about guests and employees using the hotel as a safe haven, pissing themselves at bars and taking cabs over to the place, paid through petty cash loans and then occupying any unclaimed rooms for the night. The owner of the hotel was readily aware of these acts, up to and including finding his staff half naked and passed out in utility rooms and such - the art of homosexuality at its sleaziest. He was a noble man, one of three considerable gay founding fathers of the city - he had seen and done it all and served as the wise old owl to cushion the blows that many a young gay or two had made on themselves.
I was lucky in a way. At that time I was in the harrowing whirlwind of a "relationship" with my ex-husband, who I met while I was working at the hotel but not at the hotel itself. As much as I loved the flirting and the constant ogling and the perversions (there were men who would call regularly and try to have phone sex with the concierge on call), I knew that my ex-husband was "the one" and nobody else mattered, no matter how difficult it was for us to accept that we belonged together.
(Part Two: The Boys Are Back in Town)
I don't know how I did it and I never really expected it, but at that point I had accepted my Narcissistic stature. Long gone was the fear of being naked not only in the company of others but more so in the company of my own - a longwinded journey of self deprecation due to all the nurture and nature things I have endured including but certainly not limited to the annals of my pious and militant upbringing, the illegitimate suitors, the demands of the sports and art worlds I've inhabited, and a commonplace though veiled abundance of stereotypical nuances that gay black men in America are prone to.
There I was, with him and him and another him not in the frame of the mirror, but looking on at the spectacle presented before all of us. I was there, yes, but not really at all, mesmerized and paralyzed by my own manifestation, almost a caricature of myself - and I lit up the dim room nestled in the darkness with the whiteness of my bulging eyes and clanking teeth. Was I finally beautiful and unadulterated and unfettered? I was the happiest and the saddest I have ever been. There would be no more challenge, and the rite of passage had met its Manifest Destiny.
Again I had promised myself that this would be the last one, even though there were two, equally bearish and equally desirable, and equally the most notable fresh meat in the joint. Both of them well over 6 foot tall and bearing the irresistible fruit of heft that I had already feasted on many times over, they were a quintessential occurrence of overbearing and accessible extremes that are indicative of Berlin.
I was full, but empty.
Sure, my legs were weak, my back felt broken, my neck was sore, my arms were wobbly, my feet were aching, my eyes were red and dry, my ears were clogged, my knees were rug burned, my hands were clammy, my nose was stuffed up, my lips were peeling, my dick was chaffed, my hole was in pain and my person was stained with a thick film of sweat and foreign fluids...
Though I preferred the Ginger Bear, I settled on The Perfect Fuck (of darker and more eager proclivity) and when he went through those tedious motions of sitting in the chair perfectly situated outside my door and began to tentatively fondle himself through his towel, I gave an overwhelming gesture for him to stop that nonsense and come into my room immediately; I was spent but had just enough strength of sleaze to afford myself on more fuck.
He too was surprised and gave me that "really, me?" look and before I could close the door and rip his towel off, I noticed that his prick was gesturing towards me, rising like a long forgotten sun that is also indicative of Berlin - the low hanging gray sky that keeps the light out on a daily basis.
The dick was crooked and was housed beneath a sheath of foreskin that was soft and moist to the touch. He was a big sweaty hairy bearded beefy guy and once again my hunger was aroused. I thought to myself that this might be the last time in a long time that I see one of these burrito looking things, the sly sword of un-circumcision that I have grown accustomed to with much trepidation, now a symbol of bittersweet nostalgia.
"Push," he uttered.
About 20 years ago...my father had entrusted to me his faith that I would be a very accomplished and worthy young gentleman with reputable accolades to carry on his name with respect, pride and success. He knew that no matter the hardships based on my eccentricities, I would overcome adversity and live to be much more than he ever allowed himself to be in his own modest regard.
These days I am constantly battling with myself as I live amongst the wake of so many who have made the sojourn to Berlin in hopes of acquiring some sort of meaningful rite of passage. In this land where it is to be considered the freest place in the world, it is a shocking revelation the objects and desires that its denizens so frequently become enslaved to. The plains of the plateau have been filled with the rebirth of notorious histories, and these homages have weeded out the bottom dwellers that once found their refuge here. Now we are much less for the every of ourselves but more in the likes of only himself.
More than that there is no monument for us. The proverbial paths we paved and pounded do not thwart or hinder the nostalgic expectations of sociopolitical trauma. In figurative and literal terms, those of us deemed survivors must set forward a legacy of those unable to withstand the tides or undertow of the amorphous demands of burgeoning society. Before us and after us comes the reasoning for keeping changes the ways they have always been.
I've been going through old files and journal entries trying to find something suitable to post for Throwback Thursday on my other social media platforms as I don't use this blog for those generalized hash-tag sort of things. After decoding some of the code-names for the boys mentioned in all of my labored verses, I started to think of what I would tell myself if I could travel back in time because I noticed there were (even back then) a lot of different dudes and I had a lot of unanswered questions. I'm happy to say that while much of the original cycle is still intact, I've learned a lot from my past and I am happy to report to my former self that many of those reckless and wary relationships ended out being infinitely better than they started. This is not to say that I don't have a lot of work to do (still), but I can put much less effort into now with my hard earned acumen regarding that beastly Y chromosome.
For a repost (as I am backed up with other writing tasks at the moment), I settled on a rather telling tale from a Halloween about a decade ago. It is one of my favorite stories, as that end of the year (2003) was quite pivotal for me. It was the fall proceeding the Summer of Love when I met my ex-husband and I was contemplating seriously dating a guy who was a good friend of mine, Mr. Big (I called him that because of his cock size), and I was working at a hospital full of hot doctors and I was living in south New Jersey, having not yet moved to Philly but spending all of my time there. I wish I had a photo of the costume I wore that year.
Without further ado...
3 November 2003
"another one bites the dust..."
friday night i was exhausted. i hadn't slept too much the night before after working from 8 am until 7:30 pm and i was eating candy all day, so i was totally crashing. i had no idea what my costume was going to be and i was missing mr. big. i called jamie when i got home and we went to the thirft store to find a costume. she suggested i be an abortionist so i got a raggedy babydoll and some stage blood. i covered my scrubs i stole from work in the blood then covered the babydoll in hot glue, fingernail polish and more blood and i was ret ta go.
we picked up laani and we were on our way to jamie's new girlfriend's house whom i've been dying to meet. we got there and met two of her arts-fartsy friends one of which was dressed up as a pumpernickle unicorn. he was so funny and obnoxious and annoying i wanted to bone him real bad (turns out he was an aries-taurus cusp which explains why). we all went to dinner @ August and we were all whispering, trying to be discreet. the place was cute and no one was hungry so we ate pou-pou style while our server who was a spitting image of Annette Benning got lost in the weeds.
i called mr. big while i was there at the restuarant (i was half way to drunk and feeling obnoxious/pretentious). i was expecting to just leave a cute message but he was home. i told him i wanted to see him and he agreed to meet me at the bar. he told me he had sucked two dicks already that day so i bitched him out for a few minutes and he told me to call him before i got to the bar.
got to the bar uber excited. it was crowded as crap and it was only around 10:30 or so. there were all types of people everywhere. lanni went to go flirt with her favorite "straight" bouncer while i flirted around. two-step night was still going on so i flirted with every-blackman's-favorite-whiteguy, jim, and talked to mr. bears husband for a bit. eventually i found myself being jeered and cheered by people by my hilarious, disgusting, and just plain wrong costume.
i ran into a hook-up from christmas past, this guy brian who is on my top ten best kissers of all time list. we said hi annd made out for approximatey 15 minutes. god it sucks he's a total bottom. he went away so i went looking for laani, again.
i called
ernie mr. big to see if he was home after about 45mins of waiting, figured maybe he came and left since it was so busy and it would have been hard to find me in the crowd. i got his answering machine so i decided to wait at the front door for him. he finally arrived and bought me a drink and we went upstairs to watch the costume parade. he was stunningly real at this point, i kept thinking to myself, "damn, this is going to be bad".
i ran into scotty which was nice and a few other people. after a while mr. big and i decided to leave lanni behind, she kept disappearing and reappearing, all the while getting on my nerves with her unruly drunkeness. so we're upstairs walking out towards the exit and it happened.
mr. big got a little ahead of me and this tall, striking guy caught my eye. he was wearing a fedex jumpsuit with the zipper down to where his pubes started. his eyes were...well, unbelievable and he was wearing a leather harness under it all. suddenly the room (felt like it) cleared out and we were the only ones. i asked him, "do you have a package for me?"
and he said "feel between my legs". i said "what?" taken totally aback. he then took my hand and put it on his exposed, eager prick. then allofasudden we were totally making out. i forgot about mr. big, i forgot what my name was, i forgot where i was, etc. etc...
the next thing i knew, i was back in reality and my cock was out and his cock was out and my pants were falling down and mr. big was looking at me in disgust (or something). i watched him walk away as mr. fedex asked me why i wasn't with my boyfriend and if he could have my number. we made out a few more times and i literally ran after mr. big. i am so bad.
so i'm running and running down the street with my bloody baby and blood splattered scrubs, trying to figure out where the hell he disappeared to. my cock is totally dripping with precum from mr. fedex and i am thinking "holy fucking shit." i never found him so i went back and didn't find mr. fedex either. i was sad, frustrated, pent up, pissed off, drunk. couldn't find laani either.
so i went psycho.
i called him and his phone was busy. must have been on the assline. i got through and left an obnoxious message and waited outside. i ran into scotty again, a few guys i was flirting with and my sister who didn't ask me how i was doing or anything, she/he just elected to tell me that she was "dealing powder" again. whatev.
so i finally found laani and lost her again and then found her again and we caught the next train home. she ended up not getting off at our stop; she decided to go home with some guy that chatted her up on the train.
i sprinted home and called and called and called. "i hope you like the sound of your phone ringing", i slurred. i was so pissed off. was he jealous? how dare he having sucked two cocks already that day. was he happy for me? did he want me to go off and have a good time?
saturday. i worked. the store exploded all day long. i was thouroughly distracted. by the time i got home i found myself calling about every hour or so between cleaning my room, smoking pot and napping. eventually i felt really rejected and worthless, so i tried to act like i wasn't waiting for his phone call.
night fell and i had no idea whether or not we were going to hang out on sunday. so i watched the film Secretary with david spader or whatever that freaks name is. it was a great flick, it really turned me on, and it was disgusting how much it paralleled to my current disposition.
sunday. more freaking out. i blew up his phone. he would not answer. shades of rob all over again. why do i end up chasing these old, confused men who lead me into this trap/spiral of confusion and wishwashiness.
finally he called around 3:30. we got off the phone around 5:30.
turns out he "didn't like the way he felt" seeing me hook-up with that guy. he didn't come out and say that he was jealous, as obvious as it was, but he knew it was unfair to feel anything considering that he had sucked so much cock that very same day. he told me it would be unhealthy for us to keep seeing each other and he told me to have a nice life and good luck with my art.
he gave me a nice elaboration about his feeling and i told him how i felt and how it's fucked up that we aren't suppossed to be feeling anything but we are. so in the end, he said bye, waited for me to say bye back, which i didn't and he hung up.
i sat there on my bed trying to hold back the tears like annette benning in American Beauty and i called him back. i begged him not to do this to me. i told him he was being so stupid. i told him he was an asshole. i told him i cared about him. not once did i apologize. he said we can't be friends. he said he loves spending time with me. he gave me a whole bunch of good reasons that he interpreted into bad reasons for us to be "together". he told me the physical attraction "wasn't there" as much as he would like to be. finally i'm not beautiful. i begged for him to not do this to me. i explained that i am a rejection junkie and if he bails i will totally fall in love with him. through the tears and raised voice and broken, scratchy words, we were still laughing all the while feeling totally comfortable, being totally open and honest. he admitted that he has never, EVER been so honest with someone and he was enjoying it. he appreciated that i was distracting him from his whorish endeavours. he was saying all this wonderful stuff...
in the end i got him to agree to "give it a shot". he dragged me into this bullshit and i refuse to let him just let me go so easily. he admitted he was stupid and fucked up and wants to get himself together, and i want to help him. so i had a good cry, a very good one. he told me how bad he felt about saying goodbye and how he didn't want to. he is such a gemini. he is lost right now. i told him he needs to think about the other two people involved: me, and the other side of him that wants me around. i told him that i was awesome and he would regret not having me around. hopefully we can just play it cool and if we fall in love with each other, so be it. i guess we are both just causalties of (a) whore.
i totaly trust this guy (like the dumbass that i am) and i respect the fact that he is torn between wanting to be free and uninvolved. i don't want to go through this again with another guy that seems like the same one, but i definately think he's worth it.
Last month I attended a fundraising event that left me feeling impoverished. I pulled what pieces I had left of myself together and ventured out into one of the last warm nights of fall, dressed to the nines and a half with a unterwegs tiny bottle of vodka as social lubricant.
I was per usual very pessimistic about the forthcoming experience, thinking that I would be there for much less than an hour and have to deal with an abundance of zealous personalities veiling actual incarnates. To my pleasant surprise, the evening provided a slew of reality that inspired a faint sense of optimism.
I've met a bevy of artists since I've come to New York in November.
They are not hard to find. When not on stages, screens or crisp white lit walls – they are serving cocktails, slinging trays, walking dogs, burping babies, selling stilettos, teaching teenagers and so on and so forth.
It is no wonder then that I've met new impressionable and inspirational talent through one of the several hospitality jobs I have to survive in the Big Apple.
I am always looking for that special something – and after having lost all of my muses in Philadelphia and then Berlin due to relocation – I knew very well it wouldn't be too much of a challenge on the account of my desperation and desire to find new ones. Furthermore, to be in this epicenter of creativity was my primary motivation (if not instinct) when I came back from Europe. I had the crème de la crème of artists at my disposal when I was across the ocean, so my burgeoning palette became hungry for better, more, perfection.
When I first saw Phillip – his smile was infectious. I wanted to bring the dark side out of him. Not one to harp on emotive proclivities, our introduction was brief and I spent much of the rest of the evening keeping a peripheral eye on him, going through my mental Roladex of scripts wondering what characters he might fit into or if there were any ideas on my back burner he'd be appropriate for – like any writer/director spends most of their time doing everyday.
We were working a catered event for about 100 luxury cruise line professionals. They were a spritely, boozy bunch, and I was of course surrounded by a plethora of front of the house professionals slash artists, but there was something about Philip.
All of us were talking about film and television and theater, like the art nerds that we were – and the adrenaline of competition versus camaraderie was leaving a sweaty stench in the air. We told the forever-the-same tales of the woes and wins of New York Shitty, and how no matter how hard it gets, there is no option to bail out.
Philip and I (along with a few others) ended up huffing it to the subway instead of splurging on an Uber we couldn't afford, as true artists are prone to do. Like a good writer, I had some Polish Vodka in my bag and started to swig to quell and coerce the creative energy brewing inside of me.
When we were the last ones to transfer off and away from the borough of Manhattan. We got to talking about or respective and specific passions and he had mentioned to me that his past primary project was a web series he wrote and starred in entitled "Planners". I asked him to take a picture of me (this weird affectation of Narcissism artists sometimes get when they haven't gotten any work in awhile) before he left. "I hope to see you again," he motioned with a wave "so long", as he too transferred off to another train with another hundred people.
The next day I took a look at his web series and then found my way to his other work and I knew that there was something there…
Previously, I had already declared a perfunctory muse. She's run the gamut with me in varying velocities of interaction. She works with me at my primary gig – a bistro restaurant on the Upper West Side that is famous for the entertainment elite it caters to.
The staff is made up of a cast of characters, mostly actors and the writers who adore them. I'm lucky in one way to be surrounded by so much drama, as exhausting as it is – but more than that there is this precious dichotomy of feeling like you're on the wrong side of the equation. You can't help but iterate those classic show business adages about making it on Broadway and singing those musical songs in your head as you serve expensive omelettes and steak frites to Tony winners. It's better and worse than you can ever imagine.
There, I met Stephanie. A veritable chameleon that has a special draw not only for her unique and amicable visage, but her demeanor strikes you as coming off as the perfect blend of sweet angel and little devil.
She too told the story we all share about New York and her dreams and the struggle and the victories – and I was enthralled. She spoke openly (like a soliloquy) about her passions when I asked, and I mentally took notes on her diction, intonation, inflection, projection, physicality, emotional slants, her gait – like any writer/director spends most of their time doing everyday.
I told her I wanted to work with her some day. Her oblige wasn't so much of a blush but rather a figurative wink. It came in the form of a nod and verbal agreement; I knew we were a match.
About a month ago after seven months in New York, for the second time, after a slew of proposal and application writing – one of my works was chosen for a new artist collective entitled Hearts on the Wall from Dark Matter Productions.
I sent Phillip the script that was chosen and he said he was interested. Two of the actresses I had in mind (whom I met through other catered events) were indisposed, and eventually Phillip suggested that I get in touch with his acting class partner, Jamie.
I met Jamie for a meeting/audition/rehearsal – though after reviewing her work, and being turned on by the idea of working with two actors who work together regularly, I knew she was already my girl. We got along swimmingly. She sat next to me at the café where I typically meet everyone, where by chance there was another meeting/audition/rehearsal going on right next to us.
I focused intensely on Jamie, noting that she must've been a dancer by the way she used movement as an expressive tool. I also watched her eyes, the muscles on her face, the nature of her personality, the tones of her voice, the weight of her hair, the concentration of her spirit – like any writer/director spends most of their time doing everyday.
The logline and synopsis of the play was as followed:
I had a casual couch rehearsal with Philip and after we dug into the character, we conferenced in Jamie via Skype and read through all together. I am a big fan of using technology for working in the arts, many times I record rehearsals and send links so my performers can study virtually.
I sent notes and references to the entire cast and went through the costume requirements. I was always taught to wear all black at auditions, and I prefer actors to do this during readings so you can have a "clean slate" visually, though we did go through what I call The Parker Posey Method of Acting. I once saw her in an interview say that the first thing she does when she is playing a role is pick out what the character would wear. I added a bandana and glasses to the characters' accessories.
And then we met on the day of the show at the aforementioned café and I nearly shit a brick of glee having finally attained 3 malleable actors to paint my piece.
One of the biggest challenges for me as a Director was that I only had 3 weeks to put the pieces together. It was a staged reading, but me being me, I was very zealous about making it a performative piece as much as possible, though the actors were to stay on-book. I typically do not like the actors to get too involved or familiar with the text before the first rehearsal, but time did not permit that and I had to make some changes to the script posthaste.
I asked them all the same questions about their characters – and I eagerly acclimated myself with their contributions. I even made the narrator of the play an actual character, to further the complexity of the presentation.
I do get a little sadistic when directing, and I believe that that is the true mark of a great artist. It comes from the passion but also to instill discipline in my performers (perhaps that comes from my pious upbringing, my families' military background, my stint with athletics, and from being trained in dance).
I got out of them what I needed, but not what I wanted. This was in fact a work-in-progress, so there was room for error, but make no mistake, they all impressed me and I consider them to be high caliber actors. The material was engaging not only to the audience but to the readers, and I knew this dynamic would be fun to navigate.
Here are my notes I sent to the actors:
Snow White
Presented by: Company XIV – http://www.companyxiv.com
in association with Liberty Theaters, LLC :
Under the Direction of Margaret Cotter
Conceived, Choreographed and Directed by: Austin McCormick
Featuring: Hilly Bodin, Marisol Cabrera, Laura Careless,
Courtney Giannone, Lea Helle, Nicholas Katen, Malik Shabazz Kitchen, Mark Osmundsen, Davon Rainey, March Richardson
Ran: January 26th – March 12th
Minetta Lane Theatre
18 Minetta Lane
New York, NY 10012
By Louis DeVaughn Nelson
PHOTOS: Courtesy Company XIV, Benjamin Riley – http://www.benrileystudio.com
"More tease, less strip!" was a common phrase I would shout at my classically trained dancers, sometimes strippers, performers every once in a while, and part time whatever else they could do with their many talents to make ends meet. That was over a decade ago when Cher and Christina Aguilera's Burlesque movie hadn't yet made the art form more acceptable to mass appeal audiences and the film Chicago had just made it more accessible.
I was then working for the award-wining Peekaboo Revue (Philadelphia, PA), deemed a neo-burlesque troupe that was just as much ahead of its time as it was reliving the past. 2002 sparked the inaugural New York Burlesque Festival in which the burgeoning cabaret scene began to (once again) celebrate the entertainment value of the good old-fashioned "leg shows" and "good clean fun" of the American Vaudeville era when a few pence would allow you all day access to a bevy of bump & grind and sideshow acts.
Courtesy of the NYBF, troupes from all over the country (along with a few international groups) congregated in a place where society was starving for a bit more bang for their buck in the post 9/11 live life till it runneth over climate. While the frank association of T&A is synonymous with burlesque – the artful spectacle of the experience will always remain a big draw. During the first festival there was a lot of pageantry and couture costumes, but the most memorable and engaging performances were those who pushed skin and the desire to get under it in new and innovative ways utilizing inspiration from avant garde technique.
Winner of a New York Innovative Theater Award for Best Choreography, Austin McCormick founded Company XIV based on these principles during the very same year the NYBF began. With a background as a former dancer with the Metropolitan Opera Ballet of New York along with many other accolades in the theater/dance performance world, McCormick has served up contributions to several opera houses in direction and choreography: The Lyric Opera of Chicago, The Houston Grand Opera, and Canadian Opera Company…
What he does with Company XIV along with co-founder, Laura Careless, who passionately graces the stage of the their latest enthralling installment, is nothing short of spectacular; a simple Google search will retrieve a plethora of poetic pieces acclaimed by critics from The British Theatre Guide to The New York Times. Recreating and staging the classics, fairytales and ballets is commonplace in the burlesque community, so standing out and wowing jaded audiences is a feat in itself.
Case in point: I first heard about Company XIV from a theater artist in New York who proclaimed that there was nothing like it in the city and the meticulous effort they put into each and every show is astounding. Having had the ambitious undertaking of managing expectations in so many regards in my work with The Peekaboo Revue (my girls/boys had a lot of brilliant ideas, some too racy for audiences), I did my best not to roll my eyes at this statement, especially after seeing the Kleine Nachtrevue of Berlin, Germany – possibly the capital of burlesque it its true and original and perhaps most enjoyable form. The decadent depiction Bob Fosse presented in the film version of Cabaret still reigns today in this day and age (sans the Nazis).
"Well, I saw a ballerina dressed up as a construction worker use a handsaw to cut metal of off herself, and that was her striptease, so…"
"They do amazing things, like one girl sings opera while she is pole dancing," my ears perked up and he continued, "but I've seen it a few times and would love to see something else. But I go to all of their shows."
That's the thing about these burlesquers. The whole "You Gotta Have A Gimmick" is a necessary part of the craft. There are many details and hours and hours of repetitive rehearsals these performers must endure in order to perfect their tricks. There is a delicate balance between overdoing it and making sure you are accommodating an audience who are used to seeing a certain "gimmick". It is very hard to raise the ante each time, which is why so many burlesque troupes stick to a certain style or aesthetic.
About a week later I met one of the company's management partners at a theater networking event. The conversation went on and on about the style and content of this particular troupe. Not only was this serendipitous but it seemed this was one of the hottest tickets in town.
When I arrived (on a Tuesday) at the Minetta Lane Theatre, I was taken aback by the sheer number of folks lined up on another one of those little streets tucked away just off Broadway where patrons can congregate before the house opens and let the pre-show excitement wash over them. It was Tuesday, right?
The show started before it began. There was an air about the place which afforded a certain hospitable acceptance and an environment that allowed folks to bustle around the theatre (with drinks in hand no less) holding conversations while the performers were getting ready on the baroque adorned stage and walking around the audience scantily clad. It felt like home and it felt otherworldly.
The devious smiles of the cigarette girls and the burlesquers acknowledging but not addressing the audience from on stage while they warmed up and primped – was a sight to behold. And then the magic came in the most shocking but not surprising way.
"Guten Abend," began one of the many mistresses of the cabaret whose genres were all over the map and back again, utilizing live video performance, ballet, modern dance, contemporary dance, tap dance, puppetry, circus arts, tango, pole dancing, opera, flamenco, marionettes, live music, kabuki, Cyr wheel, pop performance, and many other mediums. Oh! And some striptease.
Taking the classic German fairytale and melding it into the modern world with traditional sensibilities without a speck of fault is almost impossible to believe, even with so many momentary suspensions of. There can only be one complaint about Company XIV's Snow White : overkill.
The twists and turns are irrebuttable in their presentation, leaving the audience almost dizzy from how much is fit into the show. There are many intellectual bombs thrown on stage but not just for the hell of it – each and every iota is a well-focused form of exquisite expression. At the risk of being trite, it would have been nice to have reverted back to the art form's pioneers and dumbed it down a little. There were a few very raw and a bit naughty parts that shined through, almost a taunt more than a tease, which could have been expounded as not to forget where we came from.
"Yeah, but when do I get to take off my clothes?" one of my favorite girls used to say to me incessantly when I was working with The Peekaboo Revue before I left for Berlin in 2011. While I appreciated her zealousness to bare all in so many ways (almost as much as the audience), it was a lesson learned for the both of us. The visual appeal has to be balanced with the artistic.
Her name was Melissa Bang-Bang (a moniker derivative of a certain gimmick she evoked with her backside) and after Snow White I approached the stage to personally thank the show's brightest star who played the queen, aforementioned Laura Careless, who had the least amount of tricks up her sleeve and managed to steal the show with her provocative reprieve.
"You renewed my passion for the art form. I used to work in burlesque and one of my favorite girls just died a little over a month ago. You remind me of her a lot, you have the same spirit about you on stage," I gushed and received a blush.
The company ended its season on so many high notes and now Austin McCormick is on to produce work for the Metropolitan Opera. Be sure to catch Company XIV when they get revved up again. Their shows typically sell-out, so plan ahead!
Check out the newest entry for Center on the Aisle that I wrote:
"Perhaps it was because it was just a few days after Valentine's Day and we were all watching a play about love and the lengths one will go through to achieve it. Maybe I needed to be closer to someone or anyone and the obvious attractiveness of the cast with their hip outfits and provocative instrument playing was helping in the worst way. Perchance I didn't want to feel anything when the lyric that came during the culmination of the play came over and over and over again nonstop: "What is Love?" the actors sang in a bittersweet tone…"
Here's a snippet of my newest article for Center on the Aisle
"The performance started off with several recognizable classics, engaging the audience in a swaying assonance. There was a welcoming comfort to the expository portion of the start along with the introduction of the band: Tommy Faragher (Musical Director and Piano), John Putnam (Guitar), Paul Socolow (Bass), Sam Merrick (Drums). Mr. Young went in and out of hiding behind his sunglasses – and in doing so he coyly played with the audience but his phenomenal voice, intrinsic in its varying capacities, remained and held us all captive. Sing-alongs came and went, as did perfunctory applause at the beginning of bits due to the recognizable, sparse but poignant standing ovations, abrupt interruptions by way of unruly cheering – and then something happened."
You can see the full text here.
Full circle or triangle or quadrilateral? I am not sure there was any sort of linear movement in this longwinded rite of passage full of astounding obstacles that led me back to start off where I wanted to end up in the beginning.
Self = Portraits…part one
Self = Portraits…part two
Self = Portraits…part three
Self = Portraits…part four
Self = Portraits…part five
Self = Portraits…part six
66. Baggage
This was the very first video I made when I returned to the United States of America in December 2014, just two weeks before Christmas.
67. Armor
Frail, broken – if not damaged, I was more guarded and protected than I had ever been but at the same time I was willing to wear my vulnerability on my sleeve. By a twist of fate, I had to shed my freedom when I returned to USA and cover up all the messiness of being able to be myself in Europe. I was "home" in familiar territory and it was time to go to work. I went back to the same temp agency and started working in an office. This plight is shown here, along with the simple fact that I had to let go of my passion and start censoring myself for social graces. What lies beneath is what got me into trouble in the first place.
68. Früher
Sometimes in order to move forward we need to go backwards a little bit and look at the history of our time in order to not make the same mistakes. Amiss an abundance of reverse culture shock, this film came about when I needed a change – as so many of my shaving videos in this series involve some depiction of mine wanting to reinvent myself by altering my physical appearance. I was experiencing extreme PTSD as well as reverse culture shock. I missed all the good and bad of Germany, as well as the USA. This was my way of handling it.
69. Quit
This is somewhat a sequel to "Smoke" – one of the very first films of the series that I made in the same location. The location was the "back alley" of a friend's apartment where I stayed during my 6 months back in the USA before I left to go back to Berlin. This time, the situation was way different. I knew at this point that I was going to want/need to go to New York – there were too many demons in Philadelphia and I was facing a lot of strife with the seemingly dissolving support system I had there. I was starting to realize the pith of the relationships I had with people before left and all of the annals of 3 years away from them was building up to a lot of misunderstandings. The lyrics of this particular soundtrack are phenomenally adjacent to what I was experiencing.
70. Again
One of the biggest challenges in life as aforementioned is confronting change in order to avoid similar mistakes that one has made in the past while maintaining who you are as a individual. There are nuances of personality that involve genetics, environment and/or nurture versus nature. No matter how desperately we try to break certain unhealthy patterns or behaviors (see: vicious cycle) – there is some comfort in the familiar.
71. Empty
A visual outcry of sorts in regards to the ongoing daunting task of being a veritable bag lady. The place to hang the hat cliché was an obvious nod to the unrelenting bouts of homelessness I've endured – my belongings always on my person and no personal place with which to put them.
72. Dream
There is a Juliana Hatfield song entitled "Hotels" in which she says, "Welcome me when I need a home." This clause encompasses so much of my work in this series. When I came back to the USA there was a big change in the music I was allowed to use due to intellectual property rights (the reason I stopped posting my work on youtube). I learned how to circumvent this issue for the most part by using classical/vintage music tracks or internet only release selections like heard in so many of these films. Juliana Hatfield occasionally releases music via the internet, accepting donations, in order to avoid all the Capitalistic sociopolitical drama of the music industry. It works out famously because it correlates to my philosophy in terms of free reign (I've recently been advised to restrict my work because it has been downloaded and uploaded to porn sites for money – I'm more flattered than offended). So this film was me finding access to the rungs of a corporate ladder. I was on my way to the proposed good old American version of success. I was in contention for a very big job and endured an intense interview process that landed me in a hotel and wondering what my life will become.
73. Bridge
Another stint in a hotel and another blatant reverse strip tease burlesque satirical ditty, the namesake of this piece is multifaceted per usual. I do have company in this film and he is a European who had no problem with me making the film in his presence. He was my bridge to the culture that I miss so much – and refueled my waning passion to create.
74. Banana 3
The third installment of what started this whole process came perfunctorily. "Banana" was the very first video in the series, made in between my 3 month stint and my 3 year stint in Berlin – when I knew I was going, I had found a job and a reasonable way to survive through temporary apartment rentals, and I had a love interest or two to keep me busy (besides the city itself). It was also the first serious art work that I showed at a festival for Art Connect Berlin who I began working for throughout my time in Berlin in varying capacities, mostly as a writer for their blog. There is also a second, "Banana 2", and in "Banana 3" I wanted to again use the original song by PJ Harvey entitled "The Desperate Kingdom of Love" for obvious reasons. I couldn't use the original song so I dubbed in a recording of myself playing it.
75. Myself
There have been so many spaces, spaces that have belonged to others. "I just want a bookshelf again," I tell my friends when I explain how harrowing this destitution is. For the first time in a long time I had my own room (via AirBnB) that was all mine: no roommates, no arrangements, no situations. Just me. I felt the freest I had in a long time.
To view some or all of the entire series, see the full album on Vimeo:
Self = Portraits by Louis DeVaughn Nelson
"It's you," was my obvious turn of phrase when I saw her. I was belting out something not quite a statement or declaration. It was an exclamation with a point.
Even in her exhaustion, she was a beauty to behold. She had that radiant and alluring classic fifties pinup girl look. Her sweat and primp-tortured hair was somehow still perfectly in place. It was a rich hickory color, tight and bouffant all at once. Her eyes were bulbous and inviting like a bewitching vintage doll to match her porcelain skin. The blush and lips candy red, and she looked good enough to eat while she clumsily gulped from her bottle of water as she schlepped her dance bag on her back.
I was waiting for the A train back to go uptown when I saw her as I was thinking about all those "…and another hundred people…" platform thoughts. I had already decided that she was my muse, or rather that she decided for me – because more than anyone and anything around, again she really stood out.
Her name is Kristin Piro, and she is entertainment personified.
She is the Dance Captain of the now running and open-ended show Trip of Love showing at Stage 42. Conceived, directed and choreographed by Joffery and American Ballet Theater alumni, James Walski, Piro was part of the original cast who developed and presented the world premiere of the sixties sociopolitical dance theater extravaganza. Drawing from some of the most recognizable music hits of the decade, the show is a tribute not only to the era, but to the old Broadway revue-style gems that used to be common fare on The White Way decades ago.
It is fascinating to see what happens when you put together an award-winning production staff, a ballet master and a relatively "emerging artist" cast. The costumes and stage design boast the wow spectacle that is indicative of a Broadway show while the choreography is unfathomable in its complexity and intensity. Those elements alone make for a visually striking display, but the performance suffered because of it.
The actors and dancers were barely allowed a moment to do what they do best because everything was so placed. From the bright and brilliant (and ridiculously expensive looking) props to each battement and pas de bouree, there was a 5-6-7-8 for everything and you could see the pained look on the performers faces – insecure about and distracted by perfection that was obviously demanded by the veteran ballerina.
Trip of Love is quite a trip as duly noted by my neighbors in the theatre. To one side I had a couple who had went through similar experiences commented within the context of the show (see: Make Love Not War) and the woman squeezed her man's hand between tears from time to time. On the other side of me I had two seemingly sisters who were debating about which singer had the best voice, a hard argument to win indeed as all of the cast were strong.
I kept waiting for something to happen, and what happened every time was when Kristin Piro entered the stage. She had that va-va-voom and expertly captured (or stole) those moments to shine away from the glitz the glamor and the enormous amount of beautiful choreography. A wink, a nod, a bump, a smile, a shimmy – these were those nuances that were missing from the overall performance, and these little connections to the audience were barely afforded to us because of the exorbitant spectacle.
"It was really hard to watch the rest of the show when you were dancing," I blushed. Piro thanked me and I asked her a few questions about the performances as New York played its rushing song in the background.
She told me that the cast is different almost every night so they have to re-stage everything (which explained some of the spacing issues I noticed in one or two numbers) within hours of opening curtain. She loves the show and obviously she loves what she does. It's needles like this that are found in the haystack of the White Way that makes theater great and worthwhile. Piro took us back to a time with her brilliant characterization and consummate stage presence. Let's hope that there is more of her in the future.
Trip of Love
Created, Directed and Choreographed by James Walski
Presented by Makoto Deguchi, Hiroki Kozawa, and Masu H. Masuyama
In Association with:
Debi Coleman, Takeo Nakanishi and Kunihiko Ukifune
Featuring: Joey Caleveri, David Elder, Kelly Felthous, Dionne Figgins, Austin Miller, Tara Palsha, Kristin Piro, Laurie Wells
Stage 42 – 422 West 42nd Street (Between 9th & 10th)
Tickets: $35.00+ @ www.tripoflove.com
I've been talking about Consumer Psychology and Business 101 a lot lately primarily in referencing much of the work that I do in social media, satire, and the arts.
I love a good conversation that utilizes all the jargon involved with what was and is now considered to be the essential tools of effective marketing. I've always been a fan of how art integrates itself into so many modes of experience.
I'm fascinated by the way that color effects the brain. There are so many facets to this phenomenon and I highly recommend that anyone doing any outward facing work takes these principles into consideration.
All References Via:
Here is a LINK for a recent article I wrote for Centerontheaisle.com
"I especially liked the part where they were talking about race and then looked over at the black people that were sitting right there," I spat out, zigzagging through and past opposing foot traffic.
"I have a girl. She's more of a modern dancer, but she's good. Check her out and see if she'll fit."
I was getting a good word about Megan Bridge from my friend and colleague Scott Johnston, veteran performer of The Peek-A-Boo Revue neo-burlesque show, during a rehearsal 10 years ago when I was heading up the cabaret show as one of the directors. The troupe was undergoing many changes at the time with its former leader heading off to L.A. for a stint, and many of the members were engaging in other projects. After many heated discussions, I urged the group to start holding auditions for auxiliary members to fill-in on an understudy basis (two of the girls I hired are now directing the troupe). Much to my pleasant surprise, when Megan first stepped onstage at the famous/infamous The Five Spot in Old City, Philadelphia, she bridged the gap that had been missing during my initial inception in mounting the monthly variety show.
While most of my Bob Fosse-isms were satisfied amongst what the breadth of the burlesquers had to offer, I was still craving the opportunity to exhibit my choreographic heritage of modern dance. The girls and boys of The Peek-A-Boo were well versed in jazz, ballet and tap dance, but it was my duty to incorporate some Graham, Horton, Cunningham and Ailey into our contemporary satire tongue-and-cheek stripteases. When Megan offered some modern dance improvisational exercises (including contact improvisation which was in its infantile stages circa 2005), I felt the delicious pangs of her saving graces.
She was my newest muse and we would go on to work together on some of the show's most controversial numbers including a nun straitjacket striptease danced to "I Can Hardly Wait", and a crowd favorite involving two naughty French mimes that was performed during our "April in Paris" themed show which we revamped and exhibited at a First Friday art gallery event (my first performance art exhibition).
Though Megan was a semi-regular installment during her time with the burlesque troupe, she ignited the passion in me to pursue modern dance more seriously. Her style was unique, quirky and adept. Not only was she a sponge that could bring any of my artistic visions to life, she doled out a lot of education in the realm of new contemporary dance that was foreign and anathema to me (still is).
It was a sad serendipity when The Five Spot burned down, leaving us without a venue, but leaving me with a proper exit to start producing more dance theater work. But before I separated from The Peek-A-Boo Revue, Megan was the primary canvas for painting my new direction as a director and choreographer when she danced the then apotheosis of my work, "Filter", during the opening night ceremonial event of Hokum Arts. It was a piece about 9/11 and it was a direct symbiosis of my flowing, acrobatic, convoluted motif and her frantic, succinct, imaginary style. This piece helped to land me a City Paper's Editor's Choice Award for Best New Choreographer.
Megan and I went our equal but separate ways, her starting her unorthodox and anti-establishment success that is <fidget>, a hybrid of the talents of her and her longtime muse, collaborator and now husband, artist Peter Price. Together they have erected one of the most notable performance institutions in Philadelphia and continue to produce some of the city's most engaging works.
I ventured on as an independent director/choreographer producing my work in that chasm between small theaters and seedy bars, trying to feed and feed off of what I would consider the underprivileged in the art world (neither here nor there). As I grew I realized that some of my work was a little too cutting edge as I have honed my ability to mix the academic with the provocative and after I made my first trip to Europe in 2008, I knew I would be making a sojourn there to experience artistic freedom not allowed in the USA.
I've been gone for the past three years and much of what I learned from Megan followed me to Berlin. Though the city's landscape provided artist kids like myself free reign the likes of a candy store, I was not prepared for the lack of real, old-school modern dance in Germany's capital. Out of all the things they condone, there was no real place for me as a modern choreographer except as a teacher. It was a blessing and a curse in that while my experience with modern dance was a rarity thus allowing me to attract students unfamiliar with the technique, the genre was not readily accepted into dance festivals and performance spaces (most dance studios didn't even have a mirror). Thus I turned to contemporary dance as a platform (despite my limited training in it) and I took a cue from Megan and used other forms of visual art and multimedia to exhibit my work in new ways. I started making dance films and that was my in. I showed my first dance film at TanzBad 4, a very popular contemporary dance showcase that takes place every spring in Berlin.
When I climbed up The Fringe Arts' theater stairs I was overcome with that sick feeling in my gut of nervousness, excitement, and envy. I had already reviewed the scope of what I missed in the burlesque scene by attending a few shows scattered amongst the city from my old family (that seems to be far and in between since I left). Now I was back in that precious divide between mainstream and underground where the city's cultural mavens meet to experience high art or something like it in a space reserved for the who-you-should-know-if-you-don't-already.
I had been following Megan and her crew's journey in producing this new work "Dust" and I was more than grateful that an old burlesque buddy of mine afforded me the opportunity to see it by treating me to a ticket – for I am one of those artists who desperately want to become one of the known no matter what it costs, if not only to be able to pay to see the art of others.
This performance was especially important to me not only for the aforementioned, but to hopefully breathe life into my dying inspiration. It is hard to go from being a marvel (in Berlin) to being a degenerate (in Philadelphia); I wanted to see the light.
With her abundance of ambition, Megan Bridge received blessings and approval to perform "Dust" in a unique staging by <fidget> from its creator and poetic visionary, Robert Ashley. Following his acceptance of her inquiry, Megan took her group on a journey to reinvent the work while maintaining the artist's phenomenal intent – and during the beginning stages of production, Ashley died at the age of 83.
It is not wholly necessary to comment on the many ways this could affect the structure and emotion involved with making the work altogether, and the only ones privy to this could be the collaborators themselves (of which there are many – new and old of the <fidget> incubator). The piece itself as presented by <fidget> is a brilliant homage to Robert Ashley but also an perfectly crafted exposition of Price and Bridge's repertoire.
If you don't know Megan (already), or post-modern contemporary dance forms, you may have struggled during the opening montages of "Dust", trying to correlate something to something else. That is the trouble and the beauty of this art form. I describe contemporary dance as such: It's like going to an art gallery, but instead of looking at the paintings, the paintings are looking at you.
There are lots of mannerisms and lots of words and lots of lighting cues and lots of subtleties and insinuations that to the untrained eye may look like they are trying to make you feel stupid and that you are missing the joke. The seemingly disparate yet rhythmic (but at the same time syncopated) choral injections of speaking amount to a thoughtful thinking-out-loud etched out by Ashley and eventually it all starts to make a sum of its parts as the piece goes on.
One of the first questions that came to mind was, "Would this piece be any different if the artists played different characters?" Funny enough, halfway into "Dust" the performers become this amorphous vehicle of storytelling and it embodies this statement of us all being different but the same.
What Megan does as a dancer and choreographer is cheeky as ever. She figuratively and literally gives a wink to modern dance, almost as a way to heed to her constant inclination to go against the grain. We as dancers love and hate the freedom and restriction of contemporary dance when sometimes there is no dance at all. She takes a moment to deliver the elementary structures of modern dance with her contractions and rise-and-fall exercises, while mixing in the daunting and delicate nuances of contemporary technique. Partnering is reared successfully as well, and the duets and trios all have very special moments to chime in on the theme of "Dust" amply. The dancers were a precious gift to Megan, and it was a thrill to see them all on stage together and delving into the work in that tender, yet intense way. Them along with the juxtaposition of Peter Price's thoughtful technical work, brought out a magnetic attraction to the performance overall.
Towards the end I found myself kicking myself (or as it were the woman in front of me as The Fringe Arts theater has very steep rows) noting the allusions Megan was making to herself and Peter's earlier works. There were interjections of baroque music and movements – and I noticed the repetition of the very first gesture/pose I saw Megan perform during her very first <fidget> performance entitled "The Fold" (2006) in which I wrote:
"Megan Bridge takes her space off the easel and allows movement to travel outside of traditional realms."
To me, Thursday, April 16 was a throw back Thursday if I ever saw one. I was treated to this wonderful memory of all the things that influenced me so long ago to mold myself into the person I am today. "Dust" was an infusion of inspiration and innovation. These are the two most important tools in the artist's toolbox – without them, we have no Life Force.
I saw the show just a few days after receiving news that one of my friends and biggest inspirations in Berlin, Sascha Weidner, had died. He was another amazing artist that left us too soon and I had some of the best conversations of my life with this man. He was a satirist and did a lot of unique, witty and completely unexpected exhibitions of his work. His death weighed heavy on my heart and sparked this atrocious resurgence of my overactive awareness of my own mortality (is that not the grandest occupational hazard of an artist?). I haven't been creating much since I returned to Philadelphia and I feel like I could die any minute. Also, is my life worth anything if I'm not producing work? Sascha would spend an entire day or two just working and creating, without sleeping, eating…and never failed to have anything to say about art or his next project or his last.
[From the exhibition: "unveiled" | courtesy http://www.saschaweidner.de]
When I found out he was gone, I craved for that divine inspiration all over again and hoped that I could somehow conjure it up without Berlin, with some type of proverbial incantation by seeing the success of my jilted muse.
It was an extraordinary undertaking for Megan, and I am so proud of her passion, how much she's grown, and how much she has stayed the same. I feel like a parent sometimes when I think and talk about the artists I've been fortunate enough to work with. I feel so privileged to be able to read between the lines that "Dust" offered despite the tragedy that stood as much of the driving force behind it. You must live in order to learn, even if the knowledge comes posthumously.
© ldn
I got a new gig contributing to this Broadway Blog…
"With Floydada, the nonconventional style of PWP has the perfect vehicle with which to pay homage to anti-art, as Dadaism once touted a new platform that would be appropriate for PWP's mission. Without the overbearing tumult of tradition, one might think that PWP would have an easy ride with exploring the sometimes absurdist ways of expressing and/or creating art which were pegged by pioneers the likes of Duchamp, Kandinsky, Höch, Man Ray, etcetera during the first World War."
Read More Here: Center on the Aisle
Here are some photos from the experience:


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Overall thoughts on the game:
"We couldn't get the ball in the third period. We just couldn't stop them on third down. The third quarter was huge. We had too many penalties, too many turnovers and South Carolina did a great job of controlling the ball."
"We got off to a good start scoring two touchdowns in the first quarter but they just started to control the ball after that. Give them credit, they did a great job. Their ability to put pressure on Tajh (Boyd) was key. Give credit to South Carolina"
"They disrupted our rhythm. We only got two plays in the third quarter and their 86 plays to our 59 was huge. You have to give them a lot of credit. Tonight was very disappointing. We played with great effort but that third quarter drive was critical."
"The fun is in the winning and we just didn't do what we needed to do tonight. We dropped a lot of passes and interceptions and their third down conversions killed us. We just couldn't get in an offensive rhythm."
"I just want to apologize to our fan base, to our seniors, to everyone. I really appreciate the environment that these fans have created these past few seasons. This loss really hurts."
On South Carolina quarterback Dylan Thompson:
"We couldn't disrupt him. He threw the ball incredibly well. He was the difference in the game. We just couldn't turn the momentum. Overall, you have to give them credit. They made just enough plays and ran the ball just enough to keep us off balance."
On the end of the game:
"Penalties, the third and 19 play, it was just poor on our part. Their time of possession was unbelievable. We could never get in rhythm and it was just a bad team effort."
On Xavier Brewer:
"Brewer dropped a couple of interceptions, but he kept playing. After that interception in the end zone, we felt like we could reclaim the lead, but they made some big plays to keep us off balance and we just couldn't turn the table."
Swinney postgame quotes
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subset: commoncrawl


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Crazy Substitute Teachers
Enjoy, NG4.03 / 5.00 2,626 Views
Vacuum Salesman
This dude and his Megazord vacuum cleaner4.01 / 5.00 2,891 Views
Markiplier Animated | Mark Of The Survey Corps
This took far too long to make...3.97 / 5.00 7,460 Views
that old geezer.lol
Good job!
Only problem that I Wish it was a lil more bloodier!
whats the song called
JOSIAH BROOKS THE CREATOR OF LARRY THE LITTLE FREAKIN KNIGHT, MAKE AN STICK FIGURE ANIMATION!!!!!!! lol with Xiao Xiao
maybe it has been done before, but it's still awesome:-)!


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Articles tagged ron jeremy
3 Aug 2010 // 9:59 PM
Call me a romantic, but after watching so much of that wet and messy business, I crave a less-is-more, simpler, sexier rendition of food porn. Instead, of grotesque, I prefer burlesque and have found that the good stuff isn't on reality TV.READ more
25 Mar 2009 // 10:00 PM
Outsiders and oddballs make up Part Four's formidable filmmakers, an idiosyncratic collection of dreamers and visionaries.READ more
12 Jan 2009 // 9:00 PM
Oddly enough, while the major studios continue scratching their heads over how to sell yet another new format (Blu-ray) to disinterested consumers, several outside distributors made sure that this would be a digital year to remember.READ more
29 Oct 2008 // 4:26 AM
What does it take to make a movie in 2008? A huge budget underwritten by a major Tinsel Town conglomerate? A nonstop parade of union-loyal crewmembersREAD more
28 Apr 2003 // 1:00 AM
'They see a schlub like me get lucky,' Ron Jeremy explains. 'There's hope for everyone else.'"READ more
Sean McVerry 'Hourglass Switchboard 2' (EP stream) (premiere) // Music
Atmosphere "Ringo" (Singles Going Steady) // Music
Minor Soul "One Chance" (audio) (premiere) // Music
Call For Papers: Celebrating Star Trek's 50th Anniversary
// Announcements
"To celebrate the 50th anniversary of the hit franchise, PopMatters seeks submissions about Star Trek, including: the TV series, from The Original Series (TOS) to the highly anticipated 2017 new installment; the films, both the originals and the J.J. Abrams reboot; and ancillary materials such as novelizations, comic books, videogames, etc.READ the article


text: Open Access Review Review: Oligodendrocyte Injury and Pathogenesis of HIV-1-Associated Neurocognitive Disorders by Han Liu, Enquan Xu, Jianuo Liu and Huangui Xiong Brain Sci. 2016, 6(3), 23; doi:10.3390/brainsci6030023 - published 22 July 2016 Show/Hide Abstract Abstract: Oligodendrocytes wrap neuronal axons to form myelin, an insulating sheath which is essential for nervous impulse conduction along axons. Axonal myelination is highly regulated by neuronal and astrocytic signals and the maintenance of myelin sheaths is a very complex process. Oligodendrocyte damage can cause axonal demyelination and neuronal injury, leading to neurological disorders. Demyelination in the cerebrum may produce cognitive impairment in a variety of neurological disorders, including human immunodeficiency virus type one (HIV-1)-associated neurocognitive disorders (HAND). Although the combined antiretroviral therapy has markedly reduced the incidence of HIV-1-associated dementia, a severe form of HAND, milder forms of HAND remain prevalent even when the peripheral viral load is well controlled. HAND manifests as a subcortical dementia with damage in the brain white matter (e.g., corpus callosum), which consists of myelinated axonal fibers. How HIV-1 brain infection causes myelin injury and resultant white matter damage is an interesting area of current HIV research. In this review, we tentatively address recent progress on oligodendrocyte dysregulation and HAND pathogenesis. Open Access Review Review: The Role of Odor-Evoked Memory in Psychological and Physiological Health by Rachel S. Herz Brain Sci. 2016, 6(3), 22; doi:10.3390/brainsci6030022 - published 19 July 2016 Show/Hide Abstract Abstract: This article discusses the special features of odor-evoked memory and the current state-of-the-art in odor-evoked memory research to show how these unique experiences may be able to influence and benefit psychological and physiological health. A review of the literature leads to the conclusion that odors that evoke positive autobiographical memories have the potential to increase positive emotions, decrease negative mood states, disrupt cravings, and reduce physiological indices of stress, including systemic markers of inflammation. Olfactory perception factors and individual difference characteristics that would need to be considered in therapeutic applications of odor-evoked-memory are also discussed. This article illustrates how through the experimentally validated mechanisms of odor-associative learning and the privileged neuroanatomical relationship that exists between olfaction and the neural substrates of emotion, odors can be harnessed to induce emotional and physiological responses that can improve human health and wellbeing. Open Access Feature Paper Review Review: DBS for Obesity by Ruth Franco, Erich T. Fonoff, Pedro Alvarenga, Antonio Carlos Lopes, Euripides C. Miguel, Manoel J. Teixeira, Durval Damiani and Clement Hamani Brain Sci. 2016, 6(3), 21; doi:10.3390/brainsci6030021 - published 18 July 2016 Show/Hide Abstract Abstract: Obesity is a chronic, progressive and prevalent disorder. Morbid obesity, in particular, is associated with numerous comorbidities and early mortality. In patients with morbid obesity, pharmacological and behavioral approaches often have limited results. Bariatric surgery is quite effective but is associated with operative failures and a non-negligible incidence of side effects. In the last decades, deep brain stimulation (DBS) has been investigated as a neurosurgical modality to treat various neuropsychiatric disorders. In this article we review the rationale for selecting different brain targets, surgical results and future perspectives for the use of DBS in medically refractory obesity. Open Access Review Review: The Sound of Vision Project: On the Feasibility of an Audio-Haptic Representation of the Environment, for the Visually Impaired by Ómar I. Jóhannesson, Oana Balan, Runar Unnthorsson, Alin Moldoveanu and Árni Kristjánsson Brain Sci. 2016, 6(3), 20; doi:10.3390/brainsci6030020 - published 27 June 2016 Show/Hide Abstract Abstract: The Sound of Vision project involves developing a sensory substitution device that is aimed at creating and conveying a rich auditory representation of the surrounding environment to the visually impaired. However, the feasibility of such an approach is strongly constrained by neural flexibility, possibilities of sensory substitution and adaptation to changed sensory input. We review evidence for such flexibility from various perspectives. We discuss neuroplasticity of the adult brain with an emphasis on functional changes in the visually impaired compared to sighted people. We discuss effects of adaptation on brain activity, in particular short-term and long-term effects of repeated exposure to particular stimuli. We then discuss evidence for sensory substitution such as Sound of Vision involves, while finally discussing evidence for adaptation to changes in the auditory environment. We conclude that sensory substitution enterprises such as Sound of Vision are quite feasible in light of the available evidence, which is encouraging regarding such projects. Open Access Feature Paper Review Review: Impact of Increased Astrocyte Expression of IL-6, CCL2 or CXCL10 in Transgenic Mice on Hippocampal Synaptic Function by Donna L. Gruol Brain Sci. 2016, 6(2), 19; doi:10.3390/brainsci6020019 - published 17 June 2016 Show/Hide Abstract Abstract: An important aspect of CNS disease and injury is the elevated expression of neuroimmune factors. These factors are thought to contribute to processes ranging from recovery and repair to pathology. The complexity of the CNS and the multitude of neuroimmune factors that are expressed in the CNS during disease and injury is a challenge to an understanding of the consequences of the elevated expression relative to CNS function. One approach to address this issue is the use of transgenic mice that express elevated levels of a specific neuroimmune factor in the CNS by a cell type that normally produces it. This approach can provide basic information about the actions of specific neuroimmune factors and can contribute to an understanding of more complex conditions when multiple neuroimmune factors are expressed. This review summarizes studies using transgenic mice that express elevated levels of IL-6, CCL2 or CXCL10 through increased astrocyte expression. The studies focus on the effects of these neuroimmune factors on synaptic function at the Schaffer collateral to CA1 pyramidal neuron synapse of the hippocampus, a brain region that plays a key role in cognitive function. Open Access Article: Neuroimmunology of the Interleukins 13 and 4 by Simone Mori, Pamela Maher and Bruno Conti Brain Sci. 2016, 6(2), 18; doi:10.3390/brainsci6020018 - published 13 June 2016 Show/Hide Abstract Abstract: The cytokines interleukin 13 and 4 share a common heterodimeric receptor and are important modulators of peripheral allergic reactions. Produced primarily by T-helper type 2 lymphocytes, they are typically considered as anti-inflammatory cytokines because they can downregulate the synthesis of T-helper type 1 pro-inflammatory cytokines. Their presence and role in the brain is only beginning to be investigated and the data collected so far shows that these molecules can be produced by microglial cells and possibly by neurons. Attention has so far been given to the possible role of these molecules in neurodegeneration. Both neuroprotective or neurotoxic effects have been proposed based on evidence that interleukin 13 and 4 can reduce inflammation by promoting the M2 microglia phenotype and contributing to the death of microglia M1 phenotype, or by potentiating the effects of oxidative stress on neurons during neuro-inflammation. Remarkably, the heterodimeric subunit IL-13Rα1 of their common receptor was recently demonstrated in dopaminergic neurons of the ventral tegmental area and the substantia nigra pars compacta, suggesting the possibility that both cytokines may affect the activity of these neurons regulating reward, mood, and motor coordination. In mice and man, the gene encoding for IL-13Rα1 is expressed on the X chromosome within the PARK12 region of susceptibility to Parkinson's disease (PD). This, together with finding that IL-13Rα1 contributes to loss of dopaminergic neurons during inflammation, indicates the possibility that these cytokines may contribute to the etiology or the progression of PD. More Articles » Latest articles -


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Am I Selling Out For Not Dating Within My Race?
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Dear Evan, I just read your post on the difficulties that Asian men have in dating interracially. You don't address racial dynamics much on your blog, but I have a…Read More… 195 comments
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