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Burlesque Dancers and Sideshow Freaks
By Brian Childs
It’s the first night of the Brooklyn Burlesque Blitz in Park Slope and I’m neck deep in filthy/filthy-rich hipsters, I’m drinking one too many Circus Boy Beers by Magic Hat because it just feels right. Onstage, the World Famous Bob (a woman) is wearing nothing but pasties and a smile. Her vagina is pierced which makes it look like it’s full of stars, or maybe I’m just primed because she’s stripping to “2001: A Space Odyssey.” I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to show your vagina in public in this city, but Bob’s stripping in tribute to some burlesque dancer who just died, and who’s going to turn her in anyway? Not the hipsters. Bob’s a lot of woman and looks like she could take out at least five or six hipster males if there was a ruckus.
My girlfriend’s tipsy and annoyed, she has a headache and I feel for the kid, but I can’t leave till I’ve interviewed Jonny Porkpie the mayor of New York City burlesque.
This is not fiction.
It may seem silly but these dancers and freaks (literally, sideshow freaks) are about to play a pivotal role in a $2 billion development deal and as far as I know I’m the only one with the story.
My interviews over the phone have all gone well, digressing into freak show gossip and gab. My interviews in person, in general, have not gone as well. I’m a square. I have a buzz cut and no visible tattoos. I’m wearing a skinny pink tie and a blue jean jacket; I look like a boy scout. I am a boy scout. The bar is packed and people are not hesitating to step on my shoes.
Where the hell is Jonny Porkpie?
Suddenly, he’s onstage dressed as Jesus, stripping to the tune of “I believe in miracles (you sexy thing).” Great. This is absurd. I look around for someone else to interview and see a now all too familiar character bobbing through the crowd. I cleared my throat and steel myself, “Excuse me, Ms. Bob, may I ask you a few questions.” She walks past me without hearing or perhaps she's ignoring and I’m too tired or too cowardly to chase after her.
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School. Home. Coney Island and back again; I’m living my life on the train. The hobos who frequent the D and N have become familiar faces.
That first, relatively innocuous, uncomfortable evening has led me from one person to the next into the belly of the beast.
“You should really talk to Bambi the Mermaid,” Jonny Porkpie told me.
“Have you met Bunny Love?” Bambi asks, “What about Dick Zigun?”
I interview the Lizardman, Insectevora, and Dick Zigun,“the Mayor of Coney Island.” My stutter calms itself; my posture becomes more confident. I find myself bonding with Dirty Martini, Miss Erotic World 2004 over the phone. I’m having a drink with Captain Bob.
People with face tattoos that smirked at me when I first arrived, greet me when I walk through the door. It’s six o’clock on a Sunday night and I’m soaking wet and shaking hands with a bearded lady.
Growing up I loved comic books, Spider Man and such. Now I find myself inside one. I haven’t fallen down the rabbit hole so much as boarded the southbound express train. I have escaped into an alternate reality and I’m writing the non-fiction equivalent to a fantasy novel.
I’ve been taught how to eat fire, received pointers on eating glass. The key to eating glass, by the way, is to not do it. It turns out it can kill you. Who knew? But then again, who knew eating fire was relatively safe?
By following the thread, I feel like I’ve uncovered enough stories for a life time. The sideshow leads to antique monkey-organ collectors and juggling conventions. I have more stories than I can write up, and I can’t wait till summer when school is out of my way.
I’m introduced by a friend to Red Stuart, who holds a world record for swallowing 26 swords. He has four teeth. I step forward and shake his hand, look him in the eye.
“Hi, I’m Brian Childs, I’m a reporter. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”
BCKids1208 |
Latest page update: made by BCKids1208
, Apr 27 2007, 12:11 PM EDT
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