Wild Things

Much as I’d like to tell you that I was snatched by space aliens and bamfed off on a hyperspace tour of the seedy backwater planets in our wing of the universe, during which I did not have internet access and couldn’t update the blog, the truth is that I blame March.

It was like this, see. March came in like a lion. Then it clawed the furniture like a lion. Then it mauled around like a lion, took a rest like a lion, and decided to go out like a lion. So it’s been all over lions. And no, this sudden spate of 50° business on March 30th does not qualify for lamb status, April is the lamb, you don’t get to change your mind and suddenly be all lamby. You made your den, go lie in it.

We flew back from South by Southwest on the 21st, and catch-up kept me crunched for a few days. As soon as I had enough time to look around I realized I was sick (this is the Wile E. Coyote method of personal diagnosis, and it’s followed by a stretchy visual with a kind of “going” sound effect and ultimately a Linus-shaped impact hole at the bottom of winter’s cliff).

While we’re waiting for my brain to reboot, you can thumb through a little picture gallery of two of my favorite burlesque characters, Creamy Stevens and Little Brooklyn. Brooklyn and Creamy — yes, those are their real names — produce the terrific Starshine Burlesque show every Thursday in the East Village. The galleries are theoretically safe for work, if girls in lingerie are safe for where you work. Like at a circus, mebbe.

About Linus

The man behind the curtain. But couldn't we get a nicer curtain?
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