Becoming Burlesque Grad Show

This just in! A new world of spinning pasties and sassy ladies await you at the anza club on Wednesday night. An extravaganza you won't want to miss. Babes! Music! Dancing! You'll enjoy it, I guarantee.



Hey there hip cats and cool kitties.

Guess what? That's right, the latest batch of grads from Screaming Chicken's top-of-the-line Burlesque class is doing their graduation performance this Wednesday at the Anza Club. I've been to these before and the energy is fantastic. For most of them, it's their first time in front of audience and possibly the last. Come see them bare all in an amazing display of courage and pizzazz. Get ready to scream your fool head off.

Ten bucks, I think, or thereabouts. Get there early or buy in advance. It always sells out.

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Ramblings 3

My love for you is a snake bite on the ankle of a giraffe. The poison takes too long to make it all the way up. Not that we’d be compatible. I just like your awkward grace.

My liver is a brush fire. My intestines are route 66, connecting poets to homelands and coasts to arms. My heart is a wet accordion dredged up from the depths of what used to be New Orleans. It wheezes, dripping salty, about times past. I’m a stick figure drawing lines in the sand with each step, making morse-code footsteps of dashes with no stops.

My kidneys are withering angel wings. My back bears the zig zag scars of the whip. I’m a freed slave with no idea of what to do next.

This is the week’s embrace. A circular hug of seven dates in seven days. A monotonous skeleton calendar to hang laundry on.

The sidewalk is a staring contest. My hands are maps. My watch feels like a handcuff and my long hair is a curtain to hide behind.

I’m a scrap of paper in this city, like everyone else.

I see a collection of lime-green shirts drive by in a car made of money. I hear bass lines telling me the secrets to getting women and dollar bills.

It’s enough to make me wish for darkness.

Give me pandora’s launch codes and the keys to her locks. I want to shake this world like an Etch a Sketch and let the grey winter erase us all. Let’s let two knobs make a new beginning. Drawing lines in the dust of a kid’s toy to make a picture of a new society.

It’s a lonesome thought.

My lungs are bellows for a fire. My soul is a library written in a language I haven’t learned. My spine is a xylophone for demons.

I’m looking in the last place I had it but it’s not there. It’s lost. I’m making ‘thanks for playing’ look good.

I have a rendezvous with the improbable. Wish my wishes luck.




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