Performance Art: Cheap Freak

December 12, 2009 at 3:27am

Sadie Lune asked me to participate in a performance tonight at the Garage. I would pretty much say yes to anything Sadie Lune asks me to do, especially if it concerns performing. I fucking love that broad. I am lucky enough to count her as my homie. She counts me as her “rookie of the year”. And whenever you have that kind of love with a friend, you are bound to take that shit for granted. I mean, like, you forget what an incredible artist your homie whom you kick it regularly with is, until you partake in a night like tonight.
At first, Sadie told me all I had to do was be naked in the audience until she called me up to the stage. Ok, no biggie. And then, she began to describe the process to me an hour and a half before the show. She told me that when she made this certain action, which was her applying lipstick over and over and then smearing it off with her hands and then smearing it off of her hands on her thighs, that was my cue to get on to the stage. I am naked. I kneel at her feet and I grab the lipstick out of her bra and write down a bad word on her arm and a nice word on her chest. She then would hug me and the lipstick would come off on my face and back. Ok, no biggie. Then, Kirk Read (who is fucking awesome and hilarious and sexy and smart) also comes onto the stage naked and writes a bad word on her arm and a nice word on her belly. Repeat hugging. Ok. The words reference our feelings about whoring. Sadie a ho. Kirk a ho. According to Philip Huang, Sadie Lune & Lula Mae DaySadie, I am an honorary ho. And I did not take that title lightly, I relish in it. Then, Sadie described the next action. All along she would have an egg in her puss and at this point she would birth it out and then feed it to Kirk and I. Whoa, Ok… no way. I ain’t eating no egg out yo puss, Sadie Lune! I told her. Why? She asked. I don’t want to get salmonella…are you crazy, homie? Lula, she said like she does, like, Lu-La, like maybe how a mother would say it, but not like my mother ever did say it in that sing song way…you are not going to get salmonella. The egg will be hardboiled. Ok. I was sold on the show. But wait, who gets to peel the egg? I asked. I do, she said authoritatively. What? Am I just some naked, human prop on the stage that can’t even peel an egg? I asked in the bratty way that sometimes I do to get attention and/or affirmation. And she knows this bratty way and says to me, honey do you know how many living blow up doll human props I have waiting in line to be in my performances? Ha, fucking bitch and this is why I love her.
And that was rehearsal.
The show begins in the recently transformed downstairs area of the Garage. There are pillows on the floor and xmas lights. It is quite quaint. Joe, the man that is the Garage, has a way with floor pillows I must admit. The people came in. There were only a few dozen, but as the opening musician, the largely talented and soulful, Kahlil, said, the audience brought with them a presense and an energy that lended itself to a good show. And in that basement, it felt full.
Kahlil performed a version of John Lennon’s “Free as a Bird” that was so original I didn’t even recognize it. And now I am sent to to listen to it because he was that good and I just didn’t get enough.
Philip Huang joined him. Philip Huang is my muse right now. He is so fucking funny. I have literally watched every video he has uploaded onto youtube, some more than once. It is one thing to see his videos and a completely other mind fuck to see him live. I won’t even try and explain the hilarity of his performances, but I will highly encourage you to see him for yourselves.
Anyways anyways, then Kirk Read comes on and tells some sexy and complex stories about love affairs and sea urchin assaults in Mexico. He has the audience hang on every word. And then hel whipped it out and peed in a cup…
Baruch is a beautiful Mexican man who rights poetry about taco bell and raciscm and the hot ass that he is thankful not to have.
And that concluded the boy half of the show. The audience moved upstairs to the theater to see the girl half.
This woman named Trashina Can had this layed performance with video and roses and dance and emotional outpour and childhood trauma and whoa. Very intense and raw.
Awilda Rodriquez Lora did this fascinating choreography with a small tv that she sometimes held that played a video of her and her mother. It was clean and poignant and made me cry.
Last, but not least, was Sadie Lune. I quickly got naked in my seat. In the dark, Sadie came in from behind the audience holding a parasol and a high heel with a candle burning inside of it. The way she held it reminded me of an old kerosene lantern and the way her hair was wrapped up in a scarf, she looked like a woman from civil war times. But she was in lingerie and a red tutu with dead animals attached to it. Dead animals like, you know, the kind old ladies would decorate themselves with. And she moved through the audience addressing each of us with these eyes that seemed to say, yes, I am here. You are here. We are here. And shit is about to get crazy. She got to the stage, which was set with nothing but a mic stand, and she began taking off her bra and clipping it to her parasol. And then she took off another bra and clipped it to her parasol. The lady had six or so bras on and by the time she clipped them all to the parasol, it was quite a lovely image. Then she fastened the parasol to the mic stand. Voila. No mic in this performance. This was a fucking witchual. She took off the layers of her costumes and placed them very specifically around her candle in the high heel. She was building an alter before us with $20’s and lingerie and dead animals and the glitter that fell from her bosom.
Then she did the thing with the lipstick and the winking and the wiping it off on her thighs. Ok, I can’t exactly put the mesmerizing affect she had on all of us into words, but whatever she was doing, it was working. And then, it was my cue to come up on stage. I lovingly reached for the lipstick that was in her bra cup. I wrote the word cheap on her arm and freak on her chest. I kissed her foot. Not the one that was in a knee high, lace up, high heeled, leather boot, but the bare foot that was decorated with red ribbon and a turkey feather. She embraced me and nearly suffocated me as she made sure the word freak would transfer onto my face.
Kirk came onto the stage. I handed him the lipstick. He wrote free on her belly and then hustler on her arm. We both had this wide eyed, holy shit expression on our faces. We were like Sadie’s little, naked love children. I sucked on one of the fingers of one of the blown up black, latex gloves she had dangling from her waist. And then it was delivery time. Sadie birthed the egg out of her cunt. She grabbed it out of the black, latex glove that kept it clean of her menstrual blood (good idea, Kirk) and cracked the egg against her chest. She took bits of the egg and fed Kirk and I. That egg was suprisingly warm. It tasted like it was right out of the boiling water and into my mouth, but of course there was the layover in Sadie’s pussy that really accounted for it’s temperature. I was kind of laughing and enjoying the absurdity of the ritual. Yes, this is my life, eating eggs out of cunts. “We Belong” by Roxy Moron and the Bible was playing loud. Sadie flung the rest of the egg into the audience. I looked over at Kirk with his mouth full of egg and all of a sudden it didn’t seem so gross. I leaned over to make out with him and just as things were really starting to get good, the lights were out and Sadie blew out the candle in the high heel.
Fucking art. Such a mixed bag, but whenever I get my performance on, I just fucking love it. I get all present and jazzed and it gives me the strength to move on and take it and move with it. Ya know?

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