Following the theft of the 2004 Presidential election by the Bush-Cheney-Rove ticket, and especially following Dick Cheney’s public drooling over the Vice Grip he and the Republicans would supposedly have on the nation from hereon in, many media pundits predicted that the Administration would suffer a bad case of the “second term blues” for their hubris. As the last eighteen months have shown, the more appropriate term would be “second term interminable-drum-solo.” With the midterm elections fast approaching, and with Republicans quite likely losing one or both houses of Congress, a roundup of significant scandals and screw-ups that have plagued the Hubris Party seems appropriate. And I can think of no more meaningful committee to aid in my fond look back than the Suicide Girls.
Who are the Suicide Girls? Well, if you haven’t been following significant trends in online and club culture, I will start off by explaining that the Suicide Girls are not politicians. However, they could be described as “Representatives”, if you will, of a web site (www.suicidegirls.com) that, since 2001, has featured photos and profiles of women from all walks of life. The walks of life most represented are those that fall into the netherworlds of “goth”, “punk” and “emo”, which means the subjects decorate their physiques with more than the usual number of tattoos and piercings, and lean towards black lace or leather in their clothing choices. Of course, not a great deal of these choices, if any garments at all, are evidenced whilst these illustrated ladies take provocative poses, brandish provocative items and embark on provocative activities.
And, yes, I believe they do lesbo shows.
The words “I believe” are important here. Beyond a handful of shots found in articles and through determined Googling, I have not seen the photographic essays described above or the over 1,000 women profiled. That has to do with the fact that I have not (as of this writing, at least) paid the membership fee the site charges for this privilege. However, I and a fellow Night Crawler did recently fork over a cover charge for the opportunity to see the half-dozen women from the Suicide Girls gallery who tour the country promoting the site. This particular ballyhoo took place at the Double Door in Chicago, which, like all the venues the women tour, is not a strip club but a respectable, dark, smelly, head-bangin’ bar. The fact that we were attending the show just as, in the country at large, the Republican party was reeling from the worst scandal they could possibly imagine - worse, in terms of their image, than the far more serious issues of the Iraq War and everything else they’ve messed up - made our visit to this revue peculiarly appropriate.
In fact, had the band that opened for the Suicide Girls been made up of men and not women, I would imagine retired Florida Representative Mark Foley would, upon seeing them, have quickly forgotten about the teenage pages who caused him to immerse himself in those fevered instant-message conversations. The band, TsuShiMaMiRe, was a trio from Japan who looked young enough to make my buddy, The Night Crawler, wonder if they were old enough to join the Suicide Girls - or SG, as its loyal viewers call it - web site, let alone drink at the the bar. Whether they were “barely legal” or not, they performed a set that could best be described as Sonic Youth meets Yngwie Malmsteen. This means that the music was, by turns, fast, inspired and rocking, and pedantic, silly and grating - sometimes in the space of one song. “Grating” frequently applied to the vocals of the lead singer and guitarist, whose falsetto, when speaking English between songs, was charming, but when shrieking lyrics in Japanese during most of the tunes, made my hairs stand on end.
And I don’t just mean the ones on my head.
Of course, down South, those hairs on less-than-sharp head of Virginia senator George Allen certainly must be at full attention twenty-four/seven now. Thanks to revelations that the campaigning senator habitually and casually made derogatory references to African-Americans for many years prior to his recent - and very casual - welcoming of a Virginia-born student he called “Macaca” to “our country”, his once-certain reelection is now very much in doubt. A welcome of equal magnitude, at least in terms of warmth if not in media fallout, issued forth from the audience at Double Door when an unseen, old-time carnival barker on the sound system announced the impending arrival of the “goils.” The audience, as The Night Crawler noted, was made up of an impressive number of women, many of them lacquered in leather gear that made them appear to be SG wannabes (or SG’s taking the night off). This reflected the web site’s boast that forty per cent of the members are women. As for the remaining sixty per cent, one can only hope that not all of them are as rotund, loud and drunk as the duck-bill-capped, down-market-dressed troglodytes, as fallen lobbyist Jack Abramoff affectionately referred to the American Indian nations he ripped off, who made up the bulk of the fans near the front of the stage.
Like the thugs in Florida who, as lead by future joke-of-a-U.N. Ambassador John Bolton, threatened the helpless vote counters in the Presidential recount, the troglodytes let out a gaseous roar of approval as the curtains parted and the Suicide Girls paraded toward the front of the stage. Along with black lace panties and stockings, they wore black tops that were not unlike the robes worn by the joke of a Supreme Court that gave George the keys to the White House that same year (though I don’t think Scalia and company show as much cleavage) the ladies performed the spine-folding back flip that can be achieved only by strippers, circus people and Slinkies. Whether these women had previously cut their teeth as exotic dancers is hard to determine, as they did indeed display, upon removing their tops, enough tattoos to disqualify them from working at most gentleman’s clubs.
In fact, the only one who failed to remove said garment, and who remained behind with microphone in hand after the others strolled off-stage, was a blonde who came closest to fitting the definition of an “entertainer.” Displaying greater honesty about her intellect than the two infamous Mikes - FEMA’s Brown and Homeland Security’s Chertoff - did during the Katrina follies, the blonde admitted, “Allergist, I’m a dumb blonde! I forgot to take off my top!” As the troglodytes groaned, whined and emitted noises from other orifices in frustration, she continued, “Before I take it off, ya gotta know the rules for tonight! Rule Number One: NO TOUCHING THE SUICIDE GIRLS! Rule Number Two: NO TOUCHING THE SUICIDE GIRLS! Rule Number Three: NO CAMERAS OR CELL PHONE PICTURES! If we see one fuckin’ cell phone pointed at us -- !”
“Show us your tits, bitch!” belched one of the troglodytes, whom I hoped not only would one day share a cell with Abramoff and several rapists, but would begin, starting that night, dying slowly and painfully from the gastrointestinal problems he must suffer daily.
Employing the same gusto, and verbiage, that Suicide Vice Dick Cheney uses to greet members of the Senate, the blonde snapped back, “FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE!” However, with more precision than Deadeye Dick employs when shooting his campaign contributors in the face, the Mistress of Ceremonies graciously followed through on removing her robe, to reveal a pair of breasts whose nipples were masked by black silicone covers. All of the women that night, in fact, sported bosoms of varying sizes whose zeniths were masked either by such covers, or by two “X’s” appeared to be made of duct tape. This either was a Darksider affectation of the SG Culture, or a clever way to please horn dog patrons while observing the prohibition most bars and clubs have on full-fledged female toplessness (though this hasn’t stopped SG-site member Courtney Love from breaking this rule, whether audiences want her to or not).
Following the blonde’s exit, the audience was treated to the first of many appearances by Nixon, a stunning Goth vamp who won the most points for Suicide-ness with her braided tresses, partially shaven head, High Priestess make-up and abundance of tattoos, including the “sleeve” favored by serious “bad girls” and coffee- house clerks. This baddie’s oddly sexy stage name (hey, Tricky Dick had his sensuous side!) is the only SG cognomen I became familiar with, thanks to my inserting the above description in my furious post-show Google search, and locating her MySpace page (www.myspace.com/nixonsuicide, which features an instructive shot of her with a toaster). Of course, my determined expedition may have also had to do with the fact that she was the only cast member I had an overpoweringly strong interest in, shall we say, “drivin’ in my Chevy Van.” Of course, the chances of myself, The Night Crawler, and especially the Human Farts near the stage getting the time of day or even a hostile glare from these femme fatales (or owning a Chevy Van, complete with a desert landscape on the exterior) are less likely than Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld admitting that he is, in fact, a military commander and responsible for the deaths of more Americans than the 9-11 hijackers.
The most memorable of Nixon’s spots - in fact, the highlight of the evening - was the reenactment of the most notorious scene from “Reservoir Dogs.” To the perky rhythm of Steeler’s Wheel’s “Stuck in the Middle With You” - one of the few tunes accompanying the show that this clown, or the joker to the right of him, could name - Nixon tied the blonde M.C. to a chair and proceeded to pour imaginary gas on her from an empty tank. As the blonde pleaded for mercy like silent movie queen Lillian Gish (well, a Lillian-Gish-Gone-Wild) the foxy “Mr. Blonde” threatened her with a lighter before pulling out a switchblade and ostensibly cutting her throat. Rest assured, Lillian Gishes and anti-porn vigilantes, this was far less like a snuff film than it sounds (and, luckily, Nixon forewent cutting her victim’s ear off). Certainly, it was far less of one than the snuff extravaganza George W. and the Republicans treated us to soon after his “reelection”, by prolonging the life of brain-dead Terri Shiavo, one of the first of many disastrous public relations campaigns that chipped away at their increasingly disgusted conservative base.
Even smut-haters would appreciate the traditional “girlie revue” number the entire SG cast performed dressed as stewardess - er, flight attendants. To the disco beat of Jamiroquai’s “Canned Heat” (talk about appropriate ... oh, never mind), the ladies did a preflight safety pantomime worthy of any underpaid airline employee, complete with the all-important donning of plastic oxygen masks. If these sky nymphs could arrange casino kickbacks, maneuver racially-segregated redistricting and broker right-wing power strangleholds with the same pinache with which they waved their Marshalling Wands, they certainly would have fared better than gone - but not quite forgotten, since his tarnished name is still on his district’s election ballot - Representative Tom DeLay. But even during his own swinging, martini-swilling, Suicide-Boy days twenty years ago as “Hot Tub Tom”, DeLay could not have peeled out of his Brooks Brothers suits the way the SG attendants did those pesky uniforms, which, of course, only got in the way of those nipple covers and “X’s” the troglodytes (and I, myself) needed to see every five minutes.
Luckily, one member of the next act did not remove top, bottom or anything else. This was because he was an obese, bearded dude who looked like he was either a member of the SG road crew, a site member who had won a raffle, or a bouncer who was less fearsome than the one who snarled at me and The Night Crawler about not bringing any cameras in the club when we paid our cover. In any case, he sat on a chair in the same dumbfounded way our “Pet Goat” President does when he tries to think a way to evade - or just answer - reporters’ questions. As the willing participant sat passively, occasionally rolling his eyes in embarrassment, a petite Suicider tied him with several belts, and then tormented him with an array of riding crops that looked like they did time on the current controversial tour by Madonna (who has, at long last, taken a break from being an English Soccer Mom to return to what she does best, offending piss-ant religious zealots).
In the same way it was a prominent feature in the past of our dumbfounded President, beer played a role in the skit that probably pleased most of the fans, slobs and sophisticates alike. To the crunch of the AC/DC (and titty-bar) standard, “Back in Black”, she performed a pirouette involving several bottles of brew, which she alternately guzzled from, poured on her almost entirely nude form or spat at the appreciative onanists, making a fine mist in the process.
Did I say Nixon was the only one I wanted in that Chevy Van?
Well, Nixon did reappear in time to bring good taste back to the proceedings, with a punk-flavored Margarita number, waving an embroidered hand fan and wearing a Flamenco dress that, entrancing as it was - it, after all, it failed to cover her heavily illustrated and very impressive cans - did not make me forget the chiffon-and-shaving-cream-garbed Senorita on the cover of Herb Alpert’s “Whipped Cream and Other Delights” (yes, folks, Herb and the Tijuana Brass were the Mötley Crüe of their day!). “Entrancing” was a word that could also apply to the traffic-stopping jump-roping of another Suicide Girl, the heavy-duty hula-hooping of still another, and the awe-inspiring acrobatics of the entire cast, all of whom displayed more talent and ingenuity in one evening than the Bush Administration and the Congressional Right could in six long, miserable years (and without looking nearly as good in Catholic school girl outfits).
Hopefully, by the time the Suicide Girls bring their Bertolt-Brecht-meets-Julie-Strain burlesque to a close, so too the curtain will fall on the Suicide Republicans. Certainly, House Speaker Dennis Hastert, and the other conservative Congressional wimps who sat on their fat butts hoping Mark Foley would stop trying to lure underage pages into his own Chevy Van (Sammy Johns will never forgive me for flogging that godawful song of his), will be hitting the road in search of new gigs in other professions. If we are lucky, they will be cleaning up after appearances by Nixon and the rest of the sexy, scary and very, very beery Suicide Girls, who, if you missed them this year, will more than likely be hitting your town or one nearby next year (in the meantime, you can join the site and, perhaps, sponsor a needy Girl of your choice). Better yet, “Coach” Hastert and his team of Bad News Boobs will be packed into those jail cells with the sloshed, flatulent and terminally masturbatory troglodytes, who, unfortunately, must stink up many of the Girls’ shows. Most likely, though, it is tasteful, thoughtful perverts like myself and The Night Crawler that comprise the bulk of their audiences. And, provided Karl Rove doesn’t pull any last-minute miscarriages of justice, it is we sensible perverts who will be the majority of the voting block this year, as well as in the Presidential one of 2008.
By which point, if there is any justice, there might be a new kind of “Nixon” in the White House!
