The Glamour Pussies
I'm not scared of anything anymore
I promised myself that I wouldn't write about concerts anymore, unless it was a story that really needed to be told or we were starved for content. Well, this is a story that must be told.
Friday night I was bored. I hit the list to see if anything interesting was going on, and saw the listing for the Paradise Lounge. I'd never been there, and wanted to check it out, so I figured what the hell, and took the next BART to San Francisco.
The evening started innocent enough. Bud E. Love, the first act, was a lounge act trio with some comedy bits thrown in. I sat and watched them and ordered a rum and ice, a decision quite possibly influenced by my having just finished reading
After their act and before the next, I went back to the bar and got another rum and ice. It was here that some chick in a leather jacket and torn up fishnet stockings asked me who I was there to see tonight. She had drag queen hair, matted down a bit by the pair of fake rabbit hears she had on.
"Well, I guess the last band," I said, and she asked who that was. "The, uh..." I looked around her head at the poster advertising the night's event, "...the Glamour, um, Pussies. Yeah."
"You like them?"
"I haven't heard them. Have you?"
"I think they fucking rock." I had an inkling. "They need to work on their playing, but I think they fucking rock."
I didn't even take it as a warning sign that this girl, who I would by now wager money was in the band, considered the band capable of "rocking" while not having mastered the art of "playing," which is, to my knowledge, the primary function of a band.
"Take a card," she said to me, and fanned out a deck of dirty adult playing cards with "Glamour Pussies" written on the back of each one. "It'll be important later." I took a card. It was the 9 of diamonds, and had the phrase "Smells Like Tuna" scrawled across the front.
The second and third bands were good. The second was a rock -- borderline metal band with a Kung Fu gimmick, with a few short self-help seminars thrown in. The third was sort of wishy-washy, but they closed with a cover of "Everlong" by the Foo Fighters, and lord knows I likes the Foo Fighters.
Then the Glamour Pussies started setting up. Four girls, all in torn up lingerie with big hair and rabbit ears on, they covered the stage in easter grass, candy, eggs, and other assorted easter decorations. I had no reason, at this point, to think anything out of the ordinary.
They started playing. "Not bad," I thought. Your basic three-chord punk. Probably the kind of band that spells it "grrl." I could have done without the singer's high-pitched screeching, but still worth listening to, and better than most. It was during this first song that a very large man, also wearing rabbit ears, with big bug-eyed coke bottle glasses staggered his way onto the stage. Obviously inebriated, he stammered and stomped around on the stage until the singer exclaimed "It's the Easter Bunny!" He waved to the audience, gave the singer a little hug, then staggered back into the crowd. The music continued.
The band announced the contest. The audience memeber with the Ace of Diamonds won a free chocolate bunny. The pleased winner took to the stage and comically devoured it right in front of everyone. It wouldn't be long before the band would throw candy into the crowd and nobody would touch it.
It was a few minutes later that I looked to my left and saw this "easter bunny," only now he was wearing nothing but his rabbit ears, his coke-bottles, and a g-string, obscured by his pot belly which hung well over the front of it. I still was really not weirded out. I've sort of always considered myself unshockable, and a fat man in a g-string was certainly not the weirdest I've seen or heard of. Not even a contender.
Without his clothes now, the Easter Bunny staggered his way back onto the stage again, in the middle of a song, flopped down on his stomach center-stage, and began sort of writhing. The singer never losing a beat with her horrible harpy-like voice, walked over and straddled his back. Then she started... well, she started humping. And slapping. Just scooting back and forth on the Easter Bunny's bare back as he wiggled and flailed face down, she kept slapping his ass and singing the whole time. She she got up, the Easter Bunny's back was covered with blood. So were the singer's legs, and a collective "Ewwww" was heard from the crowd.
At first I was confused as to how the singer could have menstruated on command like that. I've never menstruated, but all the feminine horror stories I've heard had given me the impression that it's sort of uncontrollable. It was only when the singer walked over to the bass player, grabbed her in the crotch, and said "She's bleeding too!" that I realized they all had blood capsules hidden in their underwear. Doing the same to the guitar player, the band played on, fake blood dripping down their legs and all.
During this time, the Easter Bunny continued to squirm on the floor, except he'd somehow turned over so that he was on his back. Sticking his legs high up in the air and showing the crowd his ass, his, um, "Easter basket" came out of his g-string. He never bothered to fix this. He stood up, turned around, and started coming down off the stage.
An "Oh shit he's coming right at us!" mentality swept the crowd. Back in the audience, covered in fake blood and with easter grass clinging to his wet body, testicles hanging out, the Easter Bunny proceeded giving hugs to anyone he could collide with. Well, he wasn't really sober enough to hug anyone, it was more like rubbing against them and flailing his arms wildly. I moved carefully through the crowd to keep a safe distance between me and him, and was relieved when he finally went up the stairs to the balcony.
With my mind somewhat at ease now that the Easter Bunny was gone, I turned my eyes back to the bloodied band. A few minutes later, the singer stopped mid-song and shouted into the mic "No! You be a good Easter Bunny!" Everyone looked up, and there he was, on the balcony, holding a chair over his head ready to throw it down on the people below. I took a few steps back to avoid getting hit as the singer kept yelling "You be a good Easter Bunny! You be a good Easter Bunny!" Finally he put it down, but he came back down from the balcony to the floor and I had to go back on Bunny-watch once again. Thankfully he went back to the stage and started bothering the drummer, slapping her cymbals with his hands while she was trying to play.
The whole time during the show, the singer had been sort of popping out of her lingerie, and it didn't seem to bother her. After a while, she pulled out her left breast completely and pinched the nipple. Out sprayed the milk. Yes, she was lactating on stage.
There is no way she could have faked this. No way I know of. They clearly weren't fake breasts, you could see the entire left side of her chest. There weren't tubes or anything. I have no idea how one makes sure they're always ready to lactate -- hormone supplements? continued lactation after a pregnancy? -- but she was doing it. She was even getting some impressive air on a few squirts. Without putting her breast back, the band played on and the bunny flopped down horizontal on the stage again.
Rolling around in the fake blood, breastmilk, and god knows what else (there was a horrible stink coming from the stage now), the singer came over to beat him up. Slapping, hitting, and, later, humping the face of, the rabbit, she pretended (we think) to have an orgasm. Then she rolled the rabbit over onto all fours and got behind him. Picking up a pink football-sized plastic egg, she took careful aim. She never was able to get that egg in his ass, though she tried hard. Eventually, she gave up.
A few members of the crowd had by this time started chanting "More milk! More milk!" The singer said she'd only do it again if someone gave her five bucks. Some guy, from the the crowd, approached the stage and laid five bucks down at her feet. A woman of her word, she removed the right breast this time and let go with a few more squirts onto the stage and the crowd. "Yeah," she said in response to the cheers of the few people who'd just been chanting. "You guys think that's fake, don't you?"
When it ended, the stage, band members and Easter Bunny were covered in a strange goo, brownish but not quite the color or consistency of the fake blood that they'd started off with. With easter grass stuck all over them and carrying a powerful, terrible smell, they wrapped up their set.
There'd been two men shooting video footage of the whole thing. A few minutes after things quieted down and the crowd dispersed, I approached one of them and said "For the love of God, I must have a copy of that video."
He laughed. "Talk to her," he said, pointing to the Glamour Pussies singer, who was now sitting on the stage.
"I don't think I want to," I said.
"A wise decision."
"Is there anything else I can do to get a copy?"
"Nope. You've gotta talk to the band."
"I'm going to need a few more drinks for this," I said.
Ten minutes later, I was ready. I saw the singer leaning against the wall in the hallway that connected the stage area to the main bar. When I approached her, I said, "That was the scariest fucking thing I've seen in my life."
"Oh, thank you," she said.
"What do I need to do for a copy of that video?"
"Email me."
She gave me her email address, from which I was able to deduce that there's a Glamour Pussies website, www.glamourpussies.com. I'm going to tell you now that visiting this website can come nowhere near expressing the terror and disturbingness of that night. I'm sure that not even this story can. But you can get pictures -- including fake-menstruation pictures -- mp3s, info, etc. there. The Easter Bunny is nowhere to be found on their web site, nor are there any pictures depicting the beatings, the grindings, the lactation or anything that can convey the terrible terrible smell that covered them all at the end.
I am now firmly convinced that San Francisco is deserving of its reputation as weirdest city in the country.