Showing posts with label Gypsy Rose Lee. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Gypsy Rose Lee. Show all posts

unclothed animals are a definite cause of alcoholism, suicide, atheism


pdf scan available over at the internet archive

My opponents for this appearance were Gypsy Rose Lee and Jayne Mansfield, each holding tiny dogs only half-dressed by SINA standards. Here is some of the dialogue that went out over the air:
Mike: When I first met Mr. Abel I had a feeling he was putting me on or pulling my leg a little bit. He is, however, really serious.
Alan: Our organization is four years old, you know.
Jayne: I think it would be so divine if the people in this society were all nudists.
Alan: As a matter of fact we've been invited to a lot of nudist colonies to inspect their people. But it's beneath us.
Gypsy: My dog does have clothes. We bought her some wonderful things here in town yesterday.
Alan: But you're interested in fashion, not decency.
Mike: That dog doesn't even have fur. It's really an indecent dog, Gypsy.
Alan: People often say an animal's fur is its covering. That's not true. Now suppose you had fur, Mike, I mean hair. There are a lot of people covered completely with hair. You've probably seen them in the circus  . . .
Mike: Yes, I had an uncle  . . .
Alan: Suppose he went down to the public square with only his hair on and a policeman said, "Pardon me, sir, but you're not wearing clothes." And your uncle said, "No, I have hair, I'm covered." How long do you think he could walk around Public Square before getting arrested?
Mike: Probably until a good breeze came along.
Gypsy: Is it all right to leave the tail hanging out? If this is a joke, it's very funny, but if you're actually spending a quarter million dollars on this I think it's disgraceful!
Alan: You're in no position to make any moral judgment. Your past track record speaks for itself. I'm sorry to have to say that.
Jayne: I have something to say.
Alan: Would you say it quickly please because I have an important point. . . .
Jayne: I have an important point, too, a couple as a matter of fact. I am a member of various antivivisection leagues. Why don't we use this money to build homes to keep little animals alive rather than kill them because the pounds are overcrowded?
Alan: But there are organizations who do this.
Jayne: I feel that the human form, the form of animals, everything is beautiful. There's nothing nasty about it. I feel that if you see a cow running around with pants on, I mean if a child sees a cow running around with pants on, he's going to wonder what's under the pants. And then when he finds out he'll really be shook.
Alan: If what you say is true, and I don't think it is, then we should all become nudists and this is ridiculous. 
Jayne: I think that's a good idea.

Minsky didn’t invent strip. He just brought it out from the back room.


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The 1950s were ready to shed the Lili St. Cyrs with their demure, ladylike scenes, and embrace Elvis Presley and rock n’ roll and the new breed of burlesque woman who embodied the changes happening in the country. “When Tempest came along, it changed the course of stardom. A different style. Wild,” said Dixie Evans. Tempest drove a red Cadillac convertible swathed in mink. Tempest was known for her “million-dollar chest,” the way she tossed her long red hair on stage as she bent forward and back, knees spread, thighs strong. Her moves were often bombastic, full-throttle sex — she convulsed, she crouched, she bent, she twisted. Her act was often accompanied by simulated thunder and rain. Her measurements were rumored to be anywhere from 41DD to 48DD.

She hummed Black and Tan Fantasy as she paraded around the room


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The Princess was a smoothie all right. One peek convinced me of that. This wasn't her first stripping job. She had too many tricks that come only with experience, like dropping her shoulder straps and rolling a feather muff around her breasts. There was a hum of appreciation drifting over the footlights. I looked through the peekhole at the rapt, sweating faces. Then she began slowly lifting the skirt of her evening gown with a dark-gloved hand, the other covering her breasts. A long, thin tongue licked the purple lips and the music built up to a crescendo. She flashed a rhinestone G string, and with the same sensual, expressionless face she threw her torso into a bump that shook the balcony. The audience went mad. She dropped the skirt and waited for them to stop applauding. Dolly whispered in my ear, "Get a load of those Bordens." I looked. The muff was over to the side and I thought that competition wasn't so tough after all. Just as I started relaxing—I never thought she'd have the nerve to take that brassiere off—it happened. She not only took off the brassiere, but her G string, too. I couldn't believe my eyes. There was nothing but a small strip of adhesive in front and a string of fringe in the back. How she kept that on I don't know. Glue maybe. The customers weren't thinking about that anyway. 

double meaning lines, salacious dances and indecent costumes


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Audiences responded as Gypsy hoped they would. She overheard a woman breathlessly telling her friend after seeing the show, “Mabel, I have just seen without a doubt the dirtiest, filthiest show I’ve ever seen in all my life. Don’t miss it.” In the newspaper PM, Louis Kronenberger described Star and Garter as “a leg and laugh show with plenty of good filthy fun.”


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“Cigarette butts and empty coffee containers and old newspapers were all kicked together with dirty frayed satin shoes under the make up shelf. Gnats swarmed around a half empty container of beer resting on the edge of a filthy sink that was filled with laundry left overnight to soak. Sticky red lip rouge smudges encircled the top of the container. Under each lip-rouge smudge, penciled in with eyebrow pencil, was an initial. The mirrors were broken. Their jagged edges reached out like claws. Shreds of net and bits of rhinestone and beads hung by thin strings on nails behind mirrors.”


IT DON'T NEVER GET GOOD UNTIL THREE IN THE MORNING

                                              
 epub new link 14/2/12(391 pages/1MB) with thanks to the original sharer

Down the street, at the House of All Nations, johns lined up at the $2 and $5 entrances—too bad the suckers didn’t know that the same girls worked both sides. Blind men cranked hurdy-gurdies, spinning tangled reams of melody. The air reeked of sweat and blood and swine entrails, drifting up from the Union Stock Yards just a few blocks southwest. Mickey Finn hawked his eponymous “Special” at his Dearborn Street bar. Merry Widdo Kiddo, the famous peep-show girl, warmed up her booth, breasts twirling like pinwheels behind the glass. Levee piano players—“professors,” they were called—cracked their knuckles before plucking out the hiccuped notes of ragtime.


                                                
 epub new link 14/2/12(454 pages/6MB) with thanks to the original sharer

They went to side streets around Jungle Alley to buy cocaine and marijuana, ten joints for a dollar, and to basement speakeasies where a silent man granted entry by yanking a long chain attached to the door. Down a steep flight of stairs elite uptowners and Greenwich Village bohemians and blacks crowded together at wood tables and sipped bootleg liquor with street names like “smoke” and “lightning.” They climbed upstairs to rent parties, where jazz musicians and piano “professors” raised money to help friends pay their landlords; marveled at the Clam House’s lesbian headliner, a 250-pound crooner clad in a top hat and tuxedo