Not a Bad Apple in the Bunch: Molly Crabapple is my first Peculiar Person of the Month

Molly Crabapple has gone on to raise eyebrows and many a fan boy’s libido with her comics that feature corset clad, Victorian dressed women. As a burlesque dancer, Molly has woven together art and sensuality to create an open education she has named Dr. Sketchy’s Anti-Art school. The class gathers together people who can relax, have a good time, and draw different dancers from the burlesque world. She opened up about her life, her hosting duties, and her philosophies.

 “[When I was a] seventeen-year-old girl [I wanted] to run away to Paris for a while. I mean what artsy girl wouldn’t. It taught me how to live by my wits; it showed me what things are possible, things you can’t get if you’re living in the suburbs.” Molly said.

Molly, a petite New Yorker with gothic locks, pale skin, and a face layered with a full smile and long eyelashes is decorated with just the right hues to give her a porcelain exterior and doll-like essence. She didn’t want to stay in the suburbs. Growing up there was enough of an incentive to get out as fast as she could. From her early childhood, she taught herself how to draw mainly from the book Alice in Wonderland, noting that the art in the book was one of special interest to her.

“It’s not [so much] the story; it’s the line work. The guy who illustrated them was this real master of pen and ink so I really learned a lot from that, and that’s also the medium that I like to work with the most,” said Molly.

She has already released a coloring book and several other graphic novels and sketches of her work available for purchase on her website (www.mollycrabapple.com). The theme in her artwork correlates well with her creativity as a burlesque dancer. Through her performance art and drawings, she has woven together art and sensuality to create her own form of self-expression.

“[I did] burlesque for over three years. I got into it because I was in love with Talusula Trek when I was a kid, and the burlesque revival sort of struck me as one of those Parisian Can-Can halls come to life. It was so hyper-detailed and funny,” Molly said as to what inspired her to become a performer.

Molly also pulls hosting duties as an anti-art educator with her group Dr. Sketchy’s. Dr. Sketchy’s Anti- Art school supplies its students with an open bar. Spectators pay a small fee and can learn while drawing different dancers from the burlesque world. In fact, the group has become so popular that it has spawned international branches all over the world, making Molly an innovator.

“The power of the internet helped a lot. I host Dr. Sketchy’s Anti-Art school, which is offered at the Lucky Cat in Brooklyn, New York. It’s held every other Saturday. It’s not really a class, but what makes it an Anti-Art school is that there’s drinking, pornographic allusions, you get free stuff, there are people dressed up in crazy costumes, and it only costs ten dollars instead of thousands,” Molly said about the group.

In much of her Victorian inspired work, Molly seems to take viewers through a world that would be repressive to women. Her bold line work, mixed with a heavy saturation of erotic overtones and corsets clad might leave one to wonder why she would portray women in such erotic ways in a time period that was not as free as Molly’s depictions.

“Well, I like to think that I’m just as degrading to men as I am to women, you know I have this comic strip that runs in Playgirl where I do the same things to guys. I think I just objectify anyone, I almost think that the essence of art is objectification. I guess I’m just a 13-year old boy trapped in a girl’s body,” said Molly.

Those seeking a more PG Molly, who is also an avid comic book enthusiast, can find her in the mainstream as well. Her work has appeared in Weird Tales Magazine. She has even been a part of the Marvel Underground anthology where she got to re-imagine She-Hulk as a Victorian-Era feminist.

“Poor Jennifer Walters is being forced into a marriage with a man that she doesn’t love but she Hulk’s out at the altar and end’s up throwing the groom into the cake,” said Molly.

Molly credits her fear of dying as the motivation for her durability. She couples it with the nice incentive that she doesn’t have to work a day job as the major reason she has been able to become so versatile, which is advice she advocates to all those seeking their dreams.

“[Everyone] should think about their impending deaths, and the intense gloominess at spending their entire life working a crappy day job instead of doing something that they really like. That’s what motivates me. The walk up the ladder was a bit hard, but I’m always a bit awed at how quick it happened. I really genuinely feel that if anyone is smart and cunning enough and has even a moderate amount of talent then they can do it, they just have to work really hard,” said Molly.


* Molly Crabapple gets 4 P's out of 4.


Next time on This Peculiar Life...

Sin City comes to New York City, and celebrity relatives can be found hidden in the closet.

Psychedelic Rabbis and Religious Highs Part 2.

Meanwhile, back to reality…

“Yeah, I wrote articles about the homeless. I actually used to dress like them and go out for field research to see what it was like to be homeless,” he said.

I thought maybe he had just finished a day of “research”.

“I met this lady, she was a nice lady. I should have married her. We were working at the same university. I was studying to be a rabbi. She would tell me that I didn’t want to get married, so she was going to leave. I should have married her, but she was a very smart lady. She didn’t like what I wanted to write about though,” he said.

“So, do you still see her at all,” I said.

“No. She was getting swept up in the academic crowd you know, and she wanted to go off with those people. I should have married her,” he said.

 I felt like I should have weeded him off of this subject.

“So what did you find while you were researching,” I said.

“Well, I would go way uptown, out of the area where I worked because I didn’t want people who might know me to see me being homeless,” he said.

“I see, that’s kind of smart,” I said.

“Yeah. What I found was that black women who were mothers always gave the most. They would have four or five kids with them, but they were always digging through their purses for me. I think its cause they really knew what it was like to grow up poor,” he said.

“How about the other end of the spectrum? Did you notice anyone who didn’t give anything,” I asked.

“Well…” he paused for a moment.

“Are you gay,” he said.

I had a feeling about what was coming. I wanted an honest answer from him. I said no because I wanted to know what he was really going to say.

“I found that gay men where the group to give the least,” he said.

“How did you know that they were gay,” I asked.

“I’ve gone around to the different neighborhoods doing this,” he said.

“Well, why do you feel like they gave the least,” I said.

“I think it’s all the narcissism,” he answered.

“Really,” I said.

“How long did you write about your experiences,” I asked.

 It felt rather clear that he is still working on it, even if he wasn’t writing anything.

 “A long while. I still like to go out there and immerse myself into the culture,” he said.

I just shook my head and smiled. I still didn’t know a lot of people in New York, so I though I would try and squeeze a Tuesday’s with Maury moment out of this.

“So you were studying to be a Rabbi, did you make it,” I asked.

“Oh yes, yes, I became a rabbi. You know prayer is the most important thing to being a rabbi. It’s what keeps you strong and close to the almighty,” he said.

Now I thought we were getting somewhere. I was waiting for the words of wisdom to flow over me like a slow moving brook. The kind of advice that would hold the stones to put in a sling shot to slay the giant with. Wisdom that could only come from aged rabbi’s who worked with the poor and sacrificed their love lives.  

“Have you ever tried acid?” he said.

The flowing water stopped.

“Come again,” I said.

“Acid, have you ever tried acid. It’s a really great substance for getting in touch with God,” he said.

I shook my head unsure of how to answer.

“I’ve never done any drugs before. I think I might have gotten high once off of my inhaler, but I was pretty young,” I said.

“No, you would need something a bit stronger like acid. You should really think about giving it a try it really opens up your mind,” he said.

I smiled, thinking that the punch line was going to come around the corner at any moment. He would bust out some catchy zinger that most Jewish comedy writers could come up with off the top of their heads, catchy like Chelsea Handler not Jay Leno. There is a difference people. Still his face stayed consistent and straightforward. He spoke with the certainty of someone who just looked at their watch to tell me the time. Not an ounce of doubt discomfort.

“I’ll see if I can make it through the looking glass,” I said.

“Well, I’m here almost every Tuesday around this same time if you would like to come back and talk again. Are you sure you don’t need some money,” he said.

Are you sure you don’t need a straight jacket and some methadone, I thought to myself.

“How noble,” I shook his hand and parted ways.

Every now and then, over the years of returning to Barnes and Noble, sometimes I find myself peeking into the café’ to see if my Rabbi is still sitting there choreographing a new sip with his coffee and passing along the connection to God that can only come with LSD.

I give this two PP’s out of four.  

Next time on This Peculiar Life...

I'll bringing you my Perculiar Person of the Month. It may be person of the week if I can get a steady flow of interviews. ;)

Psychedelic Rabbis and Religious Highs

Barnes and Noble at Union Square always had a cozy feeling best enjoyed during the winter. The Seventeenth Street location is the most fun of all the locations. She doesn’t seem snooty like the one on Fifth, and not so old like the ones down on the lower east side. The atmosphere is similar to the one on Avenue of the America’s where there may be no bathrooms, but there is comfort.

Like a cute wallflower that’s destined to be the main attraction, Barnes and Noble at Union Square has such an appeal because it’s surrounded by the simplicity of the farmer’s market. Where out of print dvd’s can fit in your book bag and free hugs come to you as soon as you win one of the chess games that are set up like a row of dominoes. Squeezed between the AT&T store and Sephora, there is something about this tall, slender bookstore that stands out. She is the girl-next-door of bookstores, and it is ecstasy to be inside her.

As an aspiring writer and all around nobody living in obscurity, Barnes and Noble was more of a sign than a store. She was like the lighthouse. When I was there I was surrounded by shelves upon shelves, floors upon floors of people who had all made there way through the hassles of writing, rewriting, editing, agents, publishers, promotion, and finally the public. I got to see the thousands of people that had turned their dreams into a real industry.

So it came as no surprise when I found myself standing in the café looking for a seat that I would never find. That’s the one downside to Barnes and Noble. There is never a chair to sit in at the café. The smell of fresh burnt coffee surrounded by high cholesterol sweets and overpriced sandwiches -probably a day old- made with canned lunch meat and garnished with a jaded employees spit, all conspired to create the perfect surrounding for a starving artist.

Truth be told, I usually sat in the astrology section. An earthy type employee with hair, as if by magic, changed in shades of red and brown, would always tell me to move. She looked like the type who had too many cats and most likely talked to “angels”.

I would then resort to the section on the fourth floor where most of the book signings took place. It served as positive reinforcement. I used to like to picture myself on that stage saying witty things while people stood in line to buy my thirty dollar hardback book that would sell for a dollar in about a year or two. On this particular day though, I would have settled for a chair at the café’. This day was a day that would prove to be lucky.

It was a solitary chair that sat semi-facing me. The chair bore a similar experience to asking a girl out to the yearly snow ball dance in high school. You see her from across the room, partially looking, partially acting all nonchalant. You can’t stop looking at one another, but you take your time going up to her cause your nervous that she might already be taken.

Well the chair was free and not really a part of any table, so I sat on it. I was browsing through a magazine and a book that I would skim for just the dirty pictures, when I saw a young lady carrying a plate with a large chocolate cupcake on it. I still remember the powdered sugar on top. In her other hand was an accompanying coffee.  She balanced her own set of magazines under one arm and had on a book bag. I saw her looking around the room facing the same consequences that I had to deal with when trying to find a seat.

“Here, you can sit here. You look like you need it more than I do,” I said.

She used a country-girl smile on me, the kind that needed no actual “thank you” to come out, but got the point across. She took the seat, and I stood for a moment feeling like a boy from a John Updike short story.

A few steps away sat man with gristle skin and a heavy jacket for which I can not recall the color. It did look like dense concrete that encased him for being inside a warm room. He moved his stuff off the chair across from him and looked over at me. 

 “Would you like to sit down,” he said.

 “Okay.” The chair felt just like the one I gave up to the cupcake girl.

“You know in all the years that I’ve been coming to this Barnes and Noble, I’ve never seen anyone do what you just did,” he said.

“Oh really?” I always like it when I stick out to somebody.

Upon closer inspection, I could see his thick glasses, balding head on the top, but long white hair that drooped out from the sides and back, much like a Maltese living in the wild. He kept his hands folded around his tall cup of coffee that was more like a dance partner than a drink. He would whirl it, caress it, and move about his lips in a calm fashion though.

“Yeah, most people don’t want to give up their seats. You must not be from here, how long have you been here,” he asked.

“About two years,” I said.

“That’s not a bad amount of time. Are you thirsty, do you not have any money? I don’t mind buying you a cup of coffee if you like,” he said.

“That’s kind of you, but I’m good on money. I usually like to just come here and read, but I saw her with food. She actually paid, so I figured she should get a place to sit,” I said.

“How noble,” he said.

 His two words would become a catch phrase of mine.  

“What are you in New York for,” he said.

 “Well, I wanted to be a writer. I got some articles coming out, but it’s all small stuff,” I said.

 “How do you support yourself. You don’t have to sleep on the streets do you,” he asked.

“Uh, it’s not quite that bad. I live with my brother in Brooklyn, and I have the proverbial day job,” I said.

“You know I used to write myself. I’ve published some articles,” he said.

 “Really, that sounds cool. You have any advice,” I said.

 With honesty leading the way I was hoping that he was someone in publishing that I could maybe foster a relationship with. My mind instantly went to me sitting at my desk in front of an electric typewriter. I was dressed in sixties fashions with a loose tie and cigarette in my fingers for some reason. I was leaning over my desk telling a mail boy how I got this job.

It all started with a sacrifice of a chair and some small talk, I would say.

Stay tuned for part 2...

Birds, Black Mats and Instruments Part 2.

We entered; there was a sign on the door that said NO FOOD, NO SHOES. The likes of which was new to me, because usually we had to have shoes on to enter any establishment. The sheer Japansesness of it all was putting me in a happy mood. I had always wanted to go to Japan. I felt like I was getting a local international experience. I gladly took my run down tenor shoes off, with the netted front covers that were already sporting a hole on the left side. I perched my coat up over the small rack that came up about mid-waist. It was functional but looked like it had been borrowed from the Barbie dream house. The theatre was more like a small ballet studio. It was semi-dark with various hanging light bulbs that flickered on and off the sound of tweeting birds chirping from the walls it sounded like. Chairs were set up facing one another in diagonal corners. We sat in the next to last row underneath a camerawoman who was perched up on a foot stool.

A thick black mat covered the floor. My feet sunk into it, molding each step like I was walking on wet sand. It felt nice. There was about a row of us. I was the only boy in our group, and in the room until the other patrons started to trickle in. There was a large group of Asians, along with a hipster who sported a fro and thick black, cat framed glasses. There was an older gay couple that looked like they knew all about theatre, plus the endless array of straight men that most likely were there because it was their girlfriends turn to pick date night.

While sitting, the various hanging lights would fade in and out with the bird chirps. I looked down at the flyer that I was handed upon entering and it had the three girls I saw from the website. Two of which were wearing animal heads. One was on a table wearing a rabbit head, the other was on all fours with a horse’s head on. It looked more like an advertisement for a fetish ball. Personally I think that the line between the two is about as thin as a corset string.

“You know there’s a game tonight. It’s the Saints and the 49rs. Oh God I wonder what the score is,” said Alyssa Milano’s taller twin.  

It was interesting that there were so many hard core sports enthusiast who were women. Usually I only knew of girls who watched sports to mask it as quality time with their significant others. I personally think it is cool when you see a switch like that. I call them Wilk Girls after Kendra Wilkinson. She’s the only sport’s enthusiast frat boy who was also in Playboy.

“Shh,” came from a woman in front of us.

We didn’t notice that there was a small Japanese woman in all black that had taken to the northern end of the floor. She just knelt and looked forward. Smiling at the audience, she then fell into what looked like a staring contest with the wall.

“So, is there a plot to this at all,” I asked my friend.

When I think of improve, I always picture Drew Carry on Whose Line is It Anyway?

My friend shrugged her shoulders up and smiled.

“Shhh,” came from the same woman in front of us. 

Looking at the back of the woman’s long hair that faced me with the coarse sound of her “SHH” sound made me imagine her as Cousin It from the Addams Family. I began to laugh when the lights went out.

I guess the show was starting. The subwoofer picked up and natural sounds, mixed with symphonic music played over us like a soft rain. The music began to coincide with the flicking of the bulbs that would vary in brightness. It was cool to watch them move, spotlighting different areas of the Yoga studio.

The small Japanese woman began to move around the room walking as if she had been summoned by Dracula to “come hither”. She stopped opposite the room when an incredibly tall girl with thick glasses and wavy red hair stood up and walked onto the mat. I wondered if she was just trying to find the bathroom, but she pulled from behind her a long clarinet and began to play. The sound engineer stopped with all the do-dads and switches while we watched this giantess play her long instrument. Somewhere between the zombie walk and clarinet recital a third girl entered the room. She walked to the center of the room and faced the wall and began to twirl in circles.

The other two followed. The Japanese woman picked up a folded music sheet and danced in a circle, while the clarinetist ran around her. It looked like she was trying to read the music while they twirled together. I have to admit, that running in circles would take up all of my breath, so I wasn’t sure how she could run and blow through the mouth piece at the same time.

Eventually the Japanese woman was left twirling in circles on her own until she was rolling around on the floor, soon stopping as if she were a imitating a raccoon that got hit by a car. She soon stopped as would the raccoon (it didn’t beat the car). Then everything stopped. When the lights came up again the clarinetists added some longer part to her instrument that gave it a deeper more saxophone type of sound. From there we got to watch them walk imaginary type ropes. They crawled on their hands and feet looking down at what appeared to be bus schedule pamphlets that were tapped to the floor. We saw them walk from side to side meeting in the middle as they embraced one another at the center. They stood there for a moment contorting their bodies in such a fashion that it looked like they were trying to meld into one another’s bodies; instead they were just trying to pass one another without taking their feet off the bus schedules.

"Are they gonna make out,” said the business expert.

“I don’t know, I thought they were going do something too,” I said.

She seemed to join in with the installation lights by adding her own that came from her cell phone.

”I think the Saints just scored,” she said.

As the lights faded in and out, it became clear that the show wasn’t about birds. Instead it took a bit more of an asylum feel. The two dancers would undulate and move as if they were having seizures or like they were trying to mimic that dead girl from The Ring. The girl that we all came to support had rotated in front of us and stood their shaking and moving, hugging her self as if the spasm in her arms and legs were trying to break free from under her skin. Her hair draped over her face, imprisoning them behind wild strands and follicles that changed color under lights that were getting more aggressive. There was a climax of dance movements that were Linda Blair style that culminated into a silence of movement and sound. We were sitting in the dark again.

“How much longer is this,” a loud voice from the end of the aisle said.

A bunch of us cracked up under our breaths. The lights slowly came on and we found ourselves sitting there not sure what to do next. The dancers and musicians were gone as if they had teleported into the darkness.

“Is it over,” one said.

“I don’t know,” I responded.

“I think this is just the intermission,” said my friend.

“You mean there is more?” said the same voice that started the chatter.

I turned to the camera woman above me, who was patient enough to put up with us being right below her. I’m surprised she didn’t push the camera down on our heads.

“Is this an intermission or is it over,” I asked.

“I believe it’s over yeah,” she said.

We gathered in the main lobby and got our shoes back. Most of the dancers and musicians were doing a meet and greet.

“Look, my friend who was in the show is coming out for drinks with us later. So…even though we didn’t get it, we all loved it okay,” she said.

We all complied.

Fast forward to Coffee Shop in Union Square, we were all enjoying a beer while trying to decipher the events of the evening, which soon turned into a gradual acceptance of the unknown. When the one dancer we all went to support showed up we raised our glasses to her with a genuine spirit of accolades if for no other reason than the fact that none of us could probably do what she did.

“So, tell me how you came up with all of that,” I asked after the pleasantries.

I finally got to see her face up close. She was sweet looking with a wholesome face and pleasant dimples.

Turns out their whole performance was based off the music of Giacinto Scelsi. He was Italian and a composure whose wife left him, which lead to a psychiatric breakdown. He was recognized for his ability to base his compositions around one pitch. While distraught he would play that single pitch and nurse himself back to health with it. Scelsi would often create entire compositions around this one pitch. One of his master works, Quattro Pezzi Su Una Nota Sola was considered to be very innovative. It all came full circle now while watching the dancers and sound artists try to play off these one pitch compositions by adding their own layers of dance and music, plus light installations.

The whole thing sounded much more brilliant. It managed to dance, ha ha pun, over all our heads. I wasn’t sure who in the audience would have gotten something like that until I noticed that it was all written on the back of the flyer. I guess those animal heads they were wearing were clever.  

All in all, the night was charming and reminded me of Friday night at the club where you have to pay over priced admission to watch people do crazy dances to music that no one’s every heard, or has been ruined- usually by the D.J. I wasn’t sure how to weight this one because at least a club has scantly clad bodies, but this experiment in musical show and tell gave me my first blog entry. I got to feel smarter for going to it after is was fully explained to me, which is more than I could ask for at a club.

Thanks to my friends and the CRS for giving me a peculiar night of fun.

Rating: 3Ps out of 4.

Next Time on This Peculiar Life…

Psychedelic Rabbis and Religious Highs

Hanging out at Barnes and Noble and meeting my first Rabbi who shared the wisdom of dropping acid.

Birds, Black Mats, and Instruments

So it was almost mid-January of 2012 when I got a chance to hang with this girl that was a new friend. She brought with her a natural smile and nice cheekbones that balanced between a strong nose that made me think of Ashley Simpson for some reason. Say what you will about her music, but the girl is still hot, and so was this one. She had a distinct fashion that could be simple in winter and colorful in summer. What I liked most about her is how she laughs at the end of almost every sentence, which made me laugh, which made her laugh more, and before we knew it, I felt like we just laughed for nothing. So, when she invited me out to hang, I felt like we were stepping out of acquaintance land and entering the friend zone. Well, that and she was inviting me to my first experimental theatre.

Like most of the things I get invited to, birthday parties excluded, I usually go because I want to spend time with the people that invited me. I’ll put aside personal preferences for what I consider fun, because what I consider fun can be anything from napping on my ass to eating on my ass, to writing on my ass…well, you get the picture. I think all the ass sitting comes from living in Jersey (as a disclaimer I live about twenty minutes outside of time square in Jersey, so try not to stigmatize.) My social contacts get me out of the house, so I went willingly.

Her apartment was the perfect precursor to a night of theatre. It was on the lower east side, which always felt a bit like old Manhattan back when it was inhabited by artists and ethnic neighborhoods. There was a certain charm about it. There was still a thick residue of artistic pretentiousness (what a long word to spell out) that felt like a deep puddle at the end of every block, and the journey to go from Jersey to Avenue A even by cab was like a Peter Jackson epic.

Inside her apartment had a Parisian feel, like I could see her eating peaches and plums near an open window, while the breeze blew her silk curtains around her, like in a Ikea commercial. She had this vintage radio near the window that I imagined only played Edith Piaf’s standard hits, and a sink that looked more like a tub.

“I’m going to put you to work a bit,” she said.

This translated to me watching her and her friend (a financial expert who looked like Alyssa Milano’s Turkish, twin sister) set up a plate of cheese, fruit, and crackers, along with some small frozen pizza bagels. I got to help reset the timer on the oven. I exchanged pleasantries with her friends who had trickled in. They say beauty begets more beauty because they were all hot. They had some wine; I had most of the apples and pizza bagels.  

 “So what exactly is this show about,” said the business expert.

 “Well, let’s look it up,” my friend said defaulting to her phone.

 She began to read from the website.

 “Fascinated by different ingredients of simple boundaries,” she stopped.

 “What is it,” I said.

 “I’m skipping to the important parts,” she said.

 “Ah lets see…have collaborated on symmetrical axis of movement, bounding the rigor of the configuration of…cyclical productions…INSPIRED BY BIRD SONGS…were four artists envelope improve-generated compositions,” she finished.

 There was a silent pause in the room. She looked up at us and laughed.         

 “What the fuck does that mean,” said one.

”I recognized the bird song part,” another said.

 “I went to the link you sent me, but the I just looked at the picture. I saw two girls wearing animal heads while one was playing a trumpet I think. Does that mean there will be nudity,” I said.

 “What, were they wearing anything else,” said the business expert.

 “I’m thinking yes, because animal heads wouldn’t be the first thing that I remembered,” I said.

 “Who is in this show again,” asked the other girl.

 “A friend of mine is a choreographer and she is also in it,” she said.

 “It said it was improve though, so how do they choreograph something that’s improved,” I asked.

 “I was thinking the same thing,” said the business expert.

 “I guess we’ll find out when we get there,” my friend said.

 We finished the last of our drinks, and I swiped one more bagel as she collected the lime green paper plates. We headed out into the cold.

 “It’s just a few blocks up the street,” she said.

The name of the theatre was called CRS, which stood for the Center for Remembering and Sharing. I thought it sounded more like a retirement home, but it turns out that when you walk in it had a very Japanese design to it.

According to their brochure, the CRS was started in 2004. The CRS is a place based on the spiritual practices of Yasuko Kasaki a healer and counselor and Christopher Pelham the co-founder who likes to study the spiritual psychology of acting. I don’t know how much Hollywood plays a part in real acting, but it seems like it fucks anybody’s psychology.

I gathered that they help people tap into their creative potential by having them figure out who they are by sharing limitless energy combined with love and inspiration. So that basically translates to Yoga and Belly Dance classes. They have a schedule of courses that are everyday of the week. Things like the Healing Clinic (a sort of mental detox) and the Makiko Method (a balance class) and something called Mommy and Me ACIM, which I would have been sold on if it were an improve performance of Mommie Dearest. Most of the events were about twenty dollars and the place felt like the lobby of a spa upon first entering.

Stay tuned for part 2…