whiskey, sour

Soon after I landed in NYC, Kiki & Herb started haunting me.

Not the performers, but their names kept popping up in conversation. A co-worker killing time in the hallway: "Yeah, the show was so Kiki & Herb." Overheard in a crowded fag bar: "I caught Justin Bond the other night, you know, Kiki & Herb." Belligerent school children on Bronx-bound trains: "Dude, who da fuck do you think you are, Kiki & Herb?"
I learned fairly quickly not to profess my ignorance, because any admission that I didn't know who the hell they were talking about would lead to shocked stares and outright verbal condescension. YOU'VE NEVER SEEN KIKI & HERB?!

Now, ladies and gents, I'm happy to say the tongue lashing can cease: I've seen the show, and I get it.
It was a "secret" set at Joe's Pub, billed as "The Erie Institutional Children's Choir," and totally sold out.
Kiki started the night with a frantic bit of audience interaction, bouncing from table to table, throwing herself into hapless laps, demanding that folks lick her leg. They obeyed, loving it.
I couldn't decide if her bitter, booze-a-licious schtick was a genius imitation of a crazed and drunken cabaret castaway — or if the drunken part was completely authentic. Either way, what a performer!
Although the joke felt a little one-note after the start of the second hour, I'll have to say the obscure musical references (Melanie? No, really), inspired comic banter and sideshow spectacle of it all gave me chills a couple of times.

Even better, next time the name comes up, now I can be the one throwing shade.
"You've never seen Kiki & Herb? Well. Pity." (Rolls eyes, sips cocktail.)