As backstage begins to bustle with Saturday-night showgirls, I find myself unusually introverted. I feel clumsy and awkward compared to the half-naked women around me. My dressing area is actually in the way of one of the exits so, like the new girl, I'm apologizing constantly. Olympia DeWinter, whose innocent face could easily pass for your child's kindergarten teacher, spends several minutes telling me how she'd love to try her hand at stand-up comedy. Her ariolas are bedazzled with real pennies for her upcoming flapper number, in which she strips for a tax collector. If only the IRS was so accommodating.

It's burlesque time at the Full Throttle Bar, and I'm about to get my first set of pasties.

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