This Week...

Thursday. Friday. Saturday. Sunday.

This weekend just might kill me.

Who's a Hot Mess?

Hot Mess last night. I'm crippled by some kind of weird phantom hangover today. Which is weird, because I didn't really drink that much.

Sometimes I take photos of myself before leaving the house. You know, just to make sure. That's Thomas on the right, a.k.a. Lusty Charms, our little Irish go-go boy. We had a contest where some dudes got up on the bar and competed for a date with him. I picked the contestants.

Lady K and...uh, that guy. Tranny gots to beat 'em off with a stick, I'm tellin' you. And Logan being Logan. As Logan as he can be.

And the boys were cute too. Lil' Presto (a.k.a. Jason Preston, the former Mrs. Marc Jacobs) brought one of the Pussycat Dolls. She was cute, but I don't think anyone was star struck. On the left: Kirk, whose life has been ruined by Harry Potter. On the right: Ben Andrews, porn star, and possibly more well known that that Pussycat Doll, at least at this party.

FYI: Tommy Hottpants was bartending for us and let me just say that I want to bite him. Everywhere. Like, everywhere on his body. And also, everywhere in the world.

Reasons I'm Glad I Didn't Go to the Black Party

Last night, I briefly toyed with the possibility of making a late appearence at the Black Party. Like, 4 a.m. late, when the price drops for boys under 26. I'm glad I didn't. And here's why:

1) 4 a.m. is a retarded hour to start partying.

2) $40 - let alone $140 - is a retarded amount to charge for a cover.

3) HX Magazine's Black Party Commandments.

4) Someone OD'd last night. It wasn't me!

5) Someone got HIV last night. It wasn't me!

6) I didn't really want to dance and make out with sweaty 40-something year-old tourists, did I?

7) This.

Photo by Joe Oppedisano.

Unisex Salon

Starting this Thursday night, I'm officially hosting at Unisex Salon at the Delancey. So, come on out and have a drink with me and Acid Betty and John Cameron Mitchell and the gang. Michael Musto will be reading from his new book and there's some bands and open bar from 10-11pm. Tell 'em you're on Lusty J's list for $5 cover all night! I swear to God I'll make out with you if you come.

RIP Roxy

So, I thought I was really sad about the Roxy closing its doors this Saturday night. Not that I ever went to the Roxy except once or twice for Motherfucker. But it just seemed like the Roxy should be there. That great cavernous space filled with shirtless Chelsea boys every Saturday night has been a part of New York clubland for over a decade, and its demise at the hands of real estate developers is just another sign that the city is heading toward something dim and homogenous and really depressing. It seemed a little bit like a tragedy.

Then I read this article in today's New York Times and realized that the Roxy already symbolized something dim and homogenous and really depressing:

The clubgoers were in their 20s and 30s. Most had short hair or shaved heads. They wore low-slung jeans, sneakers or work boots, and faux-vintage T-shirts that bore the insignias of athletic departments that don’t exist...A good number of men on the dance floor went with a bare-chested look. This typically included barbed-wire tattoos encircling their biceps, dog tags around their necks and baseball caps with curved bills, such that a visitor unaware of the event taking place might have thought he had walked onto a set where somebody was reshooting the volleyball scene from “Top Gun.”

Where will we go to find tweeked out pseudo-straight Jersey boys now?

I'm the Carrie!

I like to think of Halloween the same way crusty old society ladies think of the fall social season: the parties, the events, the clothes. My calender was booked solid the whole weekend leading up to Tuesday night. Three parties, three costumes, lotsa photos...

Left to right: Saturday night's Dia De Los Muertos costume, slightly smudged and melted, unfortunately; dressed down and incognito as the Grim Reaper at the Park on Sunday night; and my take on Carrie at Motherfucker.

Justin's Tin Woodsman costume; hot guy at mr. Black (is it weird that I'm turned on by his Hannibal Lecter mask?); Kiki and Charlie at Motherfucker's Carrie Prom Night.

Acid Betty, Astro Earl (in a much better Dia De Los Muertos look), and Epiphany at Motherfucker. Morningwood and Hot Chip played. The trailer for the upcoming Motherfucker documentary was shown. I'm a little embarrassed at how excited I was to see myself in some of the footage. We never made it to Susanne Bartsch's party at Avalon, but I heard it got shut down pretty early.

And of course, crazy shirtless peeing death!

P is for Puh-Party

Along with apples and pumpkins and back-to-school shopping, fall apparently brings us scads of new parties. I'm workin' on getting myself out to all of them, but in the meantime these three are where you should be boozin' and dancin'.

Some of NYC's fiercest glamazons - led by Kevin Aviance, Shane Savant, Austin Head, and Acid Betty - create panic on the runway at this weekly performance, art, fashion, rock'n'roll debacle. There's free candy, the hosts give out drink tickets like, well, candy, and if you're super sweet DJ Jeffo just might play that obscure Kate Bush song you've been dying to dance to. Seen last week: designer Zaldy and the boys of Dangerous Muse. Go now before every faggot in the city kicks back the covers and hops out of bed for this Thursday night spectacle.

Boston's long-running queer punk rock dance party is taking New York by storm. This clusterfuck of bois, grrrls, tranies, and the breeders who love them settles into the Delancey on the second Friday of every month and injects a much needed DIY queer sensibility back into the Lower East Side. Expect live bands, scrawny go-go boys, and DJ Sir Loins' infamous sausage links.

Usually home to the posher-than-thou, Guest House lets the riff raff in on Sunday nights for Les Freaques. Sophia Lamar, Milan (of Da LipStyxx), and Jose the Hopper host a cast of fabulous freaks, including Skyla Versai and Gaisha Anne Rysee as the Ice Breaker Match Makers at the Friends of Friends table and DJ Tekshur as the cutest fucking DJ on the planet. Opening night saw Nicky London celebrate his birthday, plus appearances by UK club legends Stefán and Mika Doll. See you there next week. You pay for the bottle service.

Ass Shot

A few weeks ago at mr. Black I had my photo taken with the Ass. He's really adorable in person. The photos are from his blog, Ass Shot.

My friend Benji got rowdy and partially naked and got his photo taken as well. Isn't Benji the cutest damn thing you've ever seen? Picture, if you will, Jay McCarroll and two inexplicably cute boys on a red leather sofa engrossed in some kind of three-way smooch-fest, 'cause that's what was going on just to the right of the Ass in this photo. Jay kept pulling his enormous hood over his face to keep people from recognizing him, as if anyone A) didn't know what he was doing, or B) cared.

No Pho MoFo

I don't have any photos from Motherfucker and it's because of these pants:

I couldn't fit my camera in the pockets. Many many photos were take of me, but I have no idea where they'll end up. I think two photogs from Next took my picture, and so did this guy. And, like, three or four others I didn't recognize.

Josh and I got there so late. I swear, I looked at the clock and it was 10:20, I looked at it five minutes later and it was 11:45. We skipped the enormous line though, because Andy Shaw is a super swell guy.

We got in just as Amanda Lepore arrived - I always smell her before I see her, what is that perfume she wears? - and The Futureheads were finishing up their set. If they played "Hounds of Love," I missed it. Bummer.

Quick kiss-kiss hello to Andy, wave to Greg of the Misshapes (friend of a friend), drinks, and dancefloor. Eugene is pretty, but it was so unmanagably crowded you really couldn't tell. Josh was a little freaked out about wearing nothing but cami hotpants and combat boots amoungst all the straight kids. Before long he disappeared, only to realize that he'd left his keys at my place and would have to crash at his ex-boyfriend's apartment on the Upper West Side.

Straight kids are nothing to be a-scared of. I mean, isn't the whole point of going to Motherfucker so they can dress up and mingle with the club freaks? Although, the guys were a little fratty-gross, photographing the go-go girls to death.

"I totally sold her that liquid latex," I said, pointing out a dancer with Canadian maple leaves painted over her nipples.

What scared me were the looks I was getting from Mistress Formika - I'll admit, I kinda copied the stars on the face thing from her - and Miranda Moondust. They were definitely appraising, and I'm not sure if they were approoving. But I'm probably just paranoid.

There I am in the middle, looking not entirely retarded. Love those party pics.

As I was leaving, Michael T grabbed me, looked me up and down, and shouted, "Love it!" I blew him a kiss and hopped in a cab.

WhArea?

Area 10018. Of course, the queens looked pretty.

I think I looked pretty.

And, um...

Goddamnit, put your shirts on!

"I'm sorry Dave, I'm afraid I can't do that."

Wednesday Morning is the New Tuesday Night

When I got to B Bar, Justin was being harassed by some drunken moron named Steve.

"My good friend is friends with Sandra Bernhard. They do Kabbaaaaaaalah together. She was like, 'You have to hire Saaaaaaandra.'"

Steve was rattling on and on about his column in some sort of automotive magazine, his book deal, the book party he wanted to throw at Bungalow 8, his small airline.

"So Saaaaaaandra and I reeeeeeally hit it off. If you want tickets to her show just caaaaaaall me."

I had no intention of ever calling Steve, and I was more than a little worried, after he bought me and Justin a round of drinks, that he might follow us to Happy Valley. Thankfully, he went home before I finished my first lychee martini.

It was almost empty when we got to Happy Valley a little after midnight. Apparently, Tuesday night doesn’t start until Wednesday morning.

"Give it an hour," Justin said. Sure enough, everyone arrived at once, and by 1:30 it was packed. It makes you wonder what the hell these people do before going out.

My favorite go-go boy is back in town. I’d heard he’d moved away, but I’ve been seeing him everywhere lately.

Formika was there, in boy drag, looking fab in a pair of pink suede cowboy boots. I think I need me a pair of those. Sophia Lamar brushed past me, caught my eye, and muttered something bitchy about the gay boys. I love her so. And I know Musto said something brilliant and eminently quotable to me, but I forgot it almost immediately.

Kenny Kenny was working this wig that looked like a big blonde penis. Kenny, baby, is that hair new or have I just not been out in a month? Susanne Bartsch, on the other hand, seems to only have one look. And she's still walking around with that mountain man cane. Isn't that foot healed yet?

"She's in heels," Justin pointed out, "so it must be on the mend."

Oh, and by the way, Linda Simpson is the new Linda Perry. She did this acoustic cover of Blondie’s "Maria" that made me want someone to play it at my wedding. My mother had "Ave Maria" at her wedding, I’m having this.

A word about attire: I know there isn't a dress code at Happy Valley, but I thought it was the kinda place where you were supposed to, I don’t know, make an effort. Justin and I counted somewhere between five and seven boys wearing shorts. Unacceptable. And while being scantily clad and gloriously accessorized is sort of the point of going out, simply dancing around shirtless in a pair of Deisel jeans is so tacky/boring.

"I guess they must think this is Heaven," Justin said.

A good rule of thumb: If the bartender is wearing a shirt, keep yours on.

MoFo

I got pictures from Motherfucker...

It was my first. The sixth anniversary. The theme was Truman Capote's Black and White ball. It was kinda like a great big scenester prom.

My Wes Borland look and the always demure Acid Betty. She said I looked scary.

Peppermint Gummybear and Mistress Formika


Holy, holy, holy!

For much better photos than mine check out Ambrel and LastNightsParty.

Night of a Thousand Stevies

Last night every damn drag queen in New York – and more than a few out of towners – got all gussied up in chiffon and lace and ribbons for the 16th annual Night of a Thousand Stevies at the Knitting Factory. Once a year all the queens and fags and a bunch of straight girls dress up like Stevie Nicks and lip sync and do covers and performances.

I know, it’s weird, right? Not Cher, not Bette Midler, not Barbara Streisand, not Madge. Stevie Nicks. "Dreams" singin', coke snortin', slept with every rock star of the 70s and 80s, gained a ton of weight in the 90s Stevie Nicks. Uh-huh, you see your gypsy.

Just a random sampling of Stevies...
...And other beautiful freaks.
My friend Blue was dressed as Mick Fleetwood from the cover of Rumours, complete with dangling balls. I managed to pull together a Mirage era Lindey Buckingham look at literally the last minute.

It was so corny, so campy, it was brilliant. I saw Cyndi Lauper, fresh from a performance of The Threepenny Opera, watching the show from the balcony. She tripped and stumbled into an unsuspecting gay boy who got all smiley and glowy when he realized he'd broken the fall of an 80s pop star. Musto was there, looking kinda awkward. Miss Guy and Sherry Vine performed. The legendary Chi Chi Valenti emceed. Downstairs the DJ spun Stevie songs all night long. Everytime a new song came on everyone cheered like they were surprised to hear Stevie. I must have heard "Stand Back" seven times. And everyone sang along.

Dita

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