First up, business: I was catching up on my reading and saw that Steve and Tomahawk of Minnesota surf fame were let down that I ranked my day with them as only 'pretty good.' It was Nordic understatement - I was channeling Frances McDormand's character in Fargo, maybe. It was twelve hours of good conversation, beautiful weather, relaxing nekkid in the hot tub, and breakfast in a cafe with a do-it-yourself Bloody Mary bar. It was hella-good; pretty good as in absolutely lovely.
Back to NYC - Roxy was a disappointment. The music was just thud thud thud without much variety or creativity. The club space was cool enough, and the men were alright [although Hollis didn't think so], but something didn't connect with me at all. I was like an outsider watching the party. I danced a bit with Ed and Bruce, who were as hot as ever, and looked around but never found Jean. We left pretty early.
Sunday I went to the Virgin Megastore and listened to happy music for a bit, and felt better. Met another friend, Ariel, for a pint in Chelsea [he has an Irish boyfriend and the lingo must be rubbing off]. We watched the Chelsea muscle boys walk around, then I headed back to Jersey to get ready for Sunday night.
Yeah. Umm, technically I'm staying in Jersey City, not Manhattan. I'm Bridge and Tunnel, but without big hair. I might have left that out last time I posted.
Met up with Drew. We had met in Montreal a few years back, and stayed in touch. Our plan was to hit a few newer parties: The Ramble (at a place whose name I've forgotten) and Spirit, which took over the space Junior Vasquez used for Twilo.
The Rambles party was alright. It was a good space, but a young crowd and there was nothing to keep us there for longer than a drink. Spirit, though, was unreal. It was pure New York after-hours madness. The club was dark, with one big black dancefloor and lots of side rooms and passages. The crowd was beyond eclectic - it was a random mix of homo-thugs, Harlem queens, tweakers, twinks, angels, punks, and circuit boys.
Mike Cruz [Movin' Up] was spinning, and - as Drew put it - he didn't seem to have an agenda. He changed the music as the crowd evolved throughout the night. I probably heard more variety in the first five minutes than I did in three hours at Roxy. Early on [midnight?] the crowd skewed younger, and his beats were fast and discordant and with a constantly shifting rhythm. I liked it, but it was so fast that it was hard to find a solid groove and then oh, why hello astral plane. This was unexpected. Now I get the music. I didn't think I'd find a portal here. Greetings from the West Coast. It's been such a long time since I visited. Things are a bit different from a New York City perspective. No angels. Things are darker and more twisted. But it's not such a bad place, not at all.
So we lost ourselves in the music, and watched the drama unfold around us. At one point a punk decked out in a mohawk, bad facial hair, and a death metal t shirt, approached, glowering at us with dead eyes. He was pretty drunk, and at first I thought he was looking for a fight. Then he stepped out of the shadows and into the light and damn he looked about twelve. I can take him, I thought. But turns out he didn't want to fight. Little Satan just wanted a kiss. Fine. Too bad he was too drunk too dance; in the end I had to shake him off. Later, it looked like there would be a dance off between two houses. Cool - I've never seen one of those outside of South Park. Even Drew seemed to be getting excited. I couldn't make out who was who. Drew thought it was between two groups of guys. I thought the target was a big-haired Jersey girl.
Poor thing. She never had a chance. At one point this skinny little queen was breaking on the floor and twisting himself into all kinds of contortions. She was down low too - who knows why - when he arched his legs over behind his head, wrapped them around her neck, pinned her to the floor, and vogued some Psycho-style Norman Bates stabs onto the top of her head. Round one goes to Harlem.
Later I saw her hugging her boyfriend, who was giving the queens the finger. I don't know what he was thinking. Not even Mike Tyson would take on these boys. I missed what happened next, but ten minutes later I look over and she is being dragged off the dancefloor by her hair. Literally. It was awesome. Her fat little legs were kicking in the air, the rest of the Harlem boys were vogueing and throwing poses around her, the muscled Chelsea boys kept on dancing, and her boyfriend was nowhere in sight.
Security finally rescued her, and I thought the party might be over, but the DJ switched into a hard and perfect circuit set, and the party stayed strong until dawn.