Last night Aaron, Damian, Dr. Jeff and I dropped in on Spit, where host Paul Short welcomes “prison punks, leather hunks, and hairy chunks” to his East Village monthly party, now relocated above a liquor store on a desolate stretch of Avenue B. The entire club is red – red walls, red wallpaper, red lights – with the only non-red illumination provided by the glowing apple on the back of DJ Mike Grimes’ Powerbook as he delivered a stellar evening of 80’s hits and rarities. Highlights: Tim Scott’s Swear and Yoko Ono’s Walking On Thin Ice. I’m paying the price, for throwing the dice, in the aaaair. I love Yoko.
Many downtown hotties were in the house, including Manhattan’s only break-dancing, krumping, Jew-bear. And some of those hotties were buck-nekkid (including one of the above-linked perverts), probably rewarded by some kind of drink special or sumpin’. (Aside: the advent of cell-cams do not seem to dissuade folks from cavorting in the nude. Not. One. Bit.) The climax of the evening came when the young man pictured above won first place in an odoriferous contest too rank to mention to you, my genteel readers. Even less savory were the two party girls with feathered hair and ankle boots who insisted on flashing their coochies while performing reverse-cowgirls on their gays. (Second Aside: is it a new law that every East Village bar have stripper poles?) Good times. Recommended.