Author Archive

After mentally checking my outfit for red carpet worthiness (fail) I shrugged and headed to the Tribeca film fest to mingle with the stars and, as it turns out, cringe at everything but the sight of a very naked Lucy Liu for a couple hours.  Upon arriving to film fest central I was directed to the wrong theater.  Two cabs, 20 bucks, and a stick of bbq’d street meat later, I finally made it to the eerily remote Battery Park Regal Cinemas Theater.  A single cardboard sign directed me to the “festival.”  No red carpet, no stars, just a lot of dorky white dudes coming out to stare at (did I mention?) a very naked Lucy Liu.

 Check out the preview…it’ll save some time.

Anyways…  Wow.  So bad.  SO SO SO bad.  And did I mention that Lucy Liu, and at least half a dozen other really hot women are all sorts of naked?  And yet, still, bad.  To be fair, it was stylishly bad for the first hour or so, but for the entire last hour of the film you could actually see the actors reading their lines off the page. 

BISHOP:  No, stop.

SADIE: (Naked back flip, lots of odd camera angles, shoots vampire in throat) I’ll stop when I’m dead.

BISHOP:  Oh!  The irony!  A vampire!  Dead!  Oh man, the audience will NEVER pick up on that one!

Yeah.  Now, I’m not saying you shouldn’t see it.  Just don’t pay any money to see it.  Marilyn Manson has a cameo as a bartender sans makeup, which is almost worth paying for, and the copious nudity is really pretty amazing.  The action is even pretty good.  It’s just the writing…whoa.  It’s that bad. 

I’ve been too busy to review actual events lately because I’ve been entranced by the barely hetero love-fest that is Mancrush. Check it out, and not that I want to influence your vote in any way, but Henry Rollins fucking rules.

In my opinion, sex, literature, and laughter are all very good things. So, in an attempt to titillate my brain, I stopped by the In the Flesh Erotic Reading Series hosted by the erotic writer/editor and BJ afficionado, Rachel Kramer Bussel (who is also a lovely individual). I’m pleased to report that it surpassed all of my expectations.

All the writers who read were good or great. From stories of accidentally winding up in a porn with Annie Sprinkles, to “the time I banged a clown,” nearly everything had me either crying with laughter or honestly touched. Stories of sloppy sex elicited goofy grins, while hearfelt examinations of ones own sluttiness had me sighing with sympathy. Rachel really does a fabulous job of bringing together a solid group of erotic readers without ever dipping into the seediness or fakey cheese-factor I tend to associate with all things porn.

The crowd was packed into the space, seemed fixated on the speakers the entire time, and were obviously having a good time. If you’re cruising for swingers or someone to give you a different sort of happy ending, you might find a few freaks (I mean that in the nicest possible way) in the crowd, but most people just seemed like highly-literate, normal, geeky people who happen to enjoy sex and fun.

The series is hosted every 3rd Wednesday of the month (so check your calendar) in the upstairs bar section of Happy Ending (at Forsythe and Broome), the vibe of which–like high school sex on a summer night in the back of your Dad’s Buick–was dark, hot, sweaty, cramped, and hilariously awkward. While a more comfortable space would have been nice, I’d hate to see the vibe ruined by a less intimate space, so as long as it stays there suck it up and go early for a good seat.

Pretty people: there will be ugly people there, and they probably have more and better sex than you. It’s true. If this bothers you, please don’t go. As for the rest of you, I’ll probably see you there next time.

Thanks for the photo Viviane. For more pics check out http://www.flickr.com/photos/brianvan/sets/72157600109296432/

Allow me to preface this review with some caveats. 1) I’ve never reviewed a play before, and 2) my personal experience with plays is limited to the many high school auditions I went to only to be rejected every single time. I am a bad actor and probably have a bit of a chip on my shoulder towards the theatrical community in general. That said, I have done quite a bit of writing and generally know my way around a good story, and have also done some fairly extensive research in the field of dating crazy women in New York City…which brings me to our topic: Sleep Over.


Written by Maria Micheles, Directed by Kitt LaVoie, and starring the actors Jennifer Curfman, Chris Stack, and Lucy Alibar, Sleep Over really, really tried to be whip-crack smart about sexual mores and the inner struggle all we sexy young things have with balancing the need to whore ourselves out to anyone with a pulse and yet come home to the emotional nest of a lover. In other words, it’s about really immature people all dressed up in their fancy adult trappings who almost pull off the trick of making the premise seem like a reasonable one. And in yet more other words, it’s about the kind of emotionally-vapid pseudo-artistic/intellectual city dwellers I generally try to avoid by making crass jokes during dinner parties.

The basic gist of the story is that the Girlfriend told her already cheating Boyfriend that he could sleep with a pretty girl to “save the relationship”, then she freaks out after the fact (can you hear the echoes of me slapping my forehead?). The girlfriend tries to leave, then refuses to leave. The Boyfriend wants her to stay, then uses wacky reverse psychology. There is much statuesque posing filled with “meaningful” pauses. The Other Woman suddenly shows up, and improbably manages to both save the play and end up in a weird maschistic threesome with the Couple. I won’t tell you how it ends, but I will say that it leaves something to be desired (like a satisfying resolution [or at least a little nudity to wake people up]).

As an exploration of sexual morality, I’d say it pretty much flopped. It’s really pretty simple kids; you either get to be a big slut, be in a healthy monogamous relationship, or agree to some sort of swinger arrangement, but no matter what you have to CHOOSE. The Girlfriend just kind of makes you want to slap her the whole time and the Boyfriend seems to love crazy chicks almost as much as himself, resulting in you, the audience member, just really not caring at all about these two idiots. Thankfully, when the Other Woman finally shows up, she’s believeably wacky, legitimately funny, and offers up a really wonderful character that the audience can sympathize with, if not empathize. It’s unfortunate we had to sit through so much actor-y awkward-pause stage direction waiting for her to arrive.

So, here’s my advice: Men, avoid this at all costs–you don’t even get to see boobies. Crazy Women, also avoid this at all costs because it will only give you more reasons to rationalize your craziness. Sane Women, definitely go see this if you intend to break up with your cheating boyfriend and are looking for a good way to make him feel really uncomfortable for an hour before you drop the hammer.

Sane Ladies with cheatin’ bastard boyfriends, you’ll be happy to know that Sleep Over will be playing at Theater for the New City (155 1st Ave., @ 10th St.) until March 25th. Thursday - Saturday at 8pm, Sundays at 3pm. Call ahead for tix at 212.254.1109.

Some nights, I just feel like a grumpy old man. I don’t want to talk to you, and I certainly don’t want to stay home and watch that damned Ryan Seacrest. Kids today. Hmph. So, I went to Pete’s Candy Store for some good old-fashioned Bingo. What did I find? Kids! Uncool kids! They looked like a bunch of marijuana cigarette smoking hooligans if you ask me. Luckily, they were for the most part easy on these old eyes, and the sexual deviants in the crowd seemed to be intimidated by my maturity (judging by the fact that they did not immediately approach yours truly) so I was not at first forced to interact with the locals. But, by jove, then I won a game! You should have seen the jig I danced! Pete’s practices a particularly eclectic brand of bingo involving a combination of “standard” wins (one row across, any direction) with the more intricate “flying backwards L,” “six-pack,” and “holy crap that’s fast first to get to five” variations of bingo. My skills of observation were unthwarted by the multiple hot toddies I consumed, allowing me to crow “bingo!” well before the other drunken rabble present. Typical of the prizes they pass out, I won a set of finger paints which I gave to my truant niece, and a toy motorcycle which launches from a “helmet emitter” which I tried to give to a bum (but found later that my truant niece had wrestled it from the bum and kept it). Upon winning, I suddenly found myself far more popular. A strange woman claimed she lived with me. Following the prudent course, I ran for the door, but suddenly found myself in some sort of hippy back room where a singer-type was warbling at a melange of booze hounds. Clearly, I had gone the wrong direction in my haste. Dodging through the crowd as best I could I scurried back the way I’d come. Strange women in sloppy dress and boots that were fashionable in a time when I was considerably more virile consistently tried to direct me into their booths and “help” me. Harlots! Upon making it to the door, I saw McCarren Park to my left and made a run for it. Eventually, I took refuge somewhere in Greenpoint under the porch of an older Polish couple where I spent the night. Obviously, I will be back for bingo again next week.

When I think of the Galapagos art/performance/asymetrical haircut showcase/drinking space, squaredancing does not generally enter into the mental picture. I was, therefore, intensely curious about what I’d find. Upon arriving, I had to squeeze through smoking hipsters outside, then navigate my way through the barely legal art school kids watching the kind of band you would normally expect to see in a place like Galapagos (electro vagina rock?) and finally made it to the back room where the squaredancing is held.

Opening the door, in the center of the room a cultish circle of oddballs holding hands and on stage an extremely mellow looking quartet of pickers greeted me as I entered (literally! everyone said hi). Chugging half my PBR in one go as the bizarre beats from next door pulsed in the background, I thought maybe I’d made a mistake on this one. I could not have been more wrong. Within about 15 minutes I’d become a full-fledged member of the hand-holding cult and can honestly say that I had THE MOST FUN dancing that I’ve had in at least a decade. If my junior high gym teacher is reading, I’m sorry, you were right, those awkward weeks we spent learning to square dance did finally come in handy. Thank you gym teacher.

Easier than hopping on my old ten-speed, I was alamand-lefting and do-si-doing like an old pro within about ten mintues. The incredibly kind, talented, and patient members of the band walked us through each dance in slow motion, then sat back and twanged with glee as we rocketed through each dance at full speed. After only a couple dances, we’d worked up a bit of a sweat and were giggling like best friends at 3am at a 12th grade slumber party (or at least, this is how I imagine it would have been if I’d ever gotten invited to one). I’m not sure why, but tripping over myself, kicking my partner’s shoe into the next room, and totally messing up the grand ol’ right and left just made it that much more fun. Did I look like a jackass? Probably. But, I met some cute girls, heard some good music, drank some cold beer, and for the first time that I can remember, really did dance like I didn’t care who was looking.

I highly recommend this event to anyone that doesn’t take themselves too seriously and has the huevos to make it through the hipster gauntlet when getting in.

According to its organizers, the lovely ladies of Cudzoo, The Bad Art Party was created with the intention of celebrating

1.”human creativity in its most unacceptable and morally objectionable forms”

and

2. “the art we pour our hearts into, only to realize it sucks.”

In my opinion, they succeeded at the first but could have upped the gasp factor, and should be commended for making an attempt at the second. I came expecting odd-ball folk artists displaying the kind of art you’d maybe find for sale in a lonely strip-mall hallway kiosk somewhere in middle America. What I found was that most of the art on display was intentionally awful, and mostly hilarious.

Rather than celebrating creative fuck-ups, it felt more like a reclamation of the way we experience art by demystifying it through blatant irreverence, heavy drinking, and a warm embrace for all who came through the door. If you’re like me, you’d rather hold your loved one under the covers while farting than spend an excrutiating night holding in your discomfort in the name of decorum. In much the same way, it just feels healthier to boo an artist (encouraged at this event) for her mediocrity rather than hold your breath at a fancy exhibition of garbage (literally) for fear of your own stupidity (imagined or real) leaking out (like so much methane).

If you’re still with me after that simile, I salute you and encourage you to keep an eye out for future events sponsored by Cudzoo.

If said ladies are reading, however, what was with the pop music and TVs playing sports? Are there no bad video artists? I mean, are there any video artists that are not bad? Or, not not bad? Is there no awesomely bad music in the world? The competing media was confusing, and at one point I thought I overheard the bar regulars discussing mutiny.

In the general spirit of the evening, I give you my final summary: BOOO. Go back to art school you losers (I kid!).