The Slipper Room is Open For Metal

The Slipper Room circa 2006; photo stolen from Flickr user CocteauBoy

Everyone who visited the Slipper Room had a good time. When it opened in 1999, the Lower East Side lounge was on the forefront of the burlesque movement long before it became a "thing." Over the years, I attended some pretty ridiculous blowout birthday parties and private industry events there—not to mention one lesbian bachelorette party during which a striptease dancer performed a stunning interpretation of her infatuation with a Mr. Potatohead figure.

But it was really more than just burlesque; the Slipper Room also featured fringe comedy, all sorts of acts that could fit under the "variety" banner—with a fine overlap of the Coney Island Circus Sideshow demographic. It also didn't hurt that I was friendly with the bartenders and we shared close friends who I'd meet there often, so on any ol' Friday night, you could find me on Orchard St. drowning my frustrations in vodka sodas and pasties between puppet acts. Good goddamn times.

Those fond memories were muddled when I passed by the location recently (Slipper Room shut down in 2010) to find that the building had been demolished and a new structure built. That is until a press release came through my inbox announcing a new two-story Slipper Room space at the same address, promising to be one of the only prospective new venues for live music in Manhattan.

The part that really perked up my ears?

"The Slipper Room will feature a wildly diverse range of weekly and monthly acts, including four weekly variety shows produced by co-owner James Habacker with top performers from around the world, accompanied by a live band each night. The line-up will be bolstered by the expanded role of co-owner and music entrepreneur Peter Shapiro (Brooklyn Bowl, Wetlands, Capitol Theater), who will curate an exciting lineup of musical artists, from rockabilly to heavy metal."

No shows are currently listed on the Slipper Room's site, though it wouldn't be surprising if a few CMJ shows were booked there. And as excited as it was to read about an installation of new fly rigs for acrobats in the space—as well as a new sound system—I hope it doesn't automatically make all the drinks cost $15.

For more on the Slipper Room, hit up their site.

Give My Regards to Brodaway

Here's more proof that no one gives a shit about New York's G Train (ie: the Ghost train). Apparently when the G/Broadway stop in Brooklyn was being remodeled, no one notice that they spelled the name of the station wrong on one of the tiles. In that person's defense, when you say "Brod-a-way" quickly, it does sound the way half the accented people in the city pronounce it. Just sayin'...

For more on the story, click HERE.

Boy Toucher In The 'Hood (Who's Not Me)

OK, this really isn't THAT funny of a story... but I admit that the proximity of this story to my home—as well as my own reputation as a Cougar Cub—made me chuckle.

What is true: provided that they're not psychologically scarred, these boys will be PAYING strippers to behave this way in a few short years.

All Hallows Weekend

Halloween weekend has come and gone, and while my mood was less merry going into this year's holiday than the past few (not to mention how disjointed it was! I didn't even get to meet up with Jimmy, Amanda, Nelson, Heidi nor Bunche), I still put on my black DVF dress, a red power jacket and the finest evil clown makeup CVS had to offer in order to become a mash-up of this year's most cliched costumes: Sarah Palin and Heath Ledger's Joker. Sarah Palin is a bigger joke than 911 could ever be, after all.



For what I missed in quality I made up for in quantity, burning up plenty of cardio points by criss-crossing the Lower East Side on foot with Tessa. After meeting up on Houston St., where my friend Dannielle graciously coifed my hair into a Palin-esque up-do, we hoofed over to Sixth Avenue to catch a brief glimpse of the Halloween Village Parade that started over a half hour prior. Tessa, who is visiting from Atlanta, borrowed some props from me for her costume, and though she originally planned to be the Twitter mascot, we soon determined her long blonde wig and aqua-blue sequined Betsey Johnson bolero worked best as "Typical Halloween Slut," which did shockingly well in inspiring guys everywhere to high-five her over her choice.

Though I was tempted to stop applying makeup after I'd given myself "black metal" dark blue-shadowed eyes, I found an obscene little joy in applying red lipstick so far outside the intended lines. I also soon learned that guys want to hate-fuck clowns as much as they do Sarah Palin. Even as early as 9 pm, I started getting hit on by guys who wanted me to "earn" their votes.

We soon got word that friends were hanging out on Avenue C, but by the time we got to Second Ave and St. Mark's, it was decided that a stop at San Loco was in order; both to line my stomach with a catfish taco loco in preparation of absorbing copious amounts of whiskey, but also to use their bathroom to adjust makeup and take creepy photos. On our way in, I witnessed my favorite moment of the night: a 40-something-year-old man sitting in a parked Mercedes doing a Whippit out his open window.

"Was he just doing what I think he was?" I ask Tessa.

"Yes! I didn't think people even did Whippits anymore," she answered, somewhat mystified.

When we left the restaurant more than 20 minutes later, he was still sitting in his Benz, laughing his ass off at the Super Marios, sexy Wizard of Oz Dorothys, and even sluttier pirates walking by. He even gave my outfit a thumbs up! But no hit off the canister. Oh well. He could've been sugar-daddy material.

Soon our craving for whiskey got the best of us and we settled for Jack and Gingers at Doc Holliday's where the adorable bartenders were decked out as different incarnations of Dolly Parton. By the time we finally made it to Ave C, we'd seen some elaborate Tetris get-ups, more sexy pirates and some very played-out Amy Winehouses before meeting up with some Star Wars characters, a faux American and some other guy with a beard at 40C. In retrospect, we should have stayed with the pub crawlers instead of heading to Williamsburg for a party, but even that journey turned into a fun ride.

Despite the fact that we were on a train full of costumed hipsters (including a pretty awesome Beavis & Butthead couple), for some reason I was the one targeted for a quick one-on-one interview with a Katie Couric acolyte. At this point, however, I'd been consulting with my media advisor, Jack Daniel, so I was able to make it through the interview in character and even announced my next children's names were going to be "Pre-Cal" for a boy, and "Dander" if it's a girl. Dander Palin, it totally sounds right.

Though the Williamsburg party was definitely happening, it was maybe too happening, so we didnt stick around long. We decided to rejoin the pub crawl, which had now moved its way up to Avenue A. On our way back to the L, I saw my favorite costume of the night from afar.

"Hey! Are you an asshole?" I shout at the stranger. Tessa, shocked, had no idea I was asking if the guy was dressed as Kurt Vonnegut's famous anal sketch. And he was! With that happy coincidence, it was time to head back to Manhattan. It was on the way back that I got the most Palin rage. "Where's your retarded baby?" asked the drunk jerk at the Bedford stop. "Don't you hunt wolves?"

"Umm, that's moose! You betcha!" I yelled back, trying not to get too confrontational over someone I'm clearly, well, clowning.

Four more drinks, two bars and a risque photo op with a Bill Clinton later, my feet let me know it was time to call it a night. Only 363 more days to perfect next year's costume! I'm thinking either Ville Valo or "sexy" air traffic controller.

CMJ: Days 4 & 5

Holy crap, my ears are still ringing.

Instead of launching on a Wednesday as it usually does, CMJ started on a Tuesday this year (thereby shifting the annual Conflict of Interest party to Monday) and the total amount of party nights topped off at six. Oy! Seriously, unless it's shopping with someone else's money, I don't think I want to do anything for six days straight. That said, here are the highlights from the last two days of CMJ Music Marathon 2008.

On Friday, I decided to start the night off with some decidedly non-CMJ activities. Specifically, I attended The Happy Corp's Oval Office Happy Hour at Niagra, which offered $1 Dewars specials and a chance to pose for a "presidential portrait." I was strapped into a straightjacket-like contraption that suddenly dressed me in a blazer, dress shirt and tie, and I did my best "Metal President" pose. Look forward to seeing that up here soon.

After that, I walked over to the Heavy Hitter showcase to see Arsonists Get All The Girls and their big draw, I Wrestled A Bear Once. The former provided some stellar math rock and gave my ATL indie-rock homeboy, Aaron "B-Man" Byrd, his first mosh pit encounter. For someone who almost got kicked in the face with a kung-fu roundhouse, he seemed pretty into it. Which is more than either of us could say for ...Bear. In fact, I think the name may have actually referred to the group's singer. She looked pretty tough.

From there, it was off to see Dungen, the Swedish psychedelic lounge band—who perform entirely in Swedish—at the Music Hall of Williamburg. For some, hearing non-English singing may seem distracting, but to my humble, worn-out ears, the mellow vocals served as just another instrument keeping time with the electric piano, guitars, tambourine and occasional flute (yes, really). For all I know, they could have been singing "Kill the Jews" (I doubt they were), but I'd still be into it. And I wasn't alone, the packed house did their best Deadhead dance-offs in response to melodic tracks from Ta Det Lugnt and Tio Bitar, but went completely apeshit when Dungen started playing "Panda." Though I thought about staying for Cheeseburger, the show ran late and I wanted to get back to money-makin' Manhattan (can we still call it that now that the economy is fucked?).



As much as I wanted to sleep in on rainy Saturday, I had to will myself into putting on makeup in time for The Syndicate's metal happy hour at Fontana's, which started at 3 pm. It's a good thing the V2 vodka sponsoring the event contained taurine and caffeine (not to mention sweet, sweet alcohol), otherwise I wouldn't have been able to last the day. The musical entertainment started off with ex-Life of Agony drummer Sal Abruscato's new band, My Mortality. Pretty decent hard rock that could easily be the opening act for Daughtry—and I don't mean that as a diss. I regrettably missed Warship and all the subsequent acts to catch Made Out of Babies and Wetnurse at Crash Mansion.



I have no idea what was up with MOOB's singer, Julie Christmas... maybe she was cycling, or pissed off that she had to play the douche mecca—or even that her openers, Patent Pending, sounded like a shitty version of old Murder 1 (or Mucky Pup, holler!), but punctuating their intense, short set were rants like "I was really hoping you'd all leave by now," and the set closer "Go fuck yourselves... no really!" Damn, girl.



I only stayed a little while longer to see Wetnurse before heading uptown to what I thought would be the perfect climax to CMJ: my beloved Duke Spirit at Irving Plaza. Unfortunately, because headliners Scars on Broadway managed to break up already, the show was cancelled and we were left uninformed. Imagine my dismay when arriving at the venue only to see the place shuttered: EPIC FAIL! Sure, I had enough time to cab it back to Fontana's to see God Forbid and Darkest Hour, but hunger and exhaustion took over and eventually led me on autopilot to my apartment.

Somehow, I managed to get though the entire week without seeing any bands with the word "Crystal" in their moniker, nor did I attend any gifting suites. Oh well... there's always next year. Thank you, and goodnight.

The Hunger

Like PJ Harvey sang on "Maniac," I need a man. It's getting bad, too. I think I realized things were getting desperate when I dubbed the now-familiar Hare Krishna guy I constantly see at the Union Sq. station, "the cute one." I might've actually blown him a kiss the other day. There he was, passively trying to sell books on karma and vegetarian living, all the while getting sadly shown up by those damn Scientologists and their bullshit free stress tests.

Then there are those times I catch myself browsing at craigslist's "Casual Encounters" section. Though I don't think I could ever go through with meeting a total stranger for the express purpose of extracting orgasm, it's nice to catalog shop through the various peen photos. Incidentally, I think all social-networking sites should adapt this policy of showing dudes' cocks because there are few things more frustrating than groping some guy's package on a third date only to realize the situation down below is shrimpy at best.

How did it get to this point? Good question. Besides the fact that grieving, unemployment and moving probably aren't aphrodisiacs, I am one picky motherfucker. And I scare boys easily. I guess I can't do shit about the latter. Hell, even Candace Bushnell wound up marrying a goddamn ballet dancer. Seriously, I can't hide my ability to out-curse, out-reference obscure metal bands and outnumber the amount of vintage Voltron sets the average Joe Six-Pack owns (and for the record, I own three complete Voltrons, including one that came with mini action figures of all five pilots). All at my own detriment.

So what's a girl to do? Fuck, if I knew, I'd probably be getting some sexy time right now instead of staring at html on a laptop screen. Got suggestions? Holler... Or send pics.

Dating Don'ts: Half-Ass vs. Dumb-Ass

I am about as far away from a "Rules" girl as you can get, but I'm still a believer that men should be the ones to approach us and initiate courtship. Not too hard, because desperate guys never have a chance with me. But c'mon, show me something that'll convince me to date and/or go home with you. Recently, I've come across two VERY different approaches dudes used. Both failed. Behold the scenarios:

CASE 1: Not Aggressive Enough

DUDE BREAKDOWN: I'd definitely date him under the right circumstances, but I never quite got any signals he was into me, until...

[Reminiscing about the last time we met socially]

"So, umm, last time we hung out, did I hit on you?"

"No..."

"Good, because when I hit on you, I definitely want to be sober."

That was it. Did dude proceed to take the initiative and hit on me at that point? No. WTF? Maybe he'd prefer that my assistant call his astrologer to figure out the perfect time when Capricorn was crossing Uranus for this cosmic event to occur.

He did, however, ask me to marry him the next (drunken) time I saw him.

RESULT: Bummer for him, because there's something about him I like. I guess I'll just have to console myself with these nude pix my model ex-boyfriend keeps sending me. Eleven hundred miles and lots of memories of getting it good from me still has him craving more. Not braggin', just sayin'.




CASE 2: Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

DUDE BREAKDOWN: Like En Vogue, he's never gonna get it.

Around the same time, I bumped into an acquaintance of an acquaintance who started hitting on me hardcore, obnoxiously and unabashedly. And in shitty, Game-like manipulative ways. First, he tried to get me to open up about Erlene's passing. Cheap way to get a girl to lean on your shoulder, eh? When that didn't work, he tried to get me drunk, encouraging me to drink whiskey from a bottle. Shit, I'm surprised dude didn't "neg" me. He might've, but I probably blocked it out because his obnoxiousness only encouraged me to get closer to my real boo, Jack Daniel.

Finally, he got down to the point:

"You're coming home with me."

"What?"

"C'mon, I live on the Upper West Side. Let's go."

Was he kidding me? Did he REALLY think I'd drop everything and go make sexy time with him? With no work put forth? Funny, he didn't look like he had a million bucks in a bank, nor were his pants bulging enough to reveal a trouser monster—if I get my choice at Subway, it's always going to be the foot-long. I've had Horsecock, and you, sir, are no horsecock.

RESULT: I ditched the party like I was Keyser Soze. After describing the night to a mutual friend, I was told Bachelor #2 had once also told a woman that he wanted to "penetrate" her to her face after just meeting her. If drinks weren't so damn expensive, I wouldn't have blamed her for throwing one in his face. Hope he's happy on the UWS with his hand. What Would Mystery Do?

So what's my point in all this? Not sure. Maybe I'm still reeling from these two polar extremes. Maybe I'm like Goldilocks, who needs to get hit on just right. Or maybe I'm just like my mother, she's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? Probably because we're too dysfunctional to get laid.

New York Tenement Blues

I'm not even going to lie about it: There is absolutely nothing sexy about tenement living. It's taken me nearly a week to free up enough space in my Manhattan studio to lay my mattress down horizontally, making this past Wednesday the very first time in damn near a month that I was able to finally sleep in my own bed. I think I'm ready to tour with Cirque de Soleil as a contortionist after slithering my way around all the stacked boxes and oversized Atlanta furniture.

But the place is coming along, slowly but surely. I have my Internet working, scored a new fridge from my building management, and *hopefully* by tonight I'll be able to catch up with Project Runway (no spoilers!). Even had a cute delivery man help me move furniture.

Otherwise, I've been keeping busy trying to overthrow world media (yes, again). Finished writing some riveting liner notes for a Wu-Tang Clan DVD, attended my first cable TV pitch meeting today and took a call about another really cool, creative project I might just get involved with. Had lunch with a fellow Super Deluxe refugee the other day, while sadly missing another one passing through town. Hopefully there will be plenty of time to see everyone, both local and visiting. 

It's also been a really Erlene-heavy day. It's really hard not to think of her all the time anyway, but today was particularly intense. As I was organizing my stuff, I found the two items I'd taken to remember her by: her Burberry scarf and the weird little "Graffiti Wars" painting she had displayed in her cube. That, and staring at the shelf unit we assembled together one drunken, hazy night in my Atl apt. has been hard. I still can't believe she won't be coming to stay here with me.

So yeah, living in a tiny-ass apartment—albeit one that's rent stabilized and in an awesome neighborhood—kinda sucks. But when I walk outside and feel the NYC energy buzzing through the air, and see all the gorgeous women dressed to kill at all times, it inspires me; it makes me happy. It makes me feel like I'm home.

"Dude, I Woke Up in Jersey This Morning."

What other excuse could I have given my pal, Dean Haspiel? I'd been invited to Brooklyn Social last night, but wasn't fully aware that it was to celebrate Dean's new Web comic for Zuda, called Street Code. So belated congrats (again!). And it's true, I did wake up in Jersey City yesterday. No, it wasn't some slumming booty call. I was at the infamous DC's to party with my Austin-based best friend, Merilee 666, who was in town for her birthday. It was great finally seeing her, though I was disappointed I wasn't able to hang at her mom's palatial Jersey Shore house. Those deep-fried Oreos will have to wait another season.

It's been a rough couple of weeks. After a succession of blue-collar professionals upgraded my little Manhattan apartment all last week, my furniture was FINALLY delivered from Georgia by two shining examples of why I'm not all that sad about leaving the South. According to the truck scale, I have 4,550 pounds worth of stuff. Ever wondered what that looks like in a space that's roughly 325 square feet? Wonder no more:



Needless to say, I'm still not able to actually live there, and it'll probably be at least until Monday before I'm able to make enough space to fit my bed in horizontally. Fun times, indeed. At least I have air conditioning, and my beautiful Plasma TV seems to have made it OK. Anyone willing to help me move around some light furniture early next week? Holler.

Can't wait to be settled in so I can focus on looking for my next full-time gig. Want to know how bad the economy is? The other day, a tall milky-white redheaded young woman asked me for money in the subway station. When redheaded White people are begging for money, you know we're in shit shape as a nation.

On that note... time to write about the Wu. Let's see how many Voltron references I can slip in.