"This holiday season remember don't drink and drive, use a condom and buy me presents or else I'll cut you out of pictures just like I did to this fool next to me!"
Why go out when we are about to embark upon the season of a Christmas Story? As the weather demands more layers I am less than willing to trade devouring my copy of Chuck Palahniuk's latest masterpiece, Haunted, for gallivanting. Even in the midst of my lackadaisical hibernation I have managed to wrangle up some tasty tales for you to savor along side them Thanksgivin' left overs!
There are few things I enjoy more than a big fat helping of nostalgia. Lately I've been listening to my New Kids on the Block cassettes and watching Saved by the Bell re-runs whilst getting ready for work. It seems the older I get the stronger my urge to time travel. My love for Zack Morris led me straight to the East Village. Skeptical yet intrigued I moseyed down to the seedy yet charming Apocalypse Lounge (189 East 3rd St.) for Bayside! The Unmusical! According to the hilarious Kinko's xerox playbill BS was written by Herpes Mc Love Bug a notoriously fowl mouthed kitten. The whole show is scored by the shoestring Punk-Junk duo Skirt Steak and the English Mufkins. This Saved by the Bell Parody has it all sex, drugs, teen pregnancy, homoeroticism and a child molestation monologue involving a unicorn by Screech that will leave you convulsing with schizophrenic laughter for days.
When I found out Adrian Grenier (Entourage) was the Drummer for the Honey Brothers I immediately purchased tickets and my equivalent of a red carpet getup. The Bowery Ballroom (6 Delancey St.) was buzzing with gaggles of ladies sporting asymmetrical hair-do's and cowboy boots. They swarmed without making contact, as Adrian stood among them in khaki trousers and a pale blue button down oxford. After two mediocre opening bands the HB graced us with their sweet lullabies. The lachrymose audience seemed to be brought to estrogen induced tears by their maudlin melodies. Much to my vertically challenged disillusion there was an eight-foot tall America's Next Top Model reject impeding my view. In her effort to make eyes at a man who would not clear her nipples (yes, ladies the man is a dwarf) she managed to soil herself in beer leaving me with a clear view of Mr. Grenier. Girls hollered, sang along pretending to know the lyrics and even encouraged and encore. Even in his tube socks, Addidas track pants and plastic green visor little Adrian's puppy dog glances were enough to drive this girl crazy.
It's hard to believe that the same Webster Hall (125 11th St.) prominent for house music and candy flipping is now booking such acts as the Brechtian punk cabaret duo The Dresden Dolls. I took my time sipping $3 Stella's at my new favorite dive tavern Bar None (98 3rd Ave.) to get a nice buzz on before entering the land of eight-dollar drinks. It was tough getting to the front of the stage especially since I had not dressed GOTHY enough to invoke any sympathy from a crowd in massively overbearing platforms. My checkered Vans were in the truest sense coming' up short. Lucky for me a vixen in mo-hawk and naughty nurse outfit let me stand in front of her and even elbowed a few wing sporting jerk-off's that were behaving nothing like angels. Amanda Palmer rocked the piano in her stripped tights so hard I was ridden with goose pumps and not at all concerned with the fact that some drunk Crow lovin' freak sitting up in the balcony had spilled his beer all over me. Unfortunately, by the time Ms. Palmer got to the heart wrenching cover of Bright Eyes' Lua she was so wasted on Heineken that I forgot I was watching one of my favorite bands. It turns out the girl in the nurses outfit was the drummers 14 year old sister and when I met up with her and her girlfriend (apparently 14 is not too young to know you're a lesbian). She introduced me to her big brother Brian Viglione who pressed his sweaty torso against me in a smothering hug. Before I headed out to start my night I went up to the once coffee house loitering, Wesleyan student now turned maniacal tutu wearing, supposed cutter Amanda Palmer and was disappointed by her dismissing attitude towards my adoration. She nodded a half-assed thank you at me as if I were a tedious annoyance rather than a fan who not only purchased both of their albums but also paid $20 to watch her get rip roaring' drunk, fowl up lyrics and not even play the "Jeep" song. Apparently, she doesn't give a shit about how she is perceived by fans. Oh, how Punk Rock Ivy League of her!
The new album Dark Light by Finnish-Love-Metal rockers, HIM has been in constant rotation in my ipod-less (hint, hint faithful fans!) world since its release. So on with the heavy Mac eyeliner and fingerless gloves and off to the Hammerstein Ballroom (311 34th St.) we go. I never turn down tickets especially when it involves the delicious Ville Valo. It doesn't hurt that his BFF is faithful concertgoer Bam Margera with whom we shared a balcony. Ah, Sagittarius and Libra's are like two attention hungry peas in a pod much like my best friend Angela Lovell and I (go read your Whorescopes, Fools!) The venue was packed to the balconies with fresh Heartagram branded fanatics. The boys jostled their manic depressive fans with new tunes and old Satan conjuring classics involving sacraments, tombs and vampires. This time Vallo opted for O'Doul's non-alcoholic beer and spoke very little between sets. It would be no surprise if Ville were cleaning up his act after the debacle that ensued the last time they played NYC. Sadly, there were no after show shenanigans for me. After all what could top waking up next to Bam and Ville in your underpants? Buy the record, go see this band but remember a tattoo much like herpes is forever.
Sometimes a girl needs to lay low. I found the perfect smoky spot to do just that. Karma (51 First Avenue) is warmly lit and less populated than most of the other saturated bars in this neighborhood. They serve yummy Indian cuisine and the plush velvet couch facing first avenue is perfect for making a move on that Lower East Side hottie you've been dieing to fondle. The drinks are a bit on steep side but who cares you can smoke and it's getting cold!
I love rubbing elbows with rock n roll royalty but not as much as I love doing shots with Punk Rock Infamy! There's only one band that always leaves me half deaf, half dressed and thirsty for more. I'm talking about New York City's number one dirty threesome, The Sex Slaves. My night took a turn for the surreal when I trudged down to Arlene's Grocery (95 Stanton St.) for a sexually charged night of Mondo Porno. The band's performance was a mess of Jack Daniel's, not so subtle sexual innuendos and scantly clad party girls rushing the stage. The show was a degree above incendiary. The Slaves burned through their entire new record Bite Your Tongue and left us smoldering in their wake. After a night of debauchery at it's finest I'm lucky all I ended up losing was my favorite Alkaline Trio hoodie. Be sure to mark your calendars because I'll be ringing in the New Year with the Sex Slaves and many more at Trash Bar (256 Grand St.) in Williamsburg!
This year while you are returning all those gifts that make you wonder if your family has indeed confused you with an over-sized alien I will be nestling into my new digs. After twelve months of parties, celebrity encounters and ceaseless couch surfing I have finally found a proper home! My days of packing over night bags and hoping my hosts do not have pets are over. That my friends is better than a Red Rider Bee Bee Gun though not as a sweet as onesy bunny suit but let's face it, few things are.