Hair Triggers

It was to be the night of a thousand Peaches, but in the end there was only one. And boy, was she lookin' good. DJ Christine Renee, bravely donning a beard à la the Mulleted One's Fatherfucker album cover, found herself the sole contestant for last Wednesday's Peaches look-alike contest at the Coral Room for Skindive.

"You lame West Side motherfuckers!" chided host Misstress Formika, looking like a two-bit whore in a bright pink mini with lipstick that matched perfectly. Instead, she informed the crowd, they'd be hosting a hairy muff contest. It was an appropriate substitute, since Peaches proudly flaunts her unshaved nether regions. The crowd, however, was a bit miffed at showing their muffs. In the end, a gay boy, a couple of drag queens, and one girl got up to present their pubes to Misstress, who voted the gay boy the winner of a bunch of Peaches swag.

Misstress shoulda known that no self-respecting New York female goes without the Brazilian, duh! Speaking of beards, a few guys decided that they were tired of their five o'clock shadows and stood in line for a straight-razor shave courtesy of the heavily tattooed Shorty the Barber—who was my roommate 10 years ago in Seattle when he was still called Shane and dressed like a goth boy. I had no idea Shane would be wielding the blade that night, and I lied to one guy waiting for a cleanup that he was in good hands. (Sike!) I asked another victim why he was getting a shave when he could be ogling the night's mermaid, burlesque babe Julie Atlas Muz, instead. "It seemed like a good idea at the time," he said.

From Left: Misstress Formika and Christine Renee are not lame West Side motherfuckers.
photo: Tricia Romano
From Left: Misstress Formika and Christine Renee are not lame West Side motherfuckers.

And that was just one part of my evening. Earlier, I had trotted down to Niagara in the East Village for Marc Spitz's book release party. His first novel, How Soon Is Never?, out on Three Rivers Press, is a sweet tale about a young boy coming of age, loving the Smiths, growing up and becoming a rock writer, falling out of love with music (thanks to the music industry), and attempting to revive his passion via the Moz. In keeping with the Smiths theme, the night's DJ, Ultragrrrl, wore a tight Smiths T-shirt over her bodacious ta-tas, and played plenty of Smiths tunes.

The press release accurately calls Spitz's book "thinly veiled": The main protagonist, Joe Green, is constantly getting referenced to footballer Mean Joe Green, just as the writer is constantly asked if he won seven gold medals in swimming at the 1972 Munich Olympics. The book has lots of references to life as we know it—mentions of Interpol and the East Village hangout the Library are sprinkled throughout.

Spitz, who was dressed like a rock star (sunglasses at night, velvet suit-jacket, constant cigarette dangling from mouth), wasn't experiencing jitters, except he was a little nervous about the impending arrival of his mom. She showed up shortly afterward, much more svelte and stylish than I had anticipated. I asked her if Marc was indeed as bad a teenager as the book implies, and she said, "Oh no, the book is way tamer." She didn't seem bothered by many of the incriminating details in the novel, but said, "The amount of alcohol that was consumed made me nauseated." Was consumed? I neglected to let mom in on the secret that Mr. Spitz's alcohol consumption hasn't slowed in recent years. Oh, yeah. It's a novel.

Also at the party, but not looking as svelte as his mom, was Chloë Sevigny, who I actually think is cute and crushworthy. But I told Marc not to introduce us, seeing as how she'd probably beat me up for making fun of her brother's band A.R.E. Weapons, who are supposedly under the impression that I've put a hit out on them. Ms. Sevigny also has a thinly veiled bit in How Soon Is Never?.

Outside, in the smokers' area where seemingly two-thirds of the party had converged, I overheard the words "Mariah Carey" and "breasts spilling out of dress." The speaker was relaying the tale of a lunch date with Miss Carey at the Soho Grand over a potential book deal. It seems that the diva wants to tell her story for her "little lambs." (Normal stars call these people fans.) The book agent said Carey was incredibly nice and much more articulate than she'd expected; it was just the lamb business she found troubling. Thankfully, Carey won't be writing a children's book like that other diva, Madonna. If she does, we have a title: Mariah Had a Little Lamb. Oy vey.


tromano@villagevoice.com">tromano@villagevoice.com

 
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