By Jena Ardell
By Jon Campbell
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Tessa Stuart
By Roy Edroso
By Jon Campbell
By Albert Samaha
By Zachary D. Roberts
Everyone wants to relive high school, just as long as they are better-looking, more popular, and richer than they used to be. This might explain the sudden rash of "prom" parties around town: The Misshapes promoters threw one at Luke & Leroy a few weeks ago, THEO and MICHAEL T played on the theme at their Rated X weekly at Opaline, and then Spin's ULTRAGRRRL hosted last Thursday's Making Out With Ultragrrrl party at Rothko, featuring her fave new band, THE KILLERS.
She loves the Killers so much she flew to London when they played five successive shows. Wearing a black tulle prom dress she made herself at Rothko, Ultra batted her eyes and said innocently, "They make me wanna run down the street naked." And the Killers apparently love Miss Ultra right back. They canceled an ooh-là-là trip to Paris so they could play for their Number One Fan, just so long as she doesn't go ANNIE WILKES on them.
Outfit-wise, tackier was always better: The men chose the ugliest ruffled tuxedo shirts, and girls opted for those horrible satin things. Big balloons floated on the ceiling, and from a distance, the whole thing was total realness, until you glimpsed that some girls sported mohawks. (You can guess who came as the prom queentiara, rhinestones, and all.)
In keeping with the high school reunion theme, it was Village Voice Alumni Appreciation Week with FRANK OWEN and NELSON GEORGEboth celebrating projects in other media. Owen, who I used to intern for (duties included fetching drinks at the bar and transcribing a four-hour interview with a gay-prostitute FBI snitch), read at Plaid from his book Clubland, which was just released in trade paperback. Owen retold a story from the days when nightlife was glamorous and seedy and crazy and actually interesting, and club promoters murdered drug dealers. That part sort of sucked. KENNY KENNY, the ubiquitous '90s door diva, was on hand, as were manager PEGGY MILLARD, Generation Ecstasyauthor SIMON REYNOLDS, and publicist CLAIRE O'CONNOR.
As Owen read from the chapter describing MICHAEL ALIG and FREEZE's murder of ANGEL MELENDEZ, Millard and O'Connor were collapsed in a heap on the couch . . . laughing? It wasn't quite clear how a tale about Alig dismembering a dead man who'd been filled with Drano was so funny. But Millard explained, "We were all there. We knew these people. And it's the only way to deal with such a sick thing," adding that she still lives in the building where the murder took place. O'Connor herself takes the blame for Alig's ability to get an apartment in the fancy building, as she was the one who convinced the real estate agent to rent to him. Whoops!
The reading was held at PATRICK MCMULLAN's new weekly party, Club Reality, so named because the photographer is filming Plaid's employees as part of a proposed reality show (think The Restaurant, but set in a nightclub). He explained he was filming the employees, not the patrons, because unbeknownst to most people, nightclub employees aren't aspiring bartenders, but aspiring artists. McMullan, who never goes anywhere without a camera or three, was still working out the kinksapparently the loudness of a nightclub makes filming difficult: a big problem, especially if you are the DJ, ANDY ANDERSON.
Nelson George, as the film's executive producer, worked out all the kinks for Everyday People, an HBO movie about the potential sale of a fictional Brooklyn diner. It touches on that prickly area of divisiveness between working-class African Americans and upper-class African Americans and includes so many cameos from the CHOCOLATE GENIUSthat the audience started snickering by his fourth appearance. Cavorting at the after-party, held at Marquee, were cast members including scene stealer VERNA HOBSON, whose aging sexpot characterwearing a 1960s blue getup with blue eyeshadow to matchlooked like she's always ready for her high school prom. I gave Nelson a nudge about the irony of holding a party for a movie about class tension at such a high-end joint, to which he replied, "All the diners were booked," and grinned widely.