By Matt Caputo
By Devon Maloney
By Chris Chafin
By Village Voice
By Katie Moulton
By Hilary Hughes
By Gili Malinsky
By Bob Ruggiero
The trend of nightclubs turning into hotelsand hotels taking the place of nightclubscontinues. Glo, the new meatpacking district spot that opened last Tuesday in the old Powder space after a supposed $5 million renovation, now looks like a tacky Miami art deco hotel. The white walls with Jetson curves would have been cool were it not for the carpeting (who has carpeting?) and the impression a bellhop would appear at any moment. Instead, waiters arrived toting oddly shaped metal trays lit up with multicolored bulbs (it's called Glo, so everything has to glow, get it?). Even more disturbing than the mostly vile hors d'oeuvres were the little video screens flashing advertising in the middle of each tray. You can thank catering company Allure for this new development, which will allow event sponsors to pitch you as you pick up your drinks. It was a little too close to Minority Reportfor comfort.
To be fair, the party organizers had the good sense to hire a lot of half-naked women dressed in Vegas showgirl costumes and Day-Glo plumes to distract the patrons. Unfortunately, I missed sword swallower NATASHA, who is in the Guinness Book of World Records, but a performance by our favorite hula hooper (OK, we don't know of any other hula hoopers), SATURNZ RETURNS, almost made up for the two lost hours of my life. She was helped along by a completely unrecognizable, out-of-drag MISS UNDERSTOOD. Of course, now that I've said all this, one of my favorite publicists, CLAIRE O'CONNOR, who reps for the spot, is probably never gonna speak to me again.
The next night, I nourished my underfed soul with good music, courtesy of SWAYZAK, at the Canal Room. All the usual techno suspects were there, including an ever dapper JOHN SELWAY, an increasingly neurotic ULYSSES, and our doppelgänger at Time Out, BRUCE TANTUM (we may not look alike but we sport the same bad attitude). As what's left of my hearing suffered from the badly EQ'ed sound system, I begged Halcyon's SHAWN SCHWARTZto please, please, please open a proper venue. Unfortunately, considering that after six years as an entrepreneur, he just got business cards made up, we won't be getting Halcyon the Club anytime soon.
Also hanging out was PETER WOHELSKI, who revealed that his longtime lady, LYNNE SULTAN, just threw her son, BRADLEY WEINSTEIN, a bar mitzvah. Who cares, you ask? Well, Bradley's bar mitzvah was better than yours, or anyone else you know, because at his party, MR. C(formerly the SHAMEN, currently The End's tech-house auteur) spun a featured acid-house set, alternating with another DJ who played more typical fare. And he even made a special mix CD to give to the kids. Some techno-heads were in attendance, including MATTER:/FORM's ELAN ACKERMAN and DJ THREE, to witness Mr. C play for a bunch of 12-year-olds. Afterward, he played for a (barely) more mature audience at the Sullivan Room.
Burlesque babe JULIE ATLAS MUZ is one tough broad. At one of the performances of her experimental dance show at P.S.122, I Am the Moon and You Are the Man on Me, she cracked her head on a pillar and later needed seven stitches. But during the show, attended by her Polish-Ukrainian mother, she had no idea how badly she'd hurt herself until the end, when she spreads white paint on her nude body. "I looked at my hands, and they were covered in blood. I finished the show punk rock-style," she says proudly. Before the performance, her mom had admonished her for the part when Muz places the stars 'n' stripes in her most private parts. "Why do you have to put the flag of our free and beautiful country in your ass?" she asked, not unreasonably. But, afterward, Muz says that her mom "told the cast and crew that she thought the show was beautiful." Flag and stitches and all.