By Araceli Cruz
By Tessa Stuart
By Anna Merlan
By Keegan Hamilton
By Albert Samaha
By Village Voice staff
By Tessa Stuart
By Albert Samaha
Stuart Armando must have a death wish. The new owner of mr.Black (the spot once known as Table 50) has not only relaunched the club as a musically forward gay club (no Junior Vasquez here, kids), but isn't doing gaspbottle service. "I know!" he says when I point out how crazy that is.
The adorable Australian's already lined up top-notch DJs: Honey Dijon spins on Saturday nights, Scissor Sisters' Sammy Jo does Fridays, and electro legend Man Parrish plays Sundays. "But it's not a dry, music-snobby venue, either," Armando says, noting that he hires a cocktail waiter on Saturday nights to wear nothing but an apron. After toying with format for a few months, hosting everything from an upscale Karl Lagerfeld party to a dirty Daniel Nardicio affair, Armando's finally coming out (yes, I did). "I got the word out on a very grassroots level," he says. Coming up: a Johnny Dynell disco-themed party and the Black Ball, a tribute to Paris Is Burning during Honey's night in April.
It's been a very gay week for the Fly Life. I joined the Trinity, who hosted the long-running, infamous Tuesday Beige party, which had Kevin Aviance, Richie Rich, David Ilku, Jimmy James, Sammy Jo, and Parker Posey, oh my. Missed Dorothy and Toto, but Ricky Schroeder and Tupac go-go boy look-alikes were showing off their abs; one was so cut he prompted a tablemate to shout, "Oh my God, he doesn't have a six packhe has a 12-pack!"
"Tell me the truth," I said to Aimee Phillips, one of the three Trinities. "Are we fag hags?" "You don't want to know," she said, looking really stern, as her two gay boyfriendsDrewpsie, who was wearing one of those godforsaken round As Four purses, and Mackie, who's got his own dollate dinner. "Tell me." "Yes."
The conversation turned, naturally, to their rivals, the MisShapes, who were hosting their new grown-up party across town at Pizza (more on that next week). Phillips told me how when she was the publicist for Luke and Leroy, she'd suggested the club host Richie Rich's birthday for this new party, MisShapes, with Boy George as a guest DJ. That night was also the last time the Trinity and MisShapes joined forces. So sad, really: Just think what they could accomplish togetherthe asymmetrical haircuts, the glitter-covered outfits, the gayness!
I digress. Earlier this week, in keeping with my fag hag identity, I went to the New York magazine Oscar party at the Spotted Pig, which promised celebrities and Moby, but mostly had media types including original Gawkerette Elizabeth Spiers, New York's David Amsden and Deb Schoeneman, MTV's Gideon Yago, plus actress Famke Janssen. I instantly glommed on to Pink Is the New Blog's Trent Vanegas, and his friend, Jossip's David Hauslaib. They instantly became my new gay boyfriends. (Casey, I've left you for two other men.) Mr. Jossip's networking skills were very inspiring, especially since I only conduct human relationships over e-mail. Tipping Point/Blink!/New Yorker writer/total-effing-genius Malcolm Gladwell walked in with his hair and we all hyperventilated. Must. Talk. To. Him. The strategy was the "Dog Profiling Article." Jossip was gonna lie and say he had a pit bull. Pink balked. We stalked until the moment was appropriate and asked him about the "dog article." Left out the fake pit bull. The Moment of Truth came: "I am really into dogs," said the author, adding that he didn't have one, but if he did it'd be a mutt. "A large dog," he clarified.
Jossip: "Next you'll be on Dog Fancy and New York Dog!"
Me: "I can't believe you just said that!"
Malcolm: " . . . "
Exit stage right.
That, ladies and gentleman, is not how you conduct an Intelligent Conversation with a writer from The New Yorker. Of course, I was also distracted by Salma Hayek's boobs on the TV. Told you it was a gay week.