By Albert Samaha
By Steve Weinstein
By Devon Maloney
By Tessa Stuart
By Alison Flowers
By Albert Samaha
By Jesse Jarnow
By Eric Tsetsi
Body fur came up at Michael Lucas's house party, where the porn god told me he's been wearing an antidepressant patch in a rare area of his body that doesn't have hair. Check out his next film to find out just where that is.
A nocturnal antidepressant, Mr. Black is doing smashingly in its third incarnation on West 30th Street, and without the aid of a publicist—another profession that's gonna need a federal bailout soon. Scruffy, hot guys pile in for girl talk in the chandeliered foyer and dancing in the main room, which is lined with banquettes studded with the freaky-deakies. They go there for erratic but erotic Boys Gone Wild Thursdays; giddy Gary 49 Fridays promoted by those cuties the Trinity; and Tubway Saturdays, which are filled to the rim queen. Yes, it's OK to go out on the weekend again!
Further proof of that is the fact that Kenny Kenny and Susanne Bartsch just launched Vandam Sundays at Greenhouse—the same night where there's already the Cuckoo Club at the Park and Josh Wood's bash at 1Oak. Can't we spread this shit around? Oh, never mind. Opening night was fab, with swarms of dance-hall-hostess types in ceiling-high vinyl competing with the décor of dried leaves, as Bartsch, dressed like a giant flower, leaned over to me and whispered, "Push push in the bush."
La Daily Musto
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I'll leave you with that fragrant pansy Boy George's Facebook message to rocker Miss Guy: "This retribution thing really drags on, but one must rise above it. I have so much I'd kill to say, but I'm gagged by the law. Now it will drag into next year because I had a bloodless jury, and whilst I struggle to be spiritual, I pray they have a rotten Xmas. I'm tired, which makes me ratty. Maybe tomorrow I'll radiate love."
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