By Alex Distefano
By Scott Snowden
By Anna Merlan
By Steve Almond
By Jena Ardell
By Jon Campbell
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Tessa Stuart
The only dead animals at the East 58th Street hot spot Lavo the other night were on my plate, thankfully enough. Once I made them disappear, I checked out the downstairs level, a snazzy club where you can look down at the dance floor or, better yet, hide in a private corner area with a fancy curtain. "When all the lights are on," informed my tour guide, "there's so much gold it's like Donna Summer's dressing room." I was starting to understand why Prince Poppycock wanted to duet with her so badly.
All shades of circusy outrage and fashionable excess filled the debut of Bloody Mary, a monthly party at the cavernous Good Units courtesy of Susanne Bartsch and Desi Monster. Onstage, Narcissister's act involved a guillotine, two plastic doll heads, and a fake penis, while Rose Wood ran through the crowd emitting her famous golden-shower act that had half the room running away and the other half running toward. Calvin Klein and I were the only ones who stood defiantly in place.
The golden-locked duo the Blonds started their fashion show with four fan dancers doing a vividly choreographed routine to "Thank Heaven for Little Girls," after which sparkly, chiffony ensembles were trotted out on Rita Hayworth–like (but taller) models. Three of them sported timely and succinct headbands that said "OMG," LOL," and "WTF." I was ROTFL!
As for the attendees, Snooki was denied a seat—the Blonds like her, but they're trying to go more serious—whereas Kristin Cavallari, formerly of The Hills, was placed front-row. I guess she's pretty scandal-free, unless you count her designing a line for ShoeDazzle.com.
Movie showings have been attracting some gusty patrons, too. After a screening of Buried, with Ryan Reynolds in a coffin for 94 minutes, the audience fled to fresh-air freedom as one person muttered, "That was entertainment?" Still, it's been digging up raves.
So is Carlos, the 319-minute movie about the revolutionary terrorist known as Carlos the Jackal. "It was riveting," gushed a friend who saw it at the New York Film Festival press screening. "I could have watched five more hours!" Why so, pray tell? "The star has a great body and an amazing penis," he explained. I need to get out of my gay enclave.