Too bad it's not as fun when you're sober. Except for Back Door Bamby at crobar and anywhere the Spam Allstars perform, there's nothing wacky that happens here on a regular basis. Each and every scene takes itself so seriously, including the underground. If you've read my column in the past, I have straight up slammed the Design District. That's because I am truly fond of it and hope it realizes its full potential.
I get accused of being kissyface, though, with the top-shelf nightlife scene. BuzzIn works well if you know that my praise is often facetious. But hey, no matter how much I try to keep it real, I can't deny the spell surrounding the beautiful people, power brokers, and celebrities who go to the amazing parties at Prive, Mynt, and the boutique hotels on South Beach. The chance that Paris Hilton might be at one of these places is too much of a draw. Anyway, that part of the industry is as strong as it's ever been, because everybody wants to be famous and fabulous and all that other jive these days. They pay dearly for the privilege to be at these parties, which are thrown by Capponi, Casares, Misuraca, Pooch, Siervo, and others. Thing about A-list soirees, though, is that they are absolute showtime, and you have to be on to have a good time. Plus, the music usually sucks.
VIPs aren't the only ones who lack a sense of humor. Most of the people in this fucking city can't laugh at themselves if you paid them a million dollars. The phony fronting and seething insecurity they project is getting too wack for me (that's why I love New York).
To the four or five readers who got the jokes, thanks. But you're not the reason I wrote it. Instead my inspiration came from reading letters such as the one I received from an angered dance music fan, who thought I didn't know shit because I confused trance for progressive house. Well, excuse me, asshole, but I lost track of all the electronica genres after 1994, when I was peaking balls all night to a double set by Rabbit in the Moon and Plastikman, back when that scene was still worthwhile.
Yep, one thing readers have really hated about this column is my disdain for most music (and supposed worship of Mynt, even though I ripped their bouncers for pushing a girl). The music stopped mattering to me a long time ago. The best music isn't played at the best parties like it was in the past, unless you're into the monotonous torture we've come to know as progressive house. James Butler, current manager of Nerve, is a good reflection of how asinine a person can look while hailing the greatness of house music. In case you missed it, this guy was suckered on a recent episode of HBO's Da Ali G Show (the best thing on the tube today) into taking a spoof interview with Ali G seriously. When Ali G asked, "What do you do in the unfortunate situation that a person in a wheelchair tries to enter, ignore them or wheel them away?" Butler said, "Ignore them." Then Butler went on to say, in all seriousness, that if house music was around in the Forties, World War II wouldn't have happened.
I do a lot of talking at parties because there's hardly an occasion to say, "Ooh, that song, that song!" Well, I do enjoy the music at places such as Rok Bar, I/O, and Soho Lounge, where retro rock and old-school hip-hop are rules of thumb. But what does it say about the music when most of the songs that get a crowd reaction are old? Move on.
That reminds me ... everybody who gets all upset about me spilling the beans about those magical beans called Ecstasy, check this. At the expense of being hated by some of my friends, I'll say this clearly: Fuck the bullshit. At least half of the drugs classified by the government as Schedule I under the Controlled Substances Act should be decriminalized. Make them safe, invest in education, and stop throwing kids in jail. WE HAVE ALL DONE DRUGS! At least all the cool people have.
So what do I truly regard as the best experience I've ever had going out? Easy. It was the first time I went to the Edge in Fort Lauderdale on a Saturday night. I was a sophomore in high school, so I had to sneak out of the house in the middle of the night, which was convenient since the rave party didn't begin 'til 3:00 a.m. anyway. Once I was outside the apocalyptic-looking structure, looking at the cryptic walls as they seemed to bend with every techno thump (this was before I ever dropped acid, mind you), it was apparent that this experience would be special.
I got by the door dude, who was half passed out, with my friend's restricted license. You had to be sixteen to get in, and I was fifteen. What did I see when I walked in? Well, my first thought was, how would my parents react if they knew that I was at some mystic, excessive ritual fueled by alien music and designer drugs? As the sun came up at 6:00 a.m., the Edge had this hippie mystique to it, as if those who organized it were actually helping to change the world.
The Edge's Saturday-night parties eventually turned into the same old story, though, as they got played out by a mix of thugs and dorks. So what's left? For me, nothing too deep; just partying for partying's sake and watching the stupid people. I enjoy standing in line (but not for too long) and listening to some jerkoff lie to some chick about his relationship to the promoter who he supposedly referred to some lawyer who doesn't exist, only to be stumped by a doorman who refuses to let him in. "This shirt is $250!" he'll say. "Oye listen, my cousin Pepichin knows the bartender ...."
Sometimes I feel like telling the folks who have a 100-to-1 chance of getting into a South Beach club not to give those places the satisfaction of their presence. You can have fun elsewhere. But I don't; I don't want to miss my chance to win the attention of celebrity doormen such as Frederique at Mynt. Well, at least I get to get in.
