Saturday, March 21, 2009

The Black Party|Rites XXX
Horary Astrology

The "After" Party (video ©

I didn't film this, and I didn't go there.
But it doesn't mean I haven't seen some of this nonsense.
Except for the shit on the dancefloor.
But that doesn't surprise me in the least.

Now remember kids: I'm 48 and HIV-.

My 1st Black Party
By Jory at

At 1 AM on Saturday night I am at home, drinking straight Jack Daniels by myself, and feeling equally excited and nervous. I was told by one of my more experienced friends to "absolutely not go before 2 AM." My only knowledge of what the Black Party would be like was Gawker's exit-poll video from last year.

The previous day my roommate took me to Leatherman (NSFW), a fetish leather store in the West Village, to pick out a harness. After selecting one, I was ordered to "Strip!" by a tall, heavyset, bald man with incredibly powerful body odor. "This is not the time to be shy," he said as he fitted my harness by placing black chrome snaps at various intersections of leather and metal. I'm surrounded by glass cases filled with assorted, oddly-shaped metallic objects for which I have absolutely no clue of their purpose. I don't ask.

With a harness selected, I needed something for the lower part of my body. My sales bear asked me, "œAre you a zipper-back or zipper-front kind of guy?" I think the look in my face said enough, and he moved on to neoprene shorts, which I tried on and admittedly looked quite atrocious in.

"I'll just wear jeans."

At 1:30 AM my roommate calls and instructs me to be at Roseland Ballroom in 15 minutes. I suit up, wearing just my new harness, jeans, and a coat, and take a few shots of JD for the road. There is no line when I arrive and we head to the downstairs coat check, which is rebranded "œclothes check" and is a massive operation. I scan the crowd, already seeing several people I know. The dress is pretty homogenous, either harnesses or no shirt at all, jeans or jock straps, and in many cases the only coverage was boots and a cock ring (I wonder where these people are keeping their clothes check tickets). The crowd is a mixture of people who seem to be very into "the lifestyle" and others who seem to be in it for the once-yearly novelty.

With our clothes stowed away, we head upstairs and immediately run into our first "sex show." There is a crowd of people standing around a gated-off area, and inside, two fit men tied up on a pool table. One is on his back and receiving a hand job, while the other is sitting up on his knees. Behind him, a large muscular man is greasing up the blunt end of a pool cue. The cue was inserted into the ass of one of the bound men, while the other was fitted with a condom. After being sodomized by the pool cue, the guy is guided down, ass first, onto the condom-clad dick of the other. They started fucking and we decided to walk around; it was like watching porn but we couldn't fast forward through the boring parts.

In the center of the venue is the dance floor, which is insanely crowded and we don't even dare going inside. There is an odd paradox watching these tough-looking, muscular men in fetish gear dancing to club music and remixed pop songs. On our way past the dance floor my roommate points out gay porn legend cum musician Colton Ford, who is large and very handsome in person.

We head upstairs, where things are supposed to be even more interesting. There is another sex show starting up here on a large, elevated, square stage. I recognize the first performer as famous French narcissist François Sagat (NSFW). He is shirtless and looking ripped, although much shorter than I'd imagined. He is joined by a very large, muscular black man. They wrestle around for a few minutes before the black guy opens his pants, removes his penis and starts pissing on François. First on his chest, then in his mouth, and then he turns the water gun upwards and pisses in his own mouth. This honestly doesn't do it for me, and yet I can't stop watching. They both stand up and the crowd applauds. François jumps off the stage to exit, and I quickly duck out of his way for fear of getting bumped into by this urine-soaked frenchman.

The piss show made me realize it is time to use the restroom! I head downstairs and went to the huge array of urinals. I notice newly-single Jason Preston at the urinal across from me, who looks short, sober, and extremely conservative in his t-shirt and jeans. The bathroom scene is surprisingly unremarkable, I was expecting more lewdness.

Back upstairs, we head into a large tent set up in a corner, where I trip over someone and realize a third of the people in this tent are on their knees. There are several groups of people in here, each encircling a guy getting blown. You quickly notice the two species of people: those who are shamelessly indulging in the sexual activities, and those who are shamelessly watching. A staff person walks through carrying a tray like a casino cocktail waitress, and the tray is filled with various types of free condoms and lube packets. I notice two guys fucking in one of the corners. At this point I've drank enough not to be embarrassed that I'm being a total voyeur, but when someone grabs my crotch I decide it's time to exit this tent and continue on exploring. On my way out, a guy approaches me, "Can I suck you?" I politely decline and head out.

I rejoin my friends and we decide to tour the "dark room," which is actually more of a hallway that leads to an unused exit. Near the entrance there are some drag queens sitting at a table yelling "Get your condoms and lube!" We go in, and notice some people getting blow jobs and others copulating against the walls of the hallway. It is dark, very dark. The further back you go the darker it gets. It is kind of a let-down because by the time you get to where anything interesting is possibly happening in the furthest part, it is nearly pitch black. You can hear moans, but see nothing. As we turn around and are exiting, someone accidentally hits the light switch and the vulgar truth of the dark hallway is exposed.

It is nearly 6 AM now and the bars have stopped serving alcohol, but the party is showing no signs of letting up. The downstairs pool table scene has been replaced with a bunch of women (yes, biological females) with tits out and strap-ons. My friends are lost now, and since everyone looks the same I know I'll never find them. I head back upstairs for one last round and there is another sex show at the square stage. Three young guys are on the stage, two are bound with ropes and the third is walking around with a leather whip. The one with the whip is very hot, but they all look bored, and I again wish I could fast-forward. The hot one is wearing pants, and makes another guy go down on him, but you can't really see anything and I lose patience and walk away. At $125 per admission (which does not include drinks and is so New York), I'm here to get my money's worth.

One last time I peek into the tent. There is a lot of oral sex and good amount of fucking going on now. I fend off people trying to unfasten my jeans as a handsome guy named Chris, a thin, athletic latino, approaches me and asks me if he can blow me "for awhile." Chris is shirtless and exposed. I'm flattered, but being of the '˜shameless voyeur' species and not the '˜shameless indulger', I decline and tell him it's time for me to go home and get some sleep. We exit the tent together and discuss our first time black party experiences.

I collect my clothes and recognize the attendant as a model-about-town named Justin. He tells me I'm cute and I thank him politely, realizing that he has "dated" almost every one of my friends at some point.

I leave Roseland completely sober and enter the daylight. And even though it is 8:30 AM now, the party behind me is still raging and — somehow — I feel like I'm leaving early.

The Black Party.
The Darkest Night in NYC.

The Saint-At-Large Black Party
The Darkest Circuit Party in New York City
From Hannah Fons, for

The Tale:

In 1980, on Manhattan's Lower East Side, there appeared a dance club that single-handedly revolutionized gay nightlife and served as a laboratory for the development of what we now call house music. DJs at this club set their decks on half-ton blocks of solid concrete to keep the bass from making the records skip; celestial constellations wheeled across a domed roof two stories above the dance floor, and some 2,000 individual light fixtures illuminated the roiling crowd of men beneath. This club was The Saint, and it made Studio 54 look like a studio apartment.

Until the toll taken by drugs, AIDS, and hostile city administration shuttered the club in 1988, The Saint was home to some of the most decadent parties in New York - events so saturated with sexual energy that by the end of the night (or afternoon, as was often the case), what began as a full-on disco blowout had melted into an full-on orgy there under the artificial stars. Legendary DJs like Warren Gluck cut their teeth at The Saint, crafting their marathon sets to take revelers on an emotional, auditory journey through the hours. Most spectacular among these events were the White Party - held in mid-February - and the Black Party, held in late March to celebrate the Spring Equinox.

The Tools:

Since the demise of The Saint as a brick-and-mortar destination, four of the principal organizers of the original venue have carried on the proud tradition of their old home, forming The Saint At Large, and continuing to host the annual White and Black Parties at Roseland Ballroom on Manhattan's West Side. The White Party - not to be confused with events of the same name in Palm Springs and Miami - is the more accessible, user-friendly of the two, drawing thousands of white-clad, glitter-dusted party people to a long night-and-day of high-energy, transcendent house music. While primarily a gay male event, the White Party has its share of female attendees, and the overall mood is buoyant-or flamboyant, depending on the marabou-feathers-to-people ratio- and celebratory.

By contrast, the Black Party is a far heavier affair, with a deliberately predatory ambience, as evidenced by this year's invitation: a Polaroid of a young man with a gruesome black eye, split lip, and just-visible tear trickling down his cheek.

Black Party attendees are encouraged to "dress heavy" on the Saint At Large Web Site: this Saturday night, thousands of men (and a very few select women) in acres of leather and miles of steel chain will check their inhibitions at the door and converge to soak in an atmosphere of unapologetic, testosterone-infused hedonism. Cameras are not allowed inside the party, where porn stars will showcase their various talents onstage, clothing will come off, and partygoers will publicly maul each other on the dance floor, in the bathrooms, and anywhere else that's dark and available. One thing is guaranteed:once you step into the Black Party, you are officially not in Kansas anymore.
The Talent:

In keeping with The Saint's tradition of taking revelers on a journey as the night wears on into day, the soundtrack to this 18-hour event will be provided by a troika of world-renowned circuit DJs

The Trauma:

Of course, when an event inspires descriptors like "sleazy," "predatory," and "dark," it's also bound to criticism from a variety of sources. While the Black Party is generally untroubled by police and governmental interventions, it has drawn fire from groups like the New York City Gay/Lesbian Anti-Violence Project (AVP), whose leaders have objected loudly to the battered-boy Polaroid invitation this year, and various HIV/AIDS awareness and prevention groups, who feel (with some justification) that the sexual abandon that characterizes the Black Party makes it a hotbed for the transmission of disease. Black Party attendees themselves have voiced complaints as the price of tickets for the event has risen over the years; advance tickets for the Black Party 2003 were a steep $100.

The Truth:

Be as that may, men all over the city and around the country are polishing their chaps and readying themselves for the darkest night of the year - they'll shed their everyday personas and give themselves over to an event whose history goes back more than two decades, to the genesis of gay nightlife and everything that has come since, from AIDS and activism to the circuit party phenomenon. The Black Party offers those brave enough to attend a long night of pure fantasy, divorced from daylight and real life. And, as porn actor Addison Scott was quoted in The Village Voiceas saying, "These people are not afraid to act out their fantasies for one night."

Be jealous. Be very jealous.

The Black Party|Rites XXX

Posted by ANONYMOUS...Somewhere.
©remains with the original author

EDEN: BLACK PARTY XXX By Steve Weinstein Let's call it "Snakes on a Gay." For the announcement of Rites XXX, the 30th Black Party, the Saint at Large has released a photo of live snakes crawling over a guy's naked ass. As a teaser image, it works on several levels and is completely appropriate to this, the most infamous major gay dance event in the world. The snakes harken back to live performances at past Black Parties, at the original Saint as well its present home in Midtown's Roseland Ballroom, where crawling reptiles were reportedly used as sexual aids. But the image also playfully deconstructs its own sexual content, a nice nod to the fun that has always accompanied the mayhem. Most importantly, it signals this year's theme, "Back to the Beginning." Typical of the Saint at Large's ambitious agenda to mix performance art, high art, camp and gay imagery, the theme evokes not only the party's diamond anniversary, but also the beginning of time itself-the Genesis myth of innocence lost in the Garden of Eden, when Eve ate the forbidden fruit offered by the Serpent. When Bruce Mailman, the impresario behind New York's legendary disco the Saint, conceived of the Black Party, he meant it to bring up associations with pre-Christian Northern Europe, when Celts donned animal skins and danced all night at the Spring Equinox to assure a good planting season. Mailman must have tapped into something deep in the collective gay unconscious, because nearly 30 years on, the Black Party remains a unique experience. This is the modern ritual of men (and women) who annually dress in animal skins and dance through the night. From the time it opened in 1980 until its closing in 1988, the membership-only Saint was considered the premier dance club in New York City and probably the entire world-gay or otherwise. Every Saturday night, 3,000 men would fill the old Fillmore East rock concert space tucked into a corner of the East Village, where they thrilled to a speaker system that still rivals the most advanced sound quality today and twirled for 12-plus hours on a dance floor supported by a system of hydraulic valves. The centerpiece was the light show, a series of 1,500 individual lights sparkling inside and around a huge dome of the heavens that opened and closed-and shined ten times brighter than any planetarium. The Saint at Large took over the Black Party after the Saint closed, a victim of the AIDS crisis that struck down so many of its members. Stephen Pevner, the impresario who oversees SAL with a tiny staff in an East Vilalge loft, began planning this year's mega-event nearly six months ago. Working with a small army of engineers, craftspeople and volunteers, they will transform Roseland-the largest dance floor in the city-into a celebration of sexuality and music, carnality and friendship. "We basically have one day to do everything," says Guy Smith, who has overseen the Black Party's lights for several years. "Everything has already been planned out to the minute: set decorations, talent, lighting, sound. It's all planned on paper. It's a one-night event, with no corporate sponsorship, and all based on ticket sales." (This year, in a nod to hard times, tickets are being offered at a special low rate until March 1, with additional discounts to those under a certain age or who arrive at Roseland later.) The most infamous aspect of the party has to be the live acts on a second-floor stage. The acts, which began at the original Saint, are responsible for the Black Party's reputation as a no-holds-barred free-for-all. You've probably heard the stories about adult circumcision; the creative use to which pool balls, firecrackers and food can be applied to the human body; piss scenes; hot wax; and role-playing in which boys become girls and girls become men. In recent years, as befits a general shift from leather dress-up to kink, the emphasis has shifted from porn-type sex to fetishes. Saint at Large consultant Mike Peyton moonlights as a promoter at bars around town, where, he says, he's seen "young kids coming up wearing latex, gear-scuba, hockey-head to toe, right down to the cleats. A major change is away from leather." Nor is the kinky stuff necessarily limited to the stages. The dance floor can get pretty frisky, while the upstairs Love Lounge is so popular it has its own set of DJs. Despite its reputation as a mosh pit of sexual activity, however, this is primarily a dance party. The gossip that surrounds the DJ selection prior to the President's Day announcement would put any Kremlinologist to shame. This year, the choices of the three DJs reflects Pevner's intention to keep the party fresh to a new generation, many of whom weren't born when the Saint opened and a few who weren't even around when it closed its doors. For Rites XXX, DJ Boris, an internationally known remixer with a local residency at Pacha, will spin from the opening on Saturday night, March 21, until about 6 am on Sunday morning, when he hands the wheels of steel over the Eddie Elias, already well-known on the Circuit. At 10 am, one of the most famous names on the club scene, Junior Vasquez, takes over to bring on the party's signature Morning Music and the final few hours of "Sleaze" until closing, sometime around 4 pm. The combination of three such disparate DJs-one who doesn't have a large gay following; a straight man who plays gay parties; and a gay crossover superstar-reflects Pevner's intention to keep the sound fresh. After 30 years, most such events have fallen by the wayside, but the Saint-at-Large has managed to keep the faithful coming back while attracting new acolytes. "The most important thing about the Black Party is that it's on the edge," Pevner explains. "Love it or hate it, it's always walking that razor-thin line. It's not your uncle's Black Party." So far, so good: For 30 years, the result have continued to amaze. Walk into Roseland, and you're transported from the big city into a fantasy world of the hottest men poured into form-fitting service personnel uniforms, assless chaps, jockstraps, latex bodysuits...or nothing at all. All of them are there for a night of fantasy. Come to Roseland and you'll understand-no, you'll feel-what "tribal" really means. Somewhere, the Druids and Bruce Mailman are looking down and smiling.

Friday, March 20, 2009

SILK|Taiwan 2006
Very tightly woven.


At times
our own light
goes out,

and is rekindled
by a spark
from another person.

Each of us
has cause to think

with deep gratitude

of those who have lighted

the flame within us.


Thursday, March 19, 2009

Concurring Transits.

Sorry. I'm busy. So don't ask.

Gas at BJs & Studio 54








Natasha Richardson|Death Chart

Miss Emily Post

There is no reason why you should be bored when you can be otherwise. But if you find yourself sitting in the hedgerow with nothing but weeds, there is no reason for shutting your eyes and seeing nothing, instead of finding what beauty you may in the weeds.

Years ago, I had heard, or read, some version of this quote: that to "be bored" was an insult to oneself.

I am, contrary to popular opinion, never, ever "bored." Similarly, when I am "alone" I am never "lonely" although there are times when I may be "lonely" when I am not necessarily, alone.

People continue to shock me, with their lack of, what I term, proper and, somewhat, common "manners." I was fortunate to be raised in an era when men did open the doors for women, a man did give up his seat on a bus for a woman, a man removed his hat in an elevator, and, likewise, a man was the last to exit an elevator, should there be women on the same car with him. I am, however, old enough to remember people whose job it was to sit in an elevator all day, and just take people to their appointed floor, and announce "fifth floor: household appliances, sporting goods" and the like. It seems the second floor, for some reason, was always relegated to "lingerie" which I could never pronounce as I always heard the word "lawn-zher-ay." And I wondered, truly, if either lawn mowers or croquet sets were on that floor, as I had no business on that floor.

I was also raised in the era of the dreaded "busy signal." Plain and simple. If you called someone, and the line was busy, well, guess what? It was just that. Busy. There was no secretary at home to take a message for you, and the caller didn't know you called, and therefore had no idea to "get back to you" until you were able to get through to them. There was, of course, the ability to call the operator and declare a medical and/or "life-threatening" emergency, and the operator would actually cut-in on a call, so your "more important" message could get through.

And we all know that Ma Bell evolved not only into several companies, but into answering machines, Caller ID, call return, call block, and, the latest phase: landlines and cell phones. A landline simply meant you still had a phone connected to your house via a telephone pole. A cell phone meant you had some sleek device which could probably take pictures, find the local Sushi restaurant, could send and receive text messages, and, in short, could either take over your life, add ease and comfort to your life, or isolate you to such a degree that you decided exactly what "angle of view" you would permit to intrude upon your life. Perhaps you didn't even have a favored five, but a tried-and-true trio.

Somehow, the United States Postal System falls into this general observation of "by the wayside." People actually wrote letters, back and forth. By hand! no less! And, if etiquette be what it was, with a fountain pen, and an actual inkwell. You could tell the author of the letter without even opening the envelope, because we all knew what each other's handwriting looked like. Long distance telephone calls were relegated to holidays, very important family announcements ("Johnnie was accepted at Yale!" or "Suzie had a boy!") or, God forbid the phone ring at a very unexpected, even overnight hour, the saddest news of all: your grandmother passed away earlier this evening.

But now, we have "convenience" to thank for the absolute disintegration of all social graces. The phone can ring, and if I'm even in the mood to look at the Caller ID dial, I can decide whether or not I feel like speaking with the identified caller, regardless of what may or may not be "the news." I don't "need" to even need to watch for the mailman (sorry, "letter carrier") because I more likely than not have a little sound effect of my choosing which will alert me to an incoming e-mail, which I may or may not open, may or may not respond to, and may or may not relegate to the "junk" folder, so I never have to deal with it again.

Same holds true, somewhat, for favors which may or may not be done for others, just because. Ask anyone who knows me and those who really know me will tell you there are two days when I absolutely abhor hearing from people: my birthday, and Christmas.

Those are "the mandatory" days when one simply must reach out and touch someone. Oh! Dearest Brutus Maximus...I haven't thought enough of your or cared enough of you to take your calls, read your emails, or even respond to your latest communication, but HAPPY BIRTHDAY! and I hope it's a wonderful year...and I'll speak to you again next year.

Christmas? Even worse. The lowest of the low. The most hypocritical of the most hypocritical. I actually spent one specific retail season working for Abercrombie & Fitch (yes, really!) when they were owned by Oshman's Sporting Goods...and it was a real treat to not only visit the store, where I might be demonstrating the set of traveler's "golf-and-go" clubs, or another colleague might be demonstrating a fishing line, all while someone else was being fitted with golfing shoes (yes, we carried those also).

This was back in the day when a gift, lovingly presented in the hunter-green with gold letters neatly wrapped in black paper with a black bow box meant someone special thought something special of you and bought you something $600 for a five-hour shift...over the course of a few weeks. Ah, yes, Christmas. The time of year when you had to get that fucking sonofabitch a goddamn gift and you really didn't care what it was or how much it cost, it just better have looked expensive and come from one of those very chic stores.

(I laugh because nowadays, I can barely walk into an Abercrombie & Fitch without feeling like a chicken hawk...and the boys there most times done even wear shirts, and every season they "redefine" the location of "the pubic bone." Still. I have that business card from "back in the day" when it says my full name, thank you, and "Sales Associate.")

But still. I digress. I can't stand being thought of on two calendar days because "someone" "somewhere" said it was important.

And I have led my life in much the same manner.

Mostly it was Mickey who was my downfall. My late, great, MarshallsTJMaxxHomegoods partner, we'd no doubt find something he'd need, I'd want, or would look fabulous on someone else entirely. A niece or nephew of his, or a friend or family member of mine. And, DANG! if it weren't more often than not, but these items were not only ALWAYS on CLEARANCE (our dear friend, Clarence Salle), but they WEREN'T MARKED.

And retail being what it is, we were NEVER able to find a clerk to find the correct price for us, so we just sorta played the "law of averages" and found "something similar" which certainly fit our foot or waist size, and always draped well when leather, but DANG IT ALL! if it wasn't always $5. Maybe $10. Or, on a really ROUGH day, $20.

To this day, I refer to him as St Mickey...always present when I manage to swing a deal, get the unexpected discount, an HP computer swapped out for the latest model because I took great pains to always have the Extended Warranty plan. And we won't even bring The Apple Company into the conversation, but let's just say that's another book entirely.

But Mickey taught me something. About himself. About his partner Larry. And about myself.

Never. Ever. Lose. Your. Enthusiasm.


It didn't matter to either of us if we didn't have two nickels to rub together between the both of us, but if we saw that perfect scarf which would just look great with Larry's brown leather aviator jacket, DAMN IT! We were going to get it. And if there was a bracelet which would look wonderful on his niece Sarah's arm, well, we'd manage that too. And if I "just happened" to be with him ("come on, Bern, let's just run in for five minutes") and he'd spy a wonderful brown leather Calvin Klein computer bag, or a great black leather Kenneth Cole duffle–cum–gym bag, or, my real favorites (and they all were favorites) a beautiful leather journal with blank pages just waiting to be filled with my thoughts, good, bad, or indifferent.

He'd manage to find some flaw, some imperfection, something even self-inflicted...and manage to walk out the door not having spent even more than $20.

It was never my birthday. It wasn't Christmas. It wasn't graduation from graduate school: he and Larry already had those covered.

It was that Thursday in July. That Tuesday in May. That Wednesday in March.

That random day in that random month on that random calendar, when he would find something I'd love, Larry'd like, Sarah would swoon, or his favored nephew Michael would just smile gently, hug him tightly, and say "thanks, Uncle Mick."

Well, St Mickey, I want you to know I didn't lose any of that. Not a bit. The only difference is that I've taken it into the cyber-realm, or maybe into an actual physical gesture. I still have that enthusiasm.

Just as "you'd be right down" (and Larry knows what I mean!), I'd find this, or that, or the other. And it would be a Tuesday in August. Or a Sunday in February. Or 4am on a hot July night when I'd run across something someone I knew "just had to have" and I'd 1-click and it would be on its way. And I'd be happy. Because, like you, I have that innate ability to know what it is, how much it should be (really), and who would really be super-glad because they'd get something they either probably wouldn't think of which they'd REALLY like, or something they just wouldn't spend their money on...and it wouldn't be their birthday, and it wouldn't be Christmas.

And I have all those crazy cards you and Larry sent me, about dancing, because it was my birthday, or wearing orange, because it was my birthday, or, dear Magda, having that surgery, just to look a little younger.

And I have a few cards from you. Thanks for this. Thanks for that. Precious few. But I do remember the phone calls. OH! The phone calls. Yes. I looked. And yes, there was your name. And you thanked me for taking you to your chemo treatment. Or running you to the bank. Or taking you for groceries. Or for spending the day "shopping" when you really knew I should have been doing something else.

And every.single.time. you saw me, you told me how good I looked. How I looked good with "that scruff." Or "I like the way Patty cuts your hair." Or "that jacket looks really good on you."

You were class, Mick. All the fucking way. All the fucking way to the grave. You oozed class. You instilled in me the importance of being enthusiastic, fuck what others thought. You taught me the meaning of a dead flower on a rough day, or a plucked violet from the hospital gardens on my way up to ICU.

You taught me what it was like to live. And to carry people in your heart, and not in your date book. So you might slip up every now and then and mess up a birthday. But you probably had it covered a hundred-fold with those random items either pulled from the CLEARANCE shelf, or the "last chance video" web page, where I'd score a movie for a fucking penny, and the shipping would cost much, much more than that.

And you were right about the studio too, Mick. Don't. Don't do it. The fucker with the $25,000 hair plugs could "borrow" a personal print to see how it looked with his bathroom, but he wouldn't have the self-respect to return it...even 18 months later. And then get his fucking girlie panties in a knot when I left a note saying that if he liked it that much, he could purchase the print for $375. You were right. I was giving way too much, even as you polished off every one of the ten $100 AT&T Business Telephones, to give me for the studio.

You were so right. I give too much, and no one appreciates it. And I can still hear your whisper to me in the ICU "you gotta take care of yourself Bern, because if you don't, no one else is going to."

Oh, and that other bit of advice. You were right on the mark about that too:

a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

And fuck 'em if they can't take a joke.

But you know what Mick?

You were absolutely right about those few.
He is an arrogant fuck.
No amount of money will ever make him happy.
He is vain and with a mirror is a perfect couple.
And all the other one will be doing is washing cars.
And Barbie? Sometimes you just can't get the perfect shave,
or the perfect tan.

But you shouldn't bother in the first place,
because you were pretty damn ugly on the inside.

This time, I ain't joking.
You're right.

We'll catch up later.
And I'll always take your calls.


Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Natasha Richardson|Natal Chart

An open note to Larry King:

You have got to be one of the most vulgar talking heads wasting air time today.

With the tragic death of Natasha Richardson, I'm stunned (not really) that after you've done your 20 minute (or so) requisite prying, you actually follow up with trash like Kim Kardashian and other media whores.

You could have spent more time on Ms. Richardson's career, her work with AmFar, and a further exploration of her brilliant work as an actress, but you cheapen any work you do (at all) by just "moving ahead" with the media sluts you permit to grace the CNN studio.

I, for one, will cheer your passing. You are vulgar, irrelevant, and about as valuable as yesterday's newspaper.

And to think the suits at CNN saw fit to jettison the brilliant Miles O'Brien, and keep someone like you.

Your 15 minutes are long up, and I'm waiting for that ticker of your to tock for the last time.

PS. Have you paid all the Miami people you stiffed? Might think of that before you expire.

The Comfort of Strangers
Natasha Richardson, Rupert Everett
Helen Mirren, Christopher Walken
Dir. Paul Schrader

The Comfort of Strangers
Natasha Richardson, Rupert Everett
Helen Mirren, Christopher Walken

Natasha Richardson Dies.

Our prayers are with her husband, actor Liam Neeson, her mother, actress Vanessa Redgrave, and her two sons.

She was a brilliant actress, with an extraordinary career spanning four decades.

She was 45.

Our prayers are with Natasha Richardson...

Our prayers are with the actress Natasha Richardson, wife of actor Liam Neeson, and daughter of actress Vaness Redgrave. It is our profound hope she recovers from her serious ski injury.

From the New York Times:

Family Gathers Around
Natasha Richardson

By PATRICK HEALY and LIZ ROBBINS [March 19, 2009]
The family and friends of the actress Natasha Richardson gathered at Lenox Hill Hospital on Wednesday to be at her side.

Ms. Richardson, 45, suffered a head injury on Monday while skiing in Quebec and was flown from Montreal Tuesday night to Lenox Hill, on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Her mother, the actress Vanessa Redgrave, was seen entering the hospital that night, and her sister, Joely Richardson, was also reported to have shown up at the hospital that evening.

Her husband, the actor Liam Neeson, who had reportedly been filming a movie in Toronto when the accident occurred, was seen on Tuesday afternoon crouched inside an ambulance beside his wife at Hôpital du Sacré-Coeur de Montréal, as she lay heavily wrapped in blankets with tubes around her face.

Alan Nierob, a family spokesman, said on Wednesday afternoon that he had no information about Ms. Richardson’s medical condition. Asked if she was on life support or had been taken off life support, or if she was brain dead or in a coma — all of which has been reported on several media outlets over the last 24 hours — Mr. Nierob replied: "I don’t deal with rumors. I don’t care about rumors. All I care about is facts. And I don’t have any facts to give you."

A spokeswoman for the hospital as well as business representatives for Ms. Richardson referred questions to Mr. Nierob.

Throughout the day on Tuesday, there were conflicting reports about Ms. Richardson’s medical condition. La Presse, Montreal’s French language broadsheet, reported that a source at the hospital said that Ms. Richardson was in a "profound and irreversible coma." Other media outlets reported that she was on life support — and that, once in the United States, it would be withdrawn — while other news outlets said that she was brain dead.

The reports of Ms. Richardson’s grave condition seemed especially shocking considering the seemingly harmless nature of the accident.

Lyne Lortie, a spokeswoman for the Mont Tremblant ski resort in the Laurentian Hills north of Montreal, said Ms. Richardson had fallen during a beginner’s lesson. She was not wearing a helmet at the time, she said.

“It was a normal fall; she didn’t hit anyone or anything,” Ms. Lortie said. “She didn’t show any signs of injury; she was talking and she seemed all right.”

As a precaution, when she left the slopes, Ms. Richardson was accompanied by a member of the resort’s ski patrol and her instructor, who then remained with her at her hotel.

When she began complaining of a headache about an hour later, she was taken by ambulance to a hospital in Ste. Agathe, Quebec, about 20 minutes from the resort. Ms. Lortie said that Ms. Richardson was transferred to the Hôpital du Sacré-Coeur de Montréal later in the afternoon.

Ms. Richardson won a Tony in 1998 for her performance in “Cabaret.” Her film performances include roles in “The Handmaid’s Tale” and “The Parent Trap.” Her father, Tony Richardson, was a director, who died in 1991. She and Mr. Neeson married in 1994.

In January, Ms. Richardson and her mother, Ms. Redgrave, gave a benefit concert reading of Stephen Sondheim’s “A Little Night Music” at The Roundabout Theater. Ms. Richardson played Desirée Armfeldt, and Ms. Redgrave played her stage mother. The two were reportedly planning a longer run of the revival in New York.
Ian Austen contributed reporting from Toronto,
and Mathew R. Warren from New York.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

One Island, One Ireland.

Check out more of "The Irish Rebel's" work over at CafePress.

Louise Bourgeois by Robert Mapplethorpe

Is Bono screwing Louise Bougeois?

Dear Apple: Happy St Patrick's Day
Love, Blackberry

Achtung, Baby:
U2 Dumps iPod for BlackBerry

By Michelle Megna
March 17, 2009

Research in Motion is likely to celebrate St. Patrick's Day in a big way -- Irish rocker Bono just broke up with the iPod and his new mobile babe is the BlackBerry.

Apparently, RIM said "walk away, walk away, walk away," and Bono followed, switching his allegiance from Apple's iPod to RIM's (NASDAQ: RIMM) BlackBerry, which is now the corporate sponsor of the super-group's 360 tour kicking off in June in Spain.

The news comes at a time when the competition in the smartphone market is heating up even as sales cool off -- and new players such as the T-1 Mobile Android phone are also certain to change the landscape -- so any edge, whether having a namesake guitarist or not, may be prudent.

At, you see an artsy black-and-white photo of Bono and company and an orange icon bearing the group's current tour title, but what's surprising is the BlackBerry company name right below it in popping white-on-black contrast.

Wait, what? The band's indomitable frontman-cum-diplomat virtually became synonymous with Apple (NASDAQ: AAPL) love back in 2004. Bono and guitarist Edge joined Steve Jobs on the stage of the California Theatre to announce an unprecedented marketing partnership between U2 and Apple that revolved around the iPod U2 Special Edition.

And who can forget the Apple ad with the band performing the hit single "Vertigo?" Or the infamous Bono quote in 2005 that Apple is "more creative than a lot of people in rock bands"? All this makes it hard to believe that Bono has a BlackBerry neatly secured in a belt clip underneath his black leather jacket.

Details are sparse on what the odd alliance will result in for the band aside from corporate backing for its next worldwide concert tour to promote its next album. [more]

Plagiarizing Goodby Silverstein Bounced Again!

President Barack O'Bama

A Surreal WHAT'S MY LINE? Moment!
Salvador Dalî on American TV!

Levis Commercial|Banned in the USA!!!

OMG! I almost forgot his birthday!
Nat King Cole|1919

Event Astrology|Rites XXX
The Roseland Ballroom, 11:59p

Event Astrology|Letter to MWS

The (Original) White Party|The Saint
Invitation as photographed by
Robert Mapplethorpe

Rites I & Rites II, 1979
Frank Diaz as photographed by
Robert Mapplethorpe

Monday, March 16, 2009

This Day in Animal Cruelty History|1881
Ringling Brothers Barnum & Bailey Circus Opens

Elephants weep.

This Day in Art History|1941
The National Gallery Opens

The National Gallery of Art was created in 1937 for the people of the United States of America by a joint resolution of Congress, accepting the gift of financier and art collector Andrew W. Mellon. During the 1920s, Mr. Mellon began collecting with the intention of forming a gallery of art for the nation in Washington. In 1937, the year of his death, he promised his collection to the United States. Funds for the construction of the West Building were provided by The A. W. Mellon Educational and Charitable Trust. On March 17, 1941, President Franklin D. Roosevelt accepted the completed building and the collections on behalf of the people of the United States of America.

The paintings and works of sculpture given by Andrew Mellon have formed a nucleus of high quality around which the collections have grown. Mr. Mellon's hope that the newly created National Gallery would attract gifts from other collectors was soon realized in the form of major donations of art from Samuel H. Kress, Rush H. Kress, Joseph Widener, Chester Dale, Ailsa Mellon Bruce, Lessing J. Rosenwald, and Edgar William and Bernice Chrysler Garbisch as well as individual gifts from hundreds of other donors.

The Gallery's East Building, located on land set aside in the original Congressional resolution, was opened in 1978. It accommodates the Gallery's growing collections and expanded exhibition schedule and houses an advanced research center, administrative offices, a great library, and a burgeoning collection of drawings and prints. The building was accepted for the nation on June 1, 1978, by President Jimmy Carter. Funds for construction were given by Paul Mellon and the late Ailsa Mellon Bruce, the son and daughter of the founder, and by The Andrew W. Mellon Foundation.

On May 23, 1999 the Gallery opened an outdoor sculpture garden designed to offer year-round enjoyment to the public. Located in the 6.1-acre block adjacent to the West Building at 7th Street and Constitution Avenue, N.W., the garden provides an informal, yet elegant setting for works of modern and contemporary sculpture.

The Collectors Committee, an advisory group of private citizens, has made it possible to acquire paintings and sculpture of the twentieth century. Key works of art have also come to the Gallery through the Patrons' Permanent Fund. In addition, members of the Circle of the National Gallery of Art have provided funds for many special programs and projects. The Sculpture Garden is a gift to the nation from The Morris and Gwendolyn Cafritz Foundation.

The Plagiarized Hyundai Ad Continues!
Cease & Desist MY ASS!

Salvador Dali's Mae West Room

The Fall|2008
Dir. Tarsem

Sunday, March 15, 2009

Dir. David Cronenberg

This Day in Cinematic History|1943
A Visionary: David Cronenberg

Stills from Tarsem's THE FALL|2008


Roy & Alexandria, The Masked Bandit
Photo credit Geo Clarke & Tarsem Singh

Keeping pace with Lee.

It is not time to sleep...

The Death of Caesar

Diane Arbus
An On-line Portfolio

Page through the
28 high-quality images here.

It's a dark road,
and a dark way that leads to my house.

This video always makes me think of Avedon's IN THE AMERICAN WEST as well as Diane Arbus,
and the innate dignity of most all her subjects.