loosie: words: Changing of the Guard

Changing of the Guard

Gossip: Tribeca Film Festival, Smallpox scares and the Chelsea boys searching for E on Classon.

by Fabulous Julien | 2004.05.07

My god it’s been a long and lonely last two years for NEW YORKERS. Ever since we lost the giddy anticipation that a bushy-bearded Shiite would scamper aboard our train and let loose a blood-curdling cry before blowing us full of shrapnel, the city has sat under siege like a crotch muffled by fluffed fromage. Same fucking bars, same promoters, same rich men, same unemployment and same news. But stop your bleating, my woebegone herd, for a massive changing of the guard is underway that has not been seen since the genocidal days of Pol Pot. And take comfort in that a new cast of city superstars is jostling for the chance to stimulate our sickest senses and get this city back to some regular raunchiness.

Gotham’s self-cleansing has been bloody, rife with raping, robbing and kidnapping. So we must clear our eyes for a moment and see just what bullet-ridden corpses have been heaved into massive unmarked graves and who has clamored to the top. It was close to midnight on a Wednesday night when I ran into a raving mad Homeless John down on Front Street in DUMBO. Rolling in my sick body suit of sandblasted denim with my Chelsea boys, we had a yen for copping some E in the hood. Homeless John was ranting about a roving band of hobos who had made off with a Belmont Track horse and had hitched it to a wagon made from milk crates and were now hauling loads of cans from Shea Stadium to Queens bodegas. But after we hit him with a fin, he was like “shun, score that E down on Classon in Crown Heights”. So rolling seven Chelsea deep, all squished in the back of the Rover, we giggled like a pack of nervous schoolgirls on our way over to arguably Brooklyn’s hottest neighborhood. We passed by that cute little thug, Cormega, leaning out of his Hummer chatting up some BoHo Hoes over in so-2001 Fort Greene. With SoHo dead, infested with the Jersey-driving, Jersey-dining, Jersey trash population, we were well aware that C. Hts had been sprung since the innovation of the Erik Colburn design house. In fact, the neighborhood is so hot these days, my Nostrand Avenue spies spotted Nicole Kidman and Shawn Penn feasting on curried goat outside Exquisite Restaurant while shooting their latest movie and exploding a bus in the process. Apparently the two urban desperados went unfazed even when city officials wrapped in bubble-suits cordoned off the New York Ave. and Prospect Pl. block due to a Smallpox case infecting a local dweller. Honey, I look forward to another case of Smallpox like I look forward to electrolyzing my bikini zone. Holla!

We rolled back into the city after whizzing by Prospect Park to catch the wafting aroma of the Cherry Blossom’s coming out festival, and ogled the big-titted girls dipped in Erik Colburn Baby Tees who flashed their thongs as they squatted over blossoms. There were even Samurais on hand – but that’s not Julien’s idea of a fantasy swordfight (try Bobbito and that sexy Iraq al Sadr). Rich, my boy from Sam Adams who is now the city’s newest authority in beer distribution and most recognizable dread -- now that DJ Spinna has sold out to the afrobeat pop culture -- was running Crobar with host and Boriqua screecher, Rosie Perez. But at the prospects of a Rover ripe with dudes getting cock-blocked at the Crobar door, we sped over to Manahatta where Staple Design and a horde of horny Rastafarians were bringing back the Reggae Dancehall. I was like “rewind selectah”. The floor was wet with sweat. Nearby, DJ Green Lantern’s manager smugly looked on from the bar until he glanced at me hurling the middle finger at his sidekick, the mealy mouthed downtown Rasputin.

Speaking of looking nervous, apparently the editors at the floundering L Magazine caught wind of the rumors that City Hall had hired a pack of Arizona illegal-Mexican tracking vigilantes to start dropping pipe bombs in the orange L Magazine street racks. It will be a gruesome death for sure. But these black-eyed bounty hunters will not be the only grim reapers soon prowling our city’s streets. The sexually impotent F.B.I. will set up base to prepare for the GOP Convention. Despite their vile attempts to shut down the subway system to stifle protesters, Bloomberg’s circumcised cock hung low and rebuffed the fags.

While these feral federal schemers slip into the city, the senile and decrepit Dikembe Mutumbo will be quietly fleeing the tri-state area for good. Saturday night I swung by the W Hotel -- where I last spotted the scowling African freak turning over V.I.P tables to 50’s “In Da Club”. Luck was not on our side, so we whizzed by Carnivale to guzzle some brews and break bottles with New York’s new king of nightlife, Poull Brien. With Bed-Stuy rapper du jour Spec Boogie sitting V.I.P., Poull had done it again. Meanwhile Negroclash’s party down the street at Subtonic reached 17 Home Wednesday depths of mediocrity, but Bauhaus with DJ Nico was getting the girls open and the entire staff of XXL Magazine bought up the bar while the Digital Gravel crew looked ominously on from the side. Speaking of ominous, was I the only one aghast by seeing the Hanson triplets smoking and drinking at Gramercy Park’s High Bar? I’d massage each and every one of them through their growing pains.

The week’s other star-studded event was the third annual Tribeca Film Festival. Although I was rebuffed and flogged as I attempted to weasel my way into Stuyvesant High School for Jim Jarmusch’s “Coffee & Cigarettes”, I was lucky enough to spot Steven Spielberg, draped in a neo-cowboy outfit consisting of chaps, a leather poncho and a fabulous hat, preening for the assembled legions of paparazzi. Licking my wounds, I retreated to the catch an inferior flick over at Embassy Suites. While sashaying up the elevator, who did I see but the festival’s big cheese, Martin Scorsese. The foxy silver-backed director, who might have been Dennis Hopper, winked and I snubbed him. Later I saw struggling Hollywood wannabe Eric Roberts pleading for more butter on his popcorn. I had seen enough of these faux-New Yorker s – I glanced up a few underage starlets’ skirts in search of young sniddatch and called it an evening. I strode off, cock long and lonely.