loosie: words: Warlike Men Who Set Upon Themselves

Warlike Men Who Set Upon Themselves

Lohan, Leto, Nietzsche and Spec Boogie: Fabulous Julien sees it all and does it all.

by Fabulous Julien | 2005.09.12

It took ten full days of around-the-clock floating feces news coverage for me to desert my Gowanus boathouse, ditch my designer Colburn baby diapers and paddle back to the shores of Brooklyn’s 4th Avenue. And back on land, I ain’t even gonna lie, my young sexxxy creatures, yourz truly didn’t even know today’s monumental date. It wasn’t until a young teenager manning the Brooklyn Central Library check-out desk politely reminded me today was September 11th that I shed my Afghan wig and started scanning Grand Army Plaza for cabbies-turned-Qaeda frogmen. But we’ve all got excuses for forgetfulness and mine are the following: American grannies using logs of shit as kickboards to flee the Bayou’s gators, the Freedom Tower, and a juicy smorgasbord of XXX-rated gossip.

According to my spies working the Meatpacking District, Union Square and Rogers Avenue in Crown Heights, the Summer wind-down has been stained with Big Easy-induced violence. It all started in the underground bowels of Table 50 where even Jared Leto of Alexander and Lord of War wasn’t able to restrain fellow reveler Lindsay Lohan from shoving around an anonymous Strong Island JAP. And while the shoved JAP’s identify remains a mystery, we do know that Lily Taylor of Six Feet Under and the Rappaport Restraining Order showcased all the telltale signs of a Category 4 victim when she limped into La Botega last month looking like a beaten mule running roughshod in the Old Quarter. While Taylor’s bruised face was ghoulish next to that of our new favorite redhead, actor Eric Roberts (recently cameoing in videos for Mariah Carey and The Killers), she was still radiant in comparison to the seasoned catcher’s mitt of a grillpiece Warren Beatty wore into the same eatery early last week as he dined with stunning wife Annette Bening.

While my Mexican street militia trolled the UES for that boy toy Mayoral Candidate Gifford Miller (and no, Manhattan Borough President Candidate Brian Ellner, I haven’t copped a feel of his snug frat boy ass yet), one of my young snitches at the Gansevoort reports another heated Usher-related showdown. In the latest case, our tap-dancing dwarf arrived for drinks with a flaming malcontent who fabulously demanded an immediate table for the pair. The manager, apparently unimpressed by the homo’s lisp, declared, “If they want a table, they’ll have to wait along with everyone else,” and tossed Ursher into the commoner’s area already packed with chubby Wall Street crackpots clad in stripes.

Several blocks east on the Coffee Shop’s patio, celebrity chaos continued as goth-rock charlatans Hillary Duff and her eye-liner-sporting boyfriend Joel Madden of Good Charlotte were mocked by a roaming gang of teens. As Duff openly wept and her boyfriend was restrained by a bemused bouncer, the punks continued off into the night with their callous cackling ringing over Union Square.

According to that Teutonic firebrand Nietzsche, a warlike man sets upon himself in peaceful times. And I, in these warlike times, draped my waxed physique with an Astrakhan fetal lamb cape and sought to make peace with a group known for spreading love: underground rappers. I steered my boathouse back into the Red Hook harbor and sent my spies racing back into the Meatpacking District to pay homage to J-Live and his album release party at APT. A slim crowd with a meager selection of womenfolk populated the lounge’s nether regions, but all eyes were on the always-adorable J- Zone, who giddily rapped along with Raekwon’s “Incarcerated Scarfaces” and sipped a complimentary vodka. Over on the white side of thangs, a guitarist from My Chemical Romance was spotted wearing elf shoes and English knickerbockers at Coldplay’s Tuesday night show, and the drummer from Brand New was spotted outside MSG with his Miami missus.

But the Fabbie Jules Sexy Music Artist Spotting of the Week goes to that beloved Bed-Stuy storyrapper, Spec Boogie. The new occupier of a beauteous brownstone that would have New York Magazine pissing themselves with gentrifier’s remorse, S-dot-Boogs took the stage on Friday at sold-out Southpaw flanked by sexy-beasts Elucid and Von Pea as part of the ?uestlove, Platinum Pied Pipers and Mark Ronson extravaganza. Blocks away from the show, I bobbed along in the oily waters of Gowanus, trembling with rage at the fate of our brethren down in the Dirty-Dirty. But as my boathouse slid underneath the Carroll Street Bridge and drifted towards Red Hook’s projects and their infamous coke-dealing canines, my spirits turned gay. Off in the distance, I could hear Spec Boogie crooning over a medley of Ca$h Money beats and the roars of hipsters, Fort Greene neo-soujahs and East New York gunrunners to the chorus of, “They only care about you if you got ‘Bling Bling’”. Someone cares.