[Video by Gawker intern Yoni Lotan.]

Which is kind of a shame! The old "Vintage Contemporaries" cover was as much of an awesome time capsule as Jay McInerney's book is. It's perfect! The oddly colored illustration of an anonymous guy in a trench coat wandering toward The Odeon with the Twin Towers in the background, those bold colors and the justified text makes it look like an '80s video game, which is perfect for a novel that reads like a text-based RPG in which YOU are a DISSATISFIED FACT CHECKER SEEKING SOLACE IN DRUGS AND EMPTY HEDONISM.

But now it is 2009, and, weirdly, the Twin Towers are gone but The Odeon is not. And so, a new cover. This one just looks like the opening credits of Saturday Night Live.

Rove is not yet actually in jail, so we are holding off on the champagne. Though he will never actually go to jail, so maybe we should just have champagne anyway?

Karl Rove personally ordered the firings of a bunch of too-liberal US Attorneys and he was also behind the politically-motivated corruption charges against the former Democratic governor of Alabama, and everyone knows this, and frankly what Rove and co. did to the entire Department of Justice is terrifying and will broadly hurt American in many, many ways for a generation. But, you know, Rove probably just lied about it all, because why not? Is anyone going to actually fight the divine right of Presidents to do whatever the fuck they want all the time without actual consequences? No. The Constitution is basically enforced on the Honor System, you know.

And Rove might testify again, and maybe someday some of his testimony might become public, and someday and in some form John Conyers' committee might release some sort of report, and on that day, justice will have finally been served.

Apparently the Illinois Attorney General, Lisa "Candidate 2" Madigan, claimed MillerCoors was illegally marketing the "beverage" to underaged consumers, by sponsoring an air guitar champion, or something.

“These drinks are extremely dangerous in the hands of young people,” Madigan said in a statement. “They contain substantially more caffeine than coffee or soda and are marketed as a way to ‘power’ your nights by staying awake and drinking more alcohol. This is a completely inappropriate message to send to younger audiences.”

Sure, whatever. So long, shitty caffeinated malt beverages! You were not long for this recession anyway, because now there is no joy in being wasted and jittery at the same time, at 4 a.m..

We first encountered Sparks in the early 2000s, when broke-ass gutterpunks in Minneapolis suddenly began imbibing it. By the time the trend migrated to pretend-broke-ass scenesters in Brooklyn, the punks had switched back to cheap canned beer, and we'd still never tried the shit. It will be missed.

Sparks will live on as an easy, slightly obscure jokey "mid-2000s" reference point for comedy writers for years to come, beginning in 2010 or so. Someday, a future-version of The Wackness will make a point of having protagonists with orange tongues, and we'll chuckle, and people five years younger than us will be unamused. Kids today with their space-music and reasonably sized sun-goggles! They don't even remember the great commenter wars of '09!

Certain retail real estate brokers working on behalf of Florent's landlord, the Gottleib Family (who own a great deal of the West Village and the Meatpacking District), are quietly shopping the Florent space at 69 Gansevoort Street. More than one restaurant owner has been contacted with the offer: ground floor, second floor, backyard and roof garden, for between $150 and $300 a square foot. (Sidebar: there's a roof garden and second floor?)

Update: A commenter points out that perhaps the building is not controlled by the Gottleib's. Rather it's owned by the descendants of R&L, a coffee shop that first occupied the space. Possible, this, but let's be clear: there is a broker shopping the property for whomever the current owner is.

"Es salaam aleikum, giga-glans! I've been wanting to call you for years! This is The Future."

"Wait. Who?"

"Pay attention, tera-tits. It's The Future. I've had your number for years on my iPortal, and it seemed like it was time to call."

"But, why now?"

"It's as clear as the waters of magnificent Lake Zero. It's Halloween."

"Okay, but hold on. Um, I was on another call. Just a second.... Oh, I guess they hung up."

"You can always call them back. Ah, Halloween. It's really my favorite soujorniday. All of the—"

"Soujorniday? You mean holiday?"

"That's right. Language desecularization hasn't occurred yet. So yes, holiday. What are your plans? Have you selected a costume?"

"Um, well, I've been working my ass off, so I honestly haven't thought about it."

"Putting all your effort into the last minute, huh? I've made that mistake before, but you simply must go to the Halloween Parade."

"That's something I tend to avoid. That crowd in the West Village is sort of rough with all the people coming in on the PATH train. A guy could get shot or stabbed or bleach-gunned."

"Well, the parade hasn't been in the Village for years. There was the brief time it changed course to follow the migration of the gays up Ninth Avenue from Chelsea up to Hell's Kitchen, but once the construction of the Moynihan Mediaplex was done, it had to go. Something to do with the outrage when Anna Wintour's mobility scooter was dragged into the parade route."

"So wait. Where exactly is it then?"

"It followed the gays of course. To Governor's Island."

"Gover—but that's so remote."

"Exactly. The gays were tired of having to leave a neighborhood once the fertilizers would move in. After stints all over Manhattan, most of them were at a loss, because a move to a borough would have been too stigmatizing. Instead they moved on to Governor's Island. It's perfect really. They've built up the water taxis, creating a vast system of piers all around, which is an added plus."

"So you're going out there in your costume?"

"Actually, no. This year I've been invited to the Mayor's residence for a very swank affair. For the first time in decades, I'm going to break out the drag and go as the First Lady. Everyone thinks I'll make a great Hillary."

"Wait. Hillary Clinton?"

"Yes, Hillar—wait. Clinton? No one's heard from her since she moved to Lesotho. No, the current First Lady. I think her maiden name was Duff. Anyway, this party is going to be simply jayed!"

"And it's up at Gracie Mansion."

"No, quadri-cooze, that burned down after former Mayor Quinn tried to get all butch and fix some electrical problem on her own. But Tinsley Manor has been a stunning replacement."

"Tinsley?"

"Yeah, naming the mansion after his wife was controversial at first, but Mayor Mortimer paid for the entire construction with his personal prophets."

"Profits from what?"

"Oh, um, no. After the last non-millionaire moved out of Manhattan, there was a dearth of certain businesses. Along with Simon Hammerstein, the Mortimers opened a high-end fortune telling boutique called The Prophet Box. It did so well they created a chain of them, taking over all the empty Starbucks after the caffeine prohibition. Everybody adores the Mortimers now here in Tinsley Town. But they are sticklers for punctuality, so I should get going. I have to get to the Cover Girl shop and find the right labia-pink shade of lipstick if I'm going to be the First Lady."

"But you've told me so much, I...."

"Don't worry, kilo-cock. I'll call you again and explain everything. Asavakit!"

"Hello?"

"Oh, kneadynips, it's The Past. Can I just tell you it's all so over?"

"Over the top? Over the limit? Overdone? Overcooked?"

"It's just, like, Over. Nightlife is just getting weird. I can't even have fun at Limelight."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, to be honest, it's never really been my venue of choice. Too much 'freaky for freaky sake' and not enough 'freaky.' That whole group of club kids. They really just try too hard. I've been thinking about it ever since Angel died."

"Wait. You told me about him. Was it an overdose?"

"An overdose of Michael Alig! Angel didn't even do drugs; he just sold them. Then Michael and Freeze up and killed Angel, chopped him up and threw him in the river. But the police finally figured it all out, and now Michael's in jail. Which is probably more fun than clubs these days anyway."

"You're obviously exaggerating."

"Not really, swirlysnooch. It used to be we'd just walk in the front door. Then we had to start going in through the Twentieth Street entrance. Now there's no VIP entrance at all and we have to go in with the cattle. They make us wait in line to be patted down in the most unflirtatious way. I even saw them shake down some poor tranny's wig. She should've hid razors in that 'fro."

"Oh! Like Foxy Brown?"

"Coffy, actually. Anyway, we did the usual survey of the main floor, checked out the side and then headed our way upstairs. It was surreal. What used to be too packed was just a big empty room. Even the backroom where guys used to stick their dicks into the holes of a box that allegedly housed some random homeless drag queen? Empty."

"Well, there's always shifts in venues. One place goes out of favor and a new one rises."

"No, there's a more than a shift happening. Giuliani has this whole crackdown on fun going on while he's supposedly sticking his dick into somebody other than his wife. You know how moralistic hypocrites can be, right? But it's more than just that. New places that are opening are filled with tables and chairs and smaller dance floors. I saw my friend JonEd working the VIP door at one of the new places and she said we couldn't go in unless we bought a bottle of Absolut. For, like, $300! All these changes—it's like I'm suddenly in Atlanta. It's making me go a little crazy I think."

"Change can bring out weird feelings. And you sound, well, a little emotional. Are you that upset?"

"It's not just nightlife. It's, well, everything. I'm... I'm just afraid."

"You? But you're fearless. What could you be afraid of?"

"I call you week after week. For months now and it seems like everything I ever tell you about. Every important thing in my life is either gone or forgotten. All just things of The Past."

"That still doesn't explain what could scare you."

"Too be honest, it's you. I'm afraid of becoming you."

"Hey, I'm not that bad a thing to become! I still can... Hold on, I have another call... Hello?"

"Es salaam aleikum, giga-glans! I've been wanting to call you for years! This is The Future."

Previously: Past Over

"Hello?"

"Sizzlesac, I joined a gym, and let me tell you—I'm completely worn out. "

"That's fantastic! Healthy living! Are you focusing on cardio or weight training?"

"Um, yeah. Those and blowjobs."

"Please tell me you're not becoming one of those 'Steam Queens' with the red faces and bulging eyes. In addition to being bad for you, it's just...."

"Steam rooms and saunas are for amateurs. At Jack LaLanne's the sex is everywhere."

"At who's?"

"Jack LaLanne's. I just joined the gym. It's in the basement of the Woolworth Building."

"All the way down there? Are you still living on Ludlow?"

"Yeah. It's a little far, but it's super cheap and totally worth it. See, Paolo started seeing a guy that works there or something, and I've been dating this guy that was on the Olympic swim team, back in Colombia? Anyway, Paolo and I were looking at our skinny arms one day and were like, 'We should get bigger guns'. Not in that 'steroids to cover the meds' kind of way, but kind of like 'look at my guns; they're a reflection of my free time and affluence' kind of way, you know?"

"I guess, but...."

"So we both joined up, but Paolo's never gone back, but I totally put on the rollerblades and go there through Chinatown (which is insane by the way). At the Woolworth building, you go into the 'once fancy but now kind of run down' lobby. There's this security guard that totally knows what's up, and he's flirty and semi-sexy. Very 'if it was his birthday, but it'll never be his birthday'? Then you go down to the basement and there's Oo La La."

"Oo La La?"

"Just a name that's easier to say and makes it seem a little swankier. Because it's kind of a dump. There's lots of machines, but there's always broken ones. And the treadmills are all wobbly. I just think that's a sign that they totally know what's up downstairs by the pool."

"Swimming?"

"In a sea of men. Or semen if you get in the hot tub. Not that I'd ever get in either one of them."

"So you don't use the equipment upstairs and you don't swim. How are you ever going get your 'guns'?"

"I'm not Annie! Ha! Um.... No, sizzlesnatch, I do some free weights and stuff. I sort of watch some of the other guys and do what they do. And then guys see me looking and then there's all these 'sorry, just trying to squeeze by' moments. But the pool is too dirty for me, and who knows what happens in that hot tub, but I just don't think the recipe for sperm stew requires this chicken."

"But if you're not having sex in the hot tub or the steam room, where's it happening?"

"In the shower stalls, winkywang."

"Well, I guess what happens behind a closed door....

"Door?"

"Sorry, curtain."

"Curtain? No, it's all just sort of out in the open. After all these phone calls did you somehow get the impression I was shy? Do you even listen?"

"I even take notes."

"You better. I won't be around forever you know. I'll call you next week!"

Previously: Getting Tunneled At The Tunnel Bar

"Hello?"

"Plastipoon, have you ever seen 'The Accused'?"

"The Jodie Foster movie? I think so, but it's been years."

"Well, I totally saw a scene from it played out tonight at Tunnel Bar."

"What? Did you see someone get gang-raped on a pool table?"

"First of all, Jodie was banged on a pinball machine, not a pool table."

"But it was a gang-rape, wasn't it?"

"In the movie? Hell yes. It was a brutal assault on a woman by a slew of rough trade. The boner it gave me was so embarrassing. But this wasn't a gang rape; it was more of a group grope at Tunnel Bar."

"But wait. I'm confused. Didn't you say before that Tunnel was a some kind of wild drug-filled club? Doesn't sound like a place that would have a pinball machine."

"Oh, similar name, but totally different place. Tunnel Bar is at First Avenue and Seventh Street and it's the dreggiest of the dregs. You walk in the door and think you've gone blind because the lights are so low. But you don't need to be able to see, as it's a tried and true railroad-style bar."

"So, there are, like, little trains and signal signs in the décor?"

"You scare me sometimes. No, as in it's laid out in a straight line from front to back. Basically the bar stretches almost from the front door to the back where the bathrooms, the pool table and the pinball machine are. It's just that basic layout that works so well for a cruise bar."

"Cruise bar? What's that?"

"It's kind of a "sure thing" place. A place you go in with the intention of finding a fuck. And you always do. The music is probably off some old mix tape by the bartender's boyfriend or a jukebox with all the hits from whenever the place opened. (I totally swear I heard 'Heaven on Earth' there last night.) But yeah, the décor is just as bad—think Christmas lights. One good thing is that the drinks are probably super-strong. And let me tell you, they have to be."

"Why so?"

"Because, glistenglans, cruise bars are filled with trolls."

"That must be awful. Does one of the owners have a collection of trolls that he just brought to the bar? Or are the trolls just there for kitsch value?"

"What are—"

"Whichever is the case you should check them out because some of the Thomas Dam originals are really valuable."

"It's like we speak different languages sometimes, glamourgash. A troll is an unfuckable that comes to a bar, usually stakes out a space, and slowly siphons one or two drinks the entire night. The troll stalks his prey waiting for them to cross a line of sobriety to a point where the troll doesn't seem so, well, trollish. Then the troll strikes, usually with a back massage or a backroom grope."

"Speaking of groping, you mentioned something happening on the pool table?"

"Are you paying attention?. It was on the 'Death Star Multiball' pinball machine. This Filipino guy that was sort of cute, but had some kind of facial flaw that just overrode his sort of awesome body got really drunk and was flirting up just about anyone in his proximity. He was sort of causing a commotion by the bar and blocking traffic, so he eventually moved toward the back. I'm not sure how it happened, but the next time I looked his Levi's were down around his ankles. As were his FTLs. And although I wasn't close enough to see specifics I'm pretty sure he at least got a blowjob and fingered by a few different guys."

"Which attracted these 'trolls,' right?"

"It was trolls in transit from all corners to try to grasp on to that horny vibe and try to get something for themselves."

"And where were you during all this?"

"I totally met this dreamy guy Juan who was sitting back and laughing his ass off about the whole thing. Oh! I hear the bathroom door turning, so I think he's coming back for round three which means I've got to let you go. Bye!"

"Oh, snickersnatch, cheer The Past up. I'm down in the dumps."

"Sounds pretty bad."

"So bad I was crying to a Janet Jackson song."

"That's pretty severe. Has this been going on for a while?"

"No, my depression started when I did a line off a pierced cock in a bathroom stall at Hell!"

"Drugs in a bathroom in hell? Are you sure you didn't just have a bad dream?"

"Not that hell. Hell in the new gayborhood, the Meatpacking District. It's this brand new lounge. Very upscale compared to Mother and The Lure. And convenient to Florent."

"Oh, you've mentioned Florent before. But you had a bad time there?"

"No I was having a great time. I got together with my ex, Luis, and we wanted to check out something 'not in the East Village,' just to try something new. So around ten we started our night by cabbing over to Gansevoort Street. The place has a simple metal sign out front so it was a little hard to find at first, but then we walked through the heavy metal doors and inside the place was bursting with boys."

"Sounds like fun so far."

"And it was for awhile. You walk in and there were black leather banquettes and chairs and stools and people were, like, sitting. The bar took up two sides of a back corner and was really cute. In fact everything, there in the middle of the Meatpacking District was 'cute.' Even the drinks. We're used to the 'vodka cran' crowd, but everyone was drinking cosmos, sloshing them around in martini glasses. All this cuteness should have been a warning sign."

"Warning?"

"Of the evil that was to come. The cuteness was just one sign though. The DJ was playing Spice Girls. And he even played En Vogue. Not the good stuff, but the new stuff, without Dawn Robinson? Just not the same. And then there were the clothes on the boys. Dolce and Comme de Garcon and Versace, all very 'constructed' and 'tailored' and 'fitted'. No Bikkemberg or Dries Van Notten. And certainly no vintage Adidas track pants like mine."

"Vintage? Like from Salvation Army?"

"I'm not that ambitious. I just go to the shops on East Sixth. Anyway, so after a few drinks we got friendly with some of the guys. Over the wailings of Mariah Carey, we got an invitation to make a run to the bathroom. Four of us fit in a stall—gotta love the handicapped. And everybody was doing little key bumps and I, being a little tipsy, was all, 'Just make me a line.' And this other guy was all, 'Only if you do it off my dick,' which I thought was lame, but whatever. He pulls it out and it's a Prince Albert model. With a piercing at the tip? Which explains why he wanted everyone to see it, the freak."

"And this is when your depression began?"

"Well, no! At that moment I was like crazy-euphoric. But once the burning started, I realized what was going on. It wasn't coke on the cock. It wasn't coke at all! It was crystal. Fucking Tina!"

"Well, I've warned you before...."

"If I had known, it wouldn't have happened. The next thing I know there's twelve of us in two cabs headed to an apartment on East 16th between Fifth and Sixth. Really nice place, but then I saw the 72-pack of Trojans, and Luis and I just looked at each other and shrugged. Anyway, two days later, we're sitting in the apartment, still awake and listening to Janet Jackson and sobbing. 'The Velvet Rope.' It's way deep. You should check it out cuddlecunt."

"Oh, um, okay. Not my usual thing really."

"'What about the times you said you didn't fuck her. She only gave you head. What about that, what about that.' That Janet. She's a poet. She's got such a great future ahead of her! I'm going to try to go to sleep now. It's been three days. Talk soon."

Previously: The Death of Wigstock

"Hello?"

"Oh, hi. Are you doing okay? Is everything all right?"

"Such concern from The Past? I guess I'm okay, I mean there are..."

"Ah, putridpits, that's great for you, but I'm feeling lost. I just don't know what to do."

"Oh, no. What happened?"

"It's Labor Day weekend and there's not going to be a Wigstock!"

"A wig's what?"

"Wig-stock. Wigstock! For years now there has been this gigantic gathering of drag queens, trannies, and all the other best people on stage on Labor Day. This year Lady Bunny has no money."

"Lady Bunny? Is she, like preppy English royalty?"

"No, merkinmouth, she's drag queen royalty. Back in the 1980s, after a late night at Pyramid, she and a bunch of others went over to Tompkins Square and just kept the party going, putting on a show for hours into the morning. One year later, they made the show into a dragstravaganza—Wigstock. It went on for years there in the park, but eventually outgrew the space. For the 10th anniversary a couple years back, it moved to the pier."

"The Pier? Is that a club?"

"I've told you about the piers before. Off Christopher Street? Anyway, once it moved there, the crowds became gigantic. Like over 50,000 people all coming together to see probably the best show in the world."

"The best? And it was all drag queens?"

"Everybody would be there. Let's see. Some of my favorites have been Lypsinka serving up homage to Alfred Hitchcock ..."

"Heh. You said cock."

"Shimmershaft, this is serious. Candace Cayne came on with, like 20 male cheerleaders and did a routine. Varla Jean Merman did her opera thing. And so many more. Mona Foote, Flotilla DeBarge, Linda Simpson, Shasta Cola, Girlina, Joey Arias, Sherry Vine, oh, and that bitch Honey Dijon."

"Bitch?"

"Yeah, she and my friend Tia mixed words at Club USA which ended in Honey's wig getting thrown off the roof deck and into Times Square."

"Drag drama, huh? How can they even put on a show with all those drag queens? There's bound to be drama."

"Sometimes that's not a bad thing. One year, there was this gigantic mobile over the stage held up by, like, fishing wire. It's windy at the piers so the wire stretched and the thing was starting to droop and sway. Queens on the stage had to watch their wigs, it was getting so low. Luckily there was a pier queen, Afro-Dite, who was backstage getting ready. While everybody else was all panicky, Afro-Dite just reached into her handbag and pulled out a gigantic knife, walked up to the stage and cut the thing down. It was a show-stopper."

"Sorry, but it sounds insane. Hours and hours of drag queens."

"There's also other performers. Ann Magnuson did some spoken word. And then there are the divas. Vicki Sue Robinson. Joi Cardwell. Barbara Tucker. Crystal Waters. Ultra Nate. Oh! And one time Debbie Harry stormed the stage while the Dueling Bankheads were doing an interpretation of 'Heart of Glass.' It was kind of obviously staged, but some idiot at the Post thought it was for real and wrote about how Blondie was a has-been. Fucking rag."

"So it's a huge event. And it gets press coverage. So why isn't it happening?"

"Pay attention, twinkletaint. Lady Bunny needs money. Now that everybody is coming to the show, the city is making them put out security and porta-potties. Instead, there'll be a fund-raiser at Palladium. Inside. It's a tragedy. Without Wigstock, it's just not Labor Day."

"It's still a long weekend. You can do something else and have fun. Maybe a picnic in Central Park!"

"And here I thought I was lost! I have to go and cheer myself up with a burger over at Julius. But, for real. Without Wigstock, why even wake up on Monday?"

Earlier: Past, Over
[Image via]

"Hello?"

"All the world is waiting for yoooooooou, and the power you possessssss."

"Okay. That's definitely a song from The Past. But I can't place it."

"In your satin tights, fighting for your rights, and the old red, white, and bluuuuuuuuuuuue!"

"Okay, I give. Why are you singing the Wonder Woman theme song?"

"Gobblegash! You know that song? It's just been stuck in my head from watching Candace Cayne and Girlina kiki it at Crow Bar!"

"CroBar? Over in Chelsea?"

"Oh god. I can't imagine Crow Bar ever moving to Chelsea. That would be insane. All those muscle queens in their semi-sheer stretchy-shirts? No, Crow Bar is on Tenth Street, across the street from Tompkins Square Park."

"Oh! My friend Fiona loves taking her son to Tompkins. She says it has the best playgrounds in the East Village."

"Hammerhole, sometimes I think we're talking about a totally different city. But Crow Bar is a bit of a playground for me. It's my favorite type of place. Simple bar. Black box with minimal lights. Shrieky sound system. Tonight I went there with Paul and Tia. We got there early, like around 11:30?"

"Eleven-thirty?"

"Well, it is a Wednesday night. Anyway, Girlina arrived just after that. And Candace too. Then they put on a great set."

"As much as you go out—how can you afford it?"

"At Crow Bar? Well, we didn't pay cover because they don't even bother to check the list for us. We're probably not even on it anyway. Then there were drink tickets, which we didn't need because Marco was bartending. It's sort of like they're paying us because they know we'll be having a good time and spreading a happy vibe."

"But is that a good business plan?"

"You know what, sugarshaft? It. Takes. Seven kinds of fruit to make Hawaiian Punch. Seven kinds of fruit in a Hawaiian Punch. Seven kinds of fruit. Dooty dooty doot. For that one of a kind fruit taste."

"What the ...?"

"Your questions. Buh-oring! But Candace and Girlina were lip synching that with seven femmy boys they dragged on stage from the audience. It was hilarious."

"But isn't that a little mean-spirited?"

"It's a compliment that they even got them on stage. Then they dragged this kind of over-sized Dominican guy up and guess what they sang?"

"I can't even begin ..."

"Honeycomb's big...yeah yeah yeah! It's not small...no no no! Honeycomb's got...a big big bite! Big big taste in a big big bite!"

"That's so mean! This went on all night?"

"No, it was 20 minutes at most. Then they ended with my favorite. Twirling and kicking and giving face and spinning and lassoing ..."

"Wonder Woman."

"Now the world is ready for yoooooooooou, and the wonders you can dooooooo."

"Got it."

"Make a hawk a dove. Stop a war with love. Make a liar tell the truuuuuuth."

"Okay, okay. But it was just 20 minutes? Seems like a short night."

"We were just getting started! After the show they dropped the lights down to almost nothing and we danced our asses off. Tia left with some 'straight' Panamanian guy who's in the Navy around two. And then Paul disappeared in the dark room in the back."

"Dark room?"

"Yeah, in the back, there's no lights at all and everyone is just sort of unzipped and feeling around. I checked it out, just in the interest of science, of course, and this guy had his hand on my erection and was all, 'Look, I'm way too coked up to hook up, but I had to give that thing a feel.' Which sort of annoyed me as he offered not one bump, so I went back out on the dance floor, still a bit in flagrante and shit under my striped Moschinos."

"And you went home alone?"

"Oh, never. There was this Puerto Rican guy who was raised in Germany and spoke perfect French. He's a model or something and was totally into me. He had a boyfriend and mine was out of town, so down to Ludlow Street we went! He left right before I called you."

"But it's eight in the morning!"

"Exactly. Which means The Past has to get to work! Later, nibblenips!"

Earlier: Past, Over

"Hello?"

"Annoyed. The Past is annoyed."

"And talking in third person."

"Cursed queeny affectations. They come out when I'm worked up. My hands are flailing like one of those rainbow-pride wind-socks that the lesbians love to put outside their apartment windows. Lesbians. Ugh."

"Am I gathering that your current mental state is somehow tied to the lady-loving ladies?"

"Yes, sprinklesplooge, YES! I just got kicked out of Meow Mix. Again!"

"Meow mix? Do you have a cat?"

"Um, yeah. Two. Miles and Groove are... wait. Meow Mix isn't about cats. It's about pussy. It's a dyke bar."

"Oh. Okay. Wow. A dyke bar. Filled with womyn? Not your usual venue."

"Well, this guy I'm dating... well, dating is probably wrong. We sort of hooked up in the peep booths at USA a month ago and his luggage just sort of started adding up on the bed-stoop. So I guess we're living together. I'm not really sure. Anyway, so, like, he's from a small town in Colombia and he met this lesbian girl from his home town and they've been hanging out. Since Meow Mix is just over on Suffolk and Houston, they've been going there."

"Suffolk and Houston? Trendy."

"Are you kidding me? Even I feel a little on edge when I cross Essex. Or maybe it's this new hydro I've been getting down at the lingerie shop. It's an ass-kicker. I was smoking it before I got to the bar."

"And they kicked you out for being high?"

"Fumblefuck. I'm a professional. No, Luis and La-La went there before me and asked me to meet them later. Which isn't totally true. Actually I wanted to do some Jager shots before I left to prepare me for the place. Lesbians make me nervous! When I got there this grunged-out L7-reject was working the door and she wouldn't let me in because I wasn't accompanied by a lady. And I'm all like, 'I'm an obvious 'mo, girlfriend,' and she was all, 'I'm not your girlfriend.' But then La-La came to the door and since she's the new clit in town, she was able to get me in. So there I was, the nice old-fashioned bar. The bad lighting. The Joan Jett-fueled jukebox. And no boys worth seeing except the one I'm already fucking."

"You're beginning to sound misogynistic. From what I understand, in small towns the gay bars are totally mixed with dykes and homos chatting it up and even dancing together."

"Well, I'm sure in the concentration camps everybody got along just swell, too. But in New York we have options. Don't get me wrong. I really tried hard. I thought up clever names for people like crispyclit and tingletwat, and that wasn't so bad. What really threw them over the edge though was when I decided the place needed a catwalk and started trying to get the girls to do some pageant for me. It was like a hundred Frida Kahlos up in my face, unibrows united. Before I could even say goodbye to my friends I was out the door with Ms. 45 herself pointing my way back down Houston."

"Hey. You said you'd been thrown out of there before? What happened then?"

"Oh, that night? Pretty much the same thing. I'm all for trying to make lesbian friends but it's like you're trying and trying to, like, push a rock up a hill and it just keeps rolling back down over you?"

"Like Sisyphus?"

"I've had gonorrhea once but—Oh, wait. I hear Luis at the door. Sounds like he's alone. Gotta find the lube! Talk soon."

"Hello?"

"Oh, yeah, hi. It's The Past. I'm so glad you're home. I'm having a total clean-mergency. Any idea how to get cum out of red satin?"

"Red satin? Are you at a bordello or a prom after-party?"

"There's no time for joking about this. I'm really serious—these are my favorite pants, tinkletits!"

"Red satin pants? Where in the world would you get red satin pants?"

"What ridiculous questions you ask sometimes. Pat Field's place over on Eighth Street, of course!"

"On Eighth Street? Oh, just add a couple dashes of white vinegar to Woolite and hand wash in cold water, by the way."

"You knew this and were making small talk all this time?"

"No, I was searching Google for the answer."

"Google? I'll have to see if they have it at The Strand the next time I'm there. Seems useful."

"Um. Well... Okay, so I'm assuming by Pat Field you mean Patricia Field, right?"

"Yeah, Pat. I see her and Rebecca out and about from time to time. "

"And by Eighth Street, you're talking between Fifth and Sixth? A little down market isn't it?"

"Down market! Eighth Street is fabulous! First of all, I can't imagine buying shoes anywhere else. Tia works at Juno and always holds a pair of the best things in my size when they come in. And most of the shoe stores there always have the most current looks that, if they aren't on sale, can be talked down. And it's not just shoes. All the trannies love, love, love Joyce Leslie. It's like the clothes there were specially made for tranny body-types. And then there's the temple, the pinnacle, the place to shop and be seen"

"Patricia Field."

"Exactly. The more couture items are upstairs for people with cash, and the more standard club things are downstairs with for people with flash. Granted, some of it is very Club Kid 101 with your silver-painted platform boots, Seuss-inspired stockings, and of course, a plethora of patent leather. You can even come in and get full makeup and wig treatment from Perfidia or one of the other trannies."

"No offense, but aren't trannies known to be, well, thievish? Probably not the best people to hire for a retail store."

"Shame on you, curdlecock! Sure, there are girls that have worked the streets forever and don't know how to behave when they get a job that doesn't involve jumping into Puffy's passenger-side door. But Patricia gives everybody one chance. Granted, it's just one, though. She's very 'fool me once,' you know?"

"So Patricia is in the store looking over things?"

"She used to be, but not so much lately. She got really busy doing costume design for this move Miami-something-or-other."

"Rhapsody?"

"Maybe. Some chick flick. Anyone, she got really friendly with this girl who used to be in Square Pegs. Not the hot one who ended up in Less Than Zero. One of the homely ones."

"Sarah Jessica Parker."

"Yeah, I think so. Anyway, they got to be all buddy-buddy, and now Patricia's been working on this thing for HBO that Sarah..."

"Okay. Stop right there. Dude. Wow. This is a total moral dilemma. Fuck!"

"Shimmershaft! Snap out of it! What are you going on about?"

"I've never done this before. I've always respected the fact that me being in the future and you being The Past means that I can't tell you certain things. Things that could change the future. But this time, I have to break the rules. We, you and me... we can save New York. We can stop the influx of assistant editwats before it actually happens."

"But I really need to get the stain out of these pants, nappynads. Can it wait?"

"The show that Patricia Field goes to work for becomes a huge hit with self-absorbed women across the U.S. They end up coming to New York by the thousand thinking they are 'just like' the characters that they saw on television. Then, once the television show ended, they all start having babies and their self-absorption mutates and creates a nanny-state government. Seriously, you have to save Patricia from this show. Save Patricia Field. Save the world."

"Um, okay. If I see her at Lipstick Room tonight, I'll try to mention it. But I really have to go for now."

"Wait! Save Patricia Field! Save the—hello? You still there? Dammit!"

Earlier: Past, Over

"Hello?"

"I'm so hot and sticky, confetticrotch. I must smell like Jeff Stryker's trashcan."

"Ah, so the weather's as humid for The Past as it is for us. It's really been atrocious."

"The weather? Not really. I think it's maybe going to be 75 at most today. I'm not too sure. Willard Scott was babbling about birthdays as I got home, and I couldn't bear to wait for the forecast."

"So why so hot and sticky?"

"S.E.X., baby. I've been at The Jewel Theatre."

"Is this that peep booth place you told me about before?"

"I really only go there for laughs, but it is nearby. The Jewel is on the west side of Third, between 12th and 13th. I'd been at Webster Hall and was hot and heavy for this hazel-eyed F.I.T. student from Amsterdam, even though he seemed a little off."

"I can't even imagine what you consider to be 'a little off.'"

"Simple. Getting ass-plowed in the Webster Hall dark room by Natasha Twist? A little off. Anyway, he got going that pain in my main vein, and I was tired of being handbagged by the drag queens, so I made kisses with everyone and walked up the two blocks to the most non-descript/fascinating building in the East Village. Simple black glass doors with no sign and no indication of what's going on inside."

"And you knew what was inside because..."

"Well, back when I was a closet case and new to the city, I attended a wedding shower for my former roommate, Lady Jane. A bunch of us made an afterparty at Café Tabac over on Ninth. I'd thrown up red wine all over my white shirt and was bumbling out of Tabac when I saw this hot Latin boy that I just followed until I was inside the Jewel."

"That's insane."

"It was three years ago. I've changed. But the Jewel hasn't. When you walk through those glass doors, you pay your $8 to the ticket guy, go through the turnstile and you're in the lobby. There are lockers that cost a quarter that's refunded when you return your key. You can check your wallet or any extraneous clothes. And the best part of the lobby? All the soda you can drink. And free Oreos and pretzels—if feel like eating, you know?"

"You said it was a theatre?"

"Totally. Just go through the doors and suddenly it's like you're at a normal movie theatre. Sometimes it's just a karate movie, but usually it's some of the lamest porn in the world. Very Joey Stefano '80s stuff. If you're not in the know you'll sit and watch the action on the screen, but eventually even the dumbest bunny will figure out that there's more on the stage than a screen."

"People have sex on the stage?"

"No, but as you watch the stage, you'll see a procession of people going behind the screen on the right side of the stage. Once you're up there, there's a completely unlit stairwell and you can hear music, which almost always seems to be 'The Witchdoctor' or that 'Education' song."

"Education?"

"You definitely know it. It's probably for sale on K-Tel records by now. Miss Thing, Miss Thing, Miss Thing, Miss Thing. Went to buy a diamond ring. Then she went to Burger King, and found they were not hiring. It's very Two Potato. Very Monster. Anywhat, you follow the music and then you're in this black pit of a basement. The black pit is lined with two hallways with cubbyholes filled by men of all shapes and sizes, ages and races. Although there always seems to be a majority of old Asian guys. In fact, most dark rooms are."

"Sounds like you could meet some unseemly characters there."

"Oh, just your usual suspects. 'Skinhead guy that starts puking while sucking you off.' 'Older guy with ginormous cock that you have to see and will give you coke in an attempt to fuck you.' 'Married Dominican guy with tattoos of his daughters on his biceps.' No surprises."

"And what exactly do you do in there?"

"If you want some sexy talk you should call The Number, bumblebutt. For now, I'm throwing some Bacitracin on my cock and catching some rays up on my tar beach roof deck. Talk soon ..."

Earlier: Past, Over

"Hello?"

"Glittergash! Happy Pride! Do you have your weekend all planned out?"

"Honestly? I've been so busy, I haven't thought about it. I think my friend Rafael is having a birthday party, but other than that..."

"That's insane! There's so many things to do! So many boys to do! Not even one event?"

"Well, maybe. Anything you can recommend?"

"Yes! Yes, yes, yes! Get your ass down to Christopher Street!"

"But it's so crowded down there. And there's, well, an undesirable element."

"The crowd is the point, scrunchysac! When else are you going to be squeezed between a bleach blonde octogenarian lesbian and a barely legal Peruvian transsexual? My dyke-friend Regina throws this fab party at her place on Christopher. It has a huge fire escape and we fit as many people on it as possible and spray champagne (well, beer actually) on the floats as they go by. Since it's usually a hot day, even the most heavily made up drag queen is thrilled to get a little golden shower."

"A golden shower! That's disgusting."

"Not what I meant—but probably true too. Anyway, once her apartment becomes unmanageable, we'll bail on her and head down to the huge street fair at the end of the parade. There are booths for everything in the world there, from gay rights to gay fetishes to gay gyros and gay elephant ears! And all those condoms! And the lube!"

"Condoms and lube?"

"Every booth you stop by is giving out a Trojan and Wet! by the bucketful. You can get a year's supply just by walking that little strip of Washington Street. And if you haven't found a year's supply of people to use it with, then you're obviously doing something wrong."

"But the people that attend are, well—"

"From all over the world, baby! This is where it all started! It's like Gay Homecoming Weekend! You just walk up to some hottie straight off the Concorde, raise an eyebrow, smile and slam your tongue down their throat! And all those tourists totally want to take your picture. That's why I always buy a fresh pair of easy accesses."

"Easy what?"

"Accesses. A pair of shorts with an elastic waistband, preferably by Jocko. When somebody points a camera at you, you don't want to fumbling with a belt and a zipper when they ask to photo the phallus."

"You expose yourself in the street? In front of a camera? Is that a good idea? Those pics could end up anywhere in the world!"

"What? You think they'd send my member to Playgirl or White Inches? Doubtful. (Not that they couldn't, as the pinga is be-gorgeous.) They'll just develop the picture and put it in an album at home. Everybody does it. It's Pride, bitchybutch!"

"Okay, okay. I'll check out the street fair on Washington. Then, let me guess ... then you head over to the Pier for the big dance?"

"I have before, but probably not this year. It's fun to kiki around, pop a pill, and snag all the random bumps going around, but I'm really thinking there's going to be way too much Crystal this year."

"Yeah, methed-up messes are the worst."

"No, no. Not meth. Waters! She's got a new album out and I'm just sick to tears of it already. I'm more into Amber now. Anyhoot, I've got to trim and shape my goatee, get my chest waxed and trim my pubes over at Randee Elaine. You better go to the parade, brilloballs, and no bourgeois bullshit excuses. It's Pride. Spread the love."

Earlier: Past, Over

[Image via]

"Hello."

"Love, life, and laughter is all I be-lee-heeve..."

"This is The Past?"

"I never learned how to hold love ... Yeah, dude. It's me. Golly, sweet-n-ho, I think I might be in love."

"Golly? Love? Okay, I've asked you not to call me when you're on drugs."

"I'm not high. It's just that there was this dreamy guy I met at Webster Hall's Makeup Room."

"Sorry. I didn't mean anything by it. It's just that you didn't sound like yourself. You met someone."

"Yeah. Tia, Paolo, and I went out. We started early over at that dump, Dick's. There's a mannequin head there on top of one of the speakers that we like to call Delish, because she looks like this tranny of the same name who sort of disappeared last year just after she got all fierce on a dress that Tia wore to Tunnel. Our story is that Tia lopped off her head and left it at Dick's, so we like to visit her every once in a while. The fact that it's just a block away from their apartment helps. Her head looks so pretty surrounded by all the Christmas lights and cobwebs."

"That's kind of sick. Decapitation? Really?"

"Oh, it's just a joke, jazzyjizz. Anyway, then we went over to Webster Hall, went down to the basement for that hip-hop party that's always empty and to check in on our favorite bathroom attendant. We chatted up Miss Understood for 10 minutes and then went up to the balcony. Omigod, there were a Susie and a Marcy, just begging Chris Couture to let them up to Makeup Room and Ms. Couture was all, 'I'm not high and it's not your birthday.'"

"Wait. A Susie and a Marcy?"

"Susie and Marcies. Girls from Jersey. The kind who are always in the bathroom stalls, like, peeing and shitting, and talking to each other. All 'Hey Sooooosie. You in dehre?' And whatever? It's great that they pay cover and all, but they are so obnoxious and freak-out-y when we're all hanging in the loo, you know? Granted we get them back by stealing their drinks off the bar when we don't have drink tickets handy."

"So they pay admission but can't come up to the party?"

"Oh god no. See, Makeup Room is on the balcony level where there's a private bar that's just for the gays and the freaks. Reign Voltaire promotes it and it's truly the funnest of crowds. Steve Travolta came out of the booth to kiss cheeks and then we went down to the stage on the main floor through the dressing room stairwell. Tia was doing runway with TJ Mozzarella when I saw him."

"This guy you're in love with."

"Totally. He's kind of a little Latin guy, but wears these really high lace-up platform boots that actually make him taller than me. He's all bedecked in black leather and denim and wears these gigantic wings. He was all, 'I've seen you around, but we've never talked,' and I was all like, 'Yeah, why is that?' even though I knew the answer."

"Which is?"

"Because my friends all say he's bad news. And they say he's straight. But I still think he has pretty eyes. Anyway, he gave me a bump..."

"Hey. You told me you weren't high!"

"Spinchtermunch. A bump doesn't get you high. A bump gets you going. Anyway, he was all like, 'See me later if you need some more, baby.' Granted, I didn't see him again tonight, but I so want to. He's sort of dangerous and dreamy all wrapped together."

"Um, listen. How do I ask this... Was his name Angel?"

"Omigod! Yes! Do you know about him? Is he some clubland superstar in the future? Is he my boyfriend?!?"

"Oh, wow. I can't say anymore. It could change the future and, well, Wilson Cruz doesn't get a lot of roles."

"Wilson ... Huh? You mean Ricky from My So Called Life? What's he got to do with Angel?"

"I think I should just hang up. Just be careful and call me next week, okay?"

Related: Party Boy in a Cage [NY]
Related: Michael Alig Mugshot [Gawker]
Earlier: Past, Over

"Hello?"

"God bless Amerifuckinca, Criscocrotch!"

"The Past? I've never known you to be so patriotic."

"Dude. Clinton's got the country going in the right direction! The economy's great, the city's striving, and I totally just banged a soldier."

"Where would you meet a soldier?"

"Since it's Fleet Week there's little G.I. Ho's swarming the streets, but I got mines at Club U.S.A.!"

"Club USA? Is that something like Six Flags?"

"More like Six Thousand Fags! It's a nightclub in Times Square of all places. It's different than the places I usually go. Very 'produced' and 'thought out.' And the crowd on the huge main floor is way too diverse, but I guess that serves a purpose."

"Since when is diversity bad?"

"When you're coming all the way from downtown to Midtown, it's scary to begin with. And when you're on the dance floor and there's some turista de Barcelona getting up in your business in her Versace ensemble, it can be a little disheartening. I sort of walk to the door, give Kenny Kenny his kisses due, and head for the stage. If the trannies are giving show I'll stick around to hand out homage for a bit, but then it's straight up to the Thierry Mugler Room, to be among the civilized. The sound is way better there anyway. Granted I wasn't there for long last night."

"You hooked up with the soldier there?"

"Tongue-tits. They don't allow someone in a Navy uniform into the VIP area. No, there was drama because there's a bunch of heroin-based Ecstacy going around. So instead of the hyper atmosphere the speedy stuff usually gives you, everyone was all 'suck my finger' and shit. I headed up to the roof and it was, like, zombie-town. I'm surrounded by all these blinking Times Square lights and these brain-dead clubbies."

"It's good you didn't do drugs. Sometimes you should take a break from that stuff."

"What are you talking about? I get my shit from Formika's friend. It's always just right. Anyway. I was feeling avant garde so I headed down to the mezzanine area and that's where I saw him. He was in line for the slide wearing..."

"Wait. Slide?"

"Yeah, there's a tube that you can ride down a piece of carpet from the mezzanine level down to the dance floor. Granted, if anyone in the know were to see you doing it, you'd probably be off every list ever. It's for, like, the masses, you know? Anyway. He was there in his tight white poly-cotton uniform getting all ready for his big slide-venture and our eyes totally locked. He rode down the slide but was looking at me until the very second he went into the tube."

"You didn't ride down to find him?"

"And commit social suicide? No. I walked over to the fetish area. There's this hallway that is lined up with video booths, like in a porn shop. Even though I sort of frown on the over-design of it all I have to admit it's sort of genius. And guess who I see?"

"Navy guy?"

"Exactly. I'm all 'come hither' and he hither comes and we start talking. And I'm all like, 'Are you gay?' and he's all like, 'Don't ask, don't tell,' to which I'm all, 'Don't ask, it's obvious.' So then we went into one of the booths and started messing around."

"Messing around? At the club?"

"Yes and yes. He's never going to forget it. It was all like, 'your condom or mine?' and then I was banging him mercilessly, whisper-chanting in his ear, 'U.S.A., U.S.A.' The repressed make such great lays with all their pent-up energy. You gotta love Fleet Week."

"Well, we have it, but I wouldn't exactly call it fun. In my eyes it's just a bunch of stressed out soldiers walking around making homophobic comments."

"Dude. I can't imagine why they'd be stressed out. Being in the military's nothing but hanging out with a bunch of guys all day and night. Maybe traveling to Berlin or Japan or someplace cool like that."

"Well, they're stressed because ..."

"Hold up, sparklespunk, I've got a feeling that if you tell me you'll stress me out. We'll talk soon."

Earlier: Past, Over

"Hello?"

"He-he-hello! It's The Past calling, perkypecs! Me and my buddy Tia just got back from the Angelika. Have you ever heard of this actress Parker Posing?"

"Posey. Parker Posey."

"Yeah, like, she's in it and Natasha Twist and those horrible It Twins. Oh, and Lady Bunny's in it, but her name's not in the credits—scandal! Anyway, it's about this girl who throws parties to pay her rent. Which is totally ironic."

"What's ironic about that?"

"Because the only reason Tia went to see this Party Girl movie was because she was kicked out of her place while her room-mate Paolo was hosting a Carter's New York Prime party at their apartment."

"What's that, like a steak-of-the-month club?"

"Well, there's some beef there, but no. Tia and Paolo were hanging out at Cats, that hustler bar in Times Square? They met up with this big dude that had no looks but tons of personality. Turns out he's Carter, as in the famous Carter of Carter's New York Prime."

"Famous?"

"Well, if you read that little fagrag, HX, every week—and who doesn't—there's always a listing for his parties. It's totally exclusive. You have to call this number in the listing to arrange an 'interview' with Carter (which I'm pretty sure that include a visit to Fellation Nation). Once you're on the list, you receive word each month about the parties. They've been all over the city; Paolo even went to one in the basement of Splash."

"What? People were having sex right on the bar?"

"Mon chaton ennuyeux, the bar is upstairs. Anyway, since so many gays are moving to the East Village, Carter was looking for a venue in the 'hood and since Paul's rent is kind of expensive, he went for it. I can't say I can blame him. They're paying almost $1600 for a two bedroom."

"$1600? For a two bedroom that's ..."

"Insane, I know, but it's fancy and sort of has a perfect layout for the sex parties. Grante, he has to prep things. He covers all the furniture with black plastic and tuck tape...wait, I mean duct tape. Anyway, he rolls up the rugs, puts purple gels on all the lamps, and sets up a rolling rack in the kitchen."

"A rolling rack in the kitchen? Sounds kinky."

"What doesn't to you? What happens is people enter the apartment, check in and pay at the breakfast nook and then take off all of their clothes in the kitchen where our other friend Eric is operating the check-in."

"Wait, but you said it was Paolo's apartment. Where's Paolo?"

"He's walking around making sure there are plenty of condoms and lube and no one's trying to get into Tia's room. Not to mention sticking little Paolo into anywho and anywhat."

"Wait. They don't use Tia's room? So why doesn't she just hang out there during the party?"

"Six hours is a long time to sit in your room and read Cosmo. And it's not like she can just come out and be all, 'Hey, boys.' The last thing these guys need to see is a tranny that's taller than them. And Tia's all like, 'Not to mention better hung!'"

"So, like, in Party Girl, she ends up becoming a librarian or something, right? You think that's going to happen to Paolo?"

"Paolo has this big time job already. Merchandise Coordinator for Nobody Beats the Wiz. You know that'll lead to something big."

"Actually, The Wiz ..."

"Dude, I've been ignoring Tia while I was talking to you and now I've got a rowdy tranny on my hands. We're going to go to Meow Mix and yell at lesbians for a while. Talk soon."

Earlier: Past, Over