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The actual party itself

VIP passes ain't what they used to be. It used to be, when you were getting Star Treatment, you could walk in through a special trapdoor into a special eelskin chamber and Jack Nicholson would be there handing out cocaine and Cuban cigars and nude NFL cheerleaders. Now, you're shoulder to shoulder with all the faceless, thick-necked illiterates who compose the bulk of club-going; shuffled through the same smoky basement hallways and rudely refused admission into various parts of the staircase by the same hulking walls of brainless bouncer-flesh that are supposed to be keeping the people you're smashed against away from you. Our special "All Access" star-treatment badges were as grotesque and worthless as the hours-old, congealing suckling pig carcass in the belly-dancing room. With the dripping black candles and frayed grape clusters, the savaged catering table looked like it had been arranged by Satan, or Joel Peter Witkin.

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Joan Jett: Sexy!

There was one great thing about the party: Joan Jett is a totally screaming-hot babe. A mega-fidelity robo-BABE. She's the hottest lipstick butch dyke I've ever seen. Rubber pants. Rubber midriff. Blond flattop. She's like a really beautiful punk rock boy, covered with real organic muscles, and she knows how to rock out with her cock out. I never liked Joan Jett or thought she rocked before, but when you see her live, she is unbelievably HOT-tuh-tuh. And she sounds great. Her rock 'n' roll energy is as libido engulfing as that of young Mick Jagger. The whole audience of bloodless fashion ghouls was totally enslaved by her within minutes, and wanting to give her a Lewinsky.

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Cocksucking yuppie social retards who need nazi dental abuse

There is something dangerously screwed up about the young yuppie men who were careening through the halls. They grow up with some kind of perverse sense of entitlement, so in any given nightclub situation you have these fat, drunk, white pig-boys in Dockers pants and button-up shirts wandering around with beers and a dumb and ugly fifth-grade Catholic school look in their eyes; it's recess, and they want attention. If you catch their eye, they think its OK to walk up and touch you, pick at your carefully applied hat or hair and make obnoxious, rude, slurry comments about your fabulous appearance. If you respond to them in anything other than a playful or flattering way, they start getting rowdy and abusive. This is their little game. I feel it is time to reintroduce the 8-inch, stiletto-sharp hat pin, in order to restore and enforce gentlemanly behavior in the chinless, subhuman dipshits who are today's successful young men.

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The party's over –- ho-hum

Mona and I finally escaped the smoky throngs and walked back outside to the line, trying to sell our "All Access" fraud pins for $5 to the Untouchables waiting outside in the cold. One club kid in his 20s was shivering, wearing nothing but what looked to be an orange lace place mat strung around his neck. He had a shaved head and his naked arms were half-arms, Thalidomide arms, particularly jarring seen against his frozen white back and shoulders.

"Since you are the most fabulous person here, I will give you my all-access badge for free," I offered. He thanked me. I did a good thing, I thought. A few seconds later Mona unknowingly tried to sell her badge to him and he angrily shrieked at her: "I already have one, bitch!" Another proud POV/Egg reader, asserting what was his in a world of hip. Ready to frot Marcus and Tyra on the dance floor. Jumping into the very bloodstream of Peter Beard panty-shots and pretty bored Cuervo shots. Ow.
salon.com | May 19, 1999

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