From hipstrosity of the DEVO concert at McCarren Pool to the hoochietoot of the West Village presented a bit of a culture shock. The party at Julius' had sort of been ruined in my mind by it's coverage in the Village Voice. Suddenly a "destination," it was packed a little on the heavy side with the party regulars, to new explorers, and a plethora of the local Julius' color out to get their Pride started. DP, S, G, W and I made the circle seeing who was there and were quickly dispersed. Daniel Nardicio cornered me, as he does, and introduced me to the marketing director for Fleshjack who offered to send me his product, which seemed to be an interesting career, helping people masturbate.
Craving a burger, despite having a burger just hours before at (that place on the corner that isn't Enid's) before the concert, eventually I gave in to insistent text messages that I attend the Lambda Legal party at Stonewall. Remembering being asked to never return the last time I was there, but wanting to meet hot lawyers I walked the block, finding friends outside. DH, a food writer/paralegal, and Senorita, an internet person/ladyfriend quickly shared bad news. Senorita's bag had been stolen from inside Stonewall, including her laptop. Her biggest concern? Losing 'internal memos', twatever that means. Regardless, H was arriving soon so we had one more drink in the crowd of dance-y lesbians. (Where were the hot lawyers? What is Lamba Legal, anyway?)
Eventually H arrived and the (extremely) weak Stonewall drinks were downed and we traveled to Julis which DP, S, G, and W had already abandoned. Senorita left quickly, leaving DH, H and I saddled up to the bar. One of the DJ's with whom I'm a little crushy passed. I pointed out that the song playing were against the party rules (vinyl, before 1980, no disco). With a head-cock and draggy eyecock he quickly retorted, "Not my record sweetie." Next a scrumptious Machine Dazzle came by and told me of all his latest projects which set my mind ablaze with the self-askance of "why don't you have more projects?"
With all the helloing, attention to the bags sitting below us was not on high. When H went to grab a cigarette, it became obvious. His bag was gone. The floor was quickly illuminated in the bluish-white haze of iPhones as suddenly the game of "Find the Hot Kuwaiti's Bag" was in full play. The search was fruitless though, it was gone without a trace.
Two bag thefts in one night! In two venues within jizzing distance of one another! Silly West Village with your gays and thieves. Happy Pride!