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Well, maybe not millions, but there were a ton of kids at the Drunky Brewster show at Cake Shop on Monday. Not only that, but one of their adoring fans (a dreadlocked member of a notorious bicycle gang methinks) started setting off crazy firscrackers in front of the stage during their combined set with Mixel Pixel. Everyone started screaming and the fire alarms started whooping and strobing like mad, and the gals kept on trucking until the fire department came in and busted up the fun…

Of course by then enthusiasm was at a fever pitch, so Callie’s friend Dana started aggressively propositioning New York’s Bravest while McBrush got feisty screaming “Firemen are hottt!” and Cokane and LCF and I cheered and giggled in the darkness. Finally the powers that be were satisfied that we weren’t going to recreate some kind of Great White scenario, so they let the show roar back to life and the firemen even stayed to catch a whiff of the Brewster’s latest jam “Scent of a Womens.” Truly, it was a rock show that shall go down in Cake Shop history, though I doubt they’ll ever let the Brewster play there again.

Just when I thought that things were starting to get relatively sane for me, my beloved shrink informed me today that she will have to stop seeing me at the end of August because she’s moving her practice to Riverdale. Riverdale? Riverdale!?!?! Is she fucking kidding me??? She’s the fifth shrink I’ve gone to in my long, illustrious career of mental illness (not counting the bored, tired pill-pushers assigned to me when I was in the nut hut back in the day), and she is the ONLY one I ever liked. She says that she’ll help me find someone new, but I’m just like “whatevs.” Right now I just feel surprised and super sad and so not ready to start telling my life story all over again to someone new. I would rather chew glass in fact. I dunno - maybe my Woody-style, neurotic 40-minute ramble phase has just reached it’s anti-climactic conclusion. Lookout world - here I come. I may look fully clothed, but inside I’m totally naked.

In all the fashion show excitement of last weekend, I have neglected until now to mention the hilarious events of last friday night. LCF’s friend Kim was having a big blowout birthday bash in the back karaoke room at Jeollado, where her parents had generously footed the bill for piles of sushi and liberal amounts of sake, and where everyone was taking advantage of their lowered inhibitions to delightfully massacre super-white hits by Neil Young, Eric Clapton (”Tears in Heaven” anyone?) and Billy Joel, much to LCF and I’s collective horror. We did our part to mix things up, me with “Total Eclipse of the Heart” (natch) and LCF with “Paint it Black.” But the latter got us all sweaty so we bailed for a walk around the block. When we reached the notorious gay dive The Boiler Room, the heavenly creature you see at the center of the above photo (between Kim and LCF) was having an impromptu photo sesh out front with her entourage. We watched for a while, then I told her she looked awes, at which point she thanked me and roughly grabbed my tits. I guess this made me comfortable enough with her to suggest that she run into our old ghetto-ass Dolphin gym next door and run on the treadmill in her giant heels for a photo op, because suggest I did, and to my delight she swiftly took action and make a ruckus on the road to nowhere until she got thrown out by security while we watched and laughed our asses off through the plate glass window. After that little escapade, LCF and I dragged the space oddity now identified as Rainblo, and her entire entourage back to Kim’s party with us, where they quickly took over. First Rainblo called the birthday girl a whore. Then she took off her skirt. Then she sang a little of Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer,” then she called the birthday girl’s mom a whore, and then she posed for this picture before disappearing into the night. One could easily imagine that our little stunt with Rainblo was the most shocking turn of events of the whole party, but in a stunning upset, it was actually this:

Hours of sake-drinking into the festivities, Kim’s mom draped her arm around my shoulder and screamed into my ear over “Purple Rain” - “When you get older, dancing makes you pee! I’m gonna go throw my underwear away!” After which she left, returned minutes later (presumably sans underwear), and then busted a move so fierce she lost her footing and fell through a table. Kim’s mom - I salute you!

In a touching denoument to the whole affair, I found out at the fashion show that Rainblo is actually friends with The World Famous *Bob* and that the two of them had recently been ejected from the Ritz Carleton in Paris during fashion week because management had deemed their attire inappropriate. Further proof that Parisians have no taste.

Never before have I felt more “like an East Village version of Tracy Turnblad from Hairspray, only, like, not,” then I did this past Sunday when I made my modeling debut at the Mode Merr fashion brunch at Marion’s. Angela Zampell, the mad genius behind Mode Merr, made this amazing skirt to go with the 666 top she made me for my 30th Birthday, and together, the ensemble looked like it had come right off the rack at Mr. Pinky’s! Not only was it super-amazing and glamouriffic to get all dressed and made up and fussed over by awes rockabilly chicks who actually know something about cool hair and makeup, but it was also surreal to be hanging out with local legends like The World Famous *BoB*, Little Brooklyn, and The Pontani Sisters as a fellow event participant instead of as a journalistic observer.

That’s not to say it wasn’t also terrifying, because it totally was! Just before I stepped out onto the runway, I was nervous-sweating so hard under all that tulle that my pantyhose which had been perfectly in place for the last three hours started rolling down my hips. By the time I made my first turn, they were off my ass and threatening to come down around my ankles at any moment. So I cast the packed house (including my parents and the Baroness von Pink!) my most fake confident smile, grabbed the top of the hose where they had now landed mid thigh, and shuffled casually off the runway as best I could in time to Edith Piaf. As soon as I got off stage, the other models who knew it was my first time were all like, “How was it?” and I couldn’t even front. I was just like, “It was fun! My pantyhose fell down!” And that was that until the next show at 2:30 where LCF and my work homies Callie, Dawn and Tara had secured a VIP booth at the end of the runway. That time around, before I lined up, I yanked those suckers almost up over my boobs to avoid a repeat performance of their amazing disappearing act. Maybe a little extreme, especially since I did it in front of all the other models backstage, but it seemed to do the trick. After I took my final sashay, I downed a strong libation called “The Fashionista” in one long stiff pull, then sadly went down stairs to give my hair back. I didn’t have to give the skirt back though, and that was the best part of all!

I’m so spoiled. I float around my well-lit, bustling-at-all-hours neighborhood in a perceived bubble of safety, assuming that the city that never sleeps will always protect me from random harm in the night. But this sign, which LCF and I spied after sushi last night on 2nd. Ave. & St. Marks made me feel so sad and worried. And then Jennigirl forwarded me this alert from Gothamist this Morning:

“The police are looking for a man they believe may be involved with four sexual attacks in the East Village and Lower East Side. Early yesterday morning, a 20-year-old woman was attacked at East 9th and Second Avenue, as the Sun puts it, ‘just steps away from the bright lights of the 24-hour Veselka Restaurant.’ The other attacks occurred in other parts of the East Village and on Mott Street, near Prince. Police Commissioner Ray Kelly said the latest attack is ’seen as part of the pattern,’ with all the attacks happening in the early morning, when women are entering their buildings. The attacker puts the woman into a chokehold, and, in one case, the News reports, ‘the man put his arm around a victim’s neck and caused her to pass out for a short period.’”

Holy crap! I KNOW I live in a huge city and that these things are bound to happen, but after all this time, the Villiage really does feel like a little villiage to me, and it’s terrible to think that this is suddenly happening with such alarming frequency to my fellow-lady neighbors, and that it could happen at any time to my late-night-going-out ass. Keep those keys handy at all times chicas! And lets keep our ears and eyes out for each other.

Just a quick note to anyone I haven’t already harassed that my band Royal Pink is playing a huge show at Crash Mansion tonight called Girls ROCK! It’s sponsored by AM New York, so there were already big ads out for the show with our pics in ‘em (a first for us!), plus there’ll be lots of dancing, tons of glam girl bands, and a local TV show called New York Noise will be filming the whole sordid affair! As a side note, my parents will be there too, getting their RP on for the very first time, and you KNOW you don’t want to miss them getting their 60 and 70-year-old grooves on! Here’s the deets:

Crash Mansion
Thursday, July 19th
8pm
cost: FREE for YOU!!

Crash Mansion is at 199 Bowery at Spring. Take the B/D/F/V to Broadway Lafayette or the F/V to 2nd Ave.

So last night, LCF and I were excavating all the creepy cluttered corners of our wee apartamente, when he discovered a pair of baby blue men’s pajamas (see above right) that his mom had given him. When he put them on, I realized not only that I had never seen him in old-school, ’50s dad-style pajamas before, but that I had in fact NEVER seen a real grown-ass man wearing them in real life - EVER! I guess this makes sense since LCF is the first BF I’ve ever lived with, but still! How could I have gone this long without experiencing the sublime pleasure of seeing a cute boy all curled up and cozy in a full-out sleep suit??? I think my enthusiasm over his noctournal attire freaked him out a little, but hopefully that won’t inhibit him when he wants to sport those long lost jim-jams again. Ladies - consider this a public service announcement. Old School PJs are HOTTT! So tell yer loverman to dispense with the boxer briefs and to go with something a little more formal if he wants to dress for success between the sheets.

OK - so if you didn’t know that this falafel joint on my block was called Chickpea, what, exactly, would you suppose that they were delivering? I know I have the sense of humor of a seventh grader, because every time I pass their new sign I’m afraid I might piss myself.

Whenever people ask me why I’ve never gone through with my fantasy plan to get a giant flaming heart tattoo on my big meaty bicep, I have to unsteadily explain that if I wanna get buried in a Jewish cemetery with the rest of my family, I gotta keep it clean or they’ll posthumously chop my arm off. Which is, you know, gnarly. What I didn’t realize until today, however, is that I’ll really need that arm at the end of days! According to this article on Jewcy, scripture states that when the Messiah comes, decomposing Jewish zombies will pop out of their graves all over the world and simultaneously start ROLLING towards Israel through a series of underground tunnels that end at the Mount of Olives. Once we’re all there, we’ll explode out of the mountain like a giant Jewish zombie tsunami, be reunited with our souls, and transform into the hottest, most awesomest version of our living selves. Yessssss! When I think of all the excruciatingly dull hours I spent in hebrew school being forced to memorize by rote words I was never taught the meanings of when they could have been telling me insane zombie stories instead, I get all riled up! Not to mention itchy for a lil’ trip to the tattoo parlor…