The highlight of last Saturday’s Impact Professional Wrestling show at the Elk’s Lodge in Elmhurst was local hero Balls Mahoney being carved up with a dinner fork by a thug called Homicide, a former gang member who entered the ring wearing a Kevlar vest.

It was a good start to a good night.

Homicide took off a boot and slammed Balls over the head, then took off the other and clopped him on the side of the skull before taking off his belt and strangling Balls. The blood poured from Balls’ forehead until Homicide had to be pulled off and the paramedics were called to the ring.

Used to be this is what went down next door at the old Elk’s Lodge —a collision of neo-classical columns, Mayan glyphs, gilded art deco and colossally bad taste—before the Unitarian Church bought it three years ago. In a word, it was fucking awesome.

But now the Elks, along with what is left of the Queens indie-wrestling circuit, are stuck working in their smaller and less grand former annex.

Just outside the main hall, in the Jolly Corks bar, there were other problems. “I’m trying to figure out how to move a 3-ton elk half a block,” Tom Nazario explained to me. Nazario is the current Lead Knight of the Queen’s Elks, a heartbeat away from becoming their Exalted Ruler.

The Elk in question, a massive statue that guards the old Elk’s Lodge with nobility and gravitas, is legendary; its testicles are smooth from people touching them for good luck. “When my friend got his detective shield,” Nazario told me, “they had the ceremony in front of the Elk. John Lindsay gave it to him.”

I ordered a round of beers and after a polite inquiry, one of the paramedics flashed me his badge to prove he was a legit New York State EMT worker moonlighting for the wrestlers. He showed me the Gatorade he was slurping. “See? On duty. Not drinking.”

How’s Balls holding up? “He’s good. He always says ‘as long as I am breathing I am fine, thank you very much.’” I believed him. I once saw Balls close a 4-inch gash in his forehead with half a tube of Super Glue while simultaneously peeing and signing autographs.

Back inside, Maximus Sex Power—a pudgy Italian nebbish in tighty-whities— paraded around the ring like a severely deluded porn star. He looked like a fetish magazine reject and was nearly universally despised. His big move was to thrust his groin in his opponent’s face.

Even John Holmstrom, founder of Punk magazine and the most arduous wrestling fan I know, was appalled. Legendary Downtown entertainment lawyer Paul Sommerstein didn’t see it that way. “He’s a genius,” he cooed. I had to agree.

After the show, MSP showed up in the bar wearing a New Kids on the Block T-shirt. I thought it was just part of the shtick until he started talking with a young woman about how great their comeback tour was. A few moments later some pretty teenage girls, last seen giving MSP the finger and calling him “faggot,” asked for his autograph.

Eventually Balls came in to fill a bucket with ice. He looked like a rough approximation of a human—his forehead was a tangled web of scars, spackled crimson and randomly applied surgical tape. He could easily have been mistaken for a late-period Rauschenberg.

And even though the sum of his performance was to be mangled and beaten savagely, it was obvious he was having a good night, and proclaimed his love for the fans at the new Elk’s lodge. “It’s just like coming home,” he beamed. [Mike edisoN]

Balls Mahoney will seek revenge against Homicide Sept. 17th at the Elk’s Lodge, 82- 20 Queen’s Blvd. For more information, visit www.icwzone.com.

Mssrs. Saturday Night.

Why was I lying in bed comatose on a beautiful Easter Sunday? There was nary a bonnet or bunny in sight, and forget about going to the parade or to a holiday meal.

“You were barking like a dog and screeching. They loved you but asked you to quiet down,” my friend told me, referring to the night before. I vaguely recalled leaping about a room and tying people up during the string-dancing segment.

Things started out innocently at a late afternoon photo session at the colorful Lower East Side home of Garrett Bowser and Cole Nahal, two designers who hold photo parties documenting wild and crazy scenes with club kids, artists and performers. I dressed for the occasion in a bright yellow petticoat, a multicolored silk jacket, turquoise fishnet tights and my new favorite accessory: brightly colored sponge rollers.

Since I was late, it was more about socializing than photography this time. Drink numero uno, a Miller Lite, but the sun was setting and I didn’t want to miss the next event.

Wending my way over to the HiChristina party, an interactive performance experience, I recalled my friend Thain bartends at the bar at Dixon Place on Chrystie Street. The Lounge at Dixon Place, which is officially opening this Thursday, serves top shelf liquors whipped up into signature cocktails. “Why don’t you try The Kirby” Thain asked. Made of Patron, ginger liqueur, lime and grapefruit, the mixologist’s potent potion launched me into outer space. Tequila on an empty stomach is a little like liquid mescaline.

I staggered out in time to catch My Brother My Love, a reading series curated by Robert Smith at a newly renovated Envoy Gallery a few doors away. Among the readers was singer Justin Bond, quite fetching with his perky new haircut. I stretched out on the plush red carpet with the literati, listening to the stories, and afterward convinced a friend to check out Creationizm, Believe in This!, a party on nearby Eldridge Street.

Like everyone, I’ve been trying to write a novel for years. The goal of this event was to write one as a group in one hour. The evening’s hosts, Christina Ewald and Fritz Donnelly, two personable twentysomethings with a love of mayhem and irony, brought me drink number four, spiked punch. It was a DIY jamboree that we all participated in, 20 of us of varied backgrounds, like we were in someone’s living room. We each scribbled a portion of the novel onto lined notebook paper, reading it later after dancing with pink yarn tangling us all up. “Imagine you’re a piece of cauliflower that just got cooked,” Ewald told us. It was around this time I began barking and screaming for no apparent reason. It was like a crazy house party full of friendly strangers. Did we finish the novel? Who knows!

I finally made it Joe’s Pub to see my friend Joseph Keckler’s show and was, for once, a little early. Just in time, in fact, for someone to buy me one more drink.