Beware disco naps. They refresh us sleep-deprived 24-hour party people, but can lead to a totally discombobulating awakening. That’s what the deal was on Saturday night. After a supposedly refreshing slumber, I woke up at midnight and stumbled out of bed, threw on my party rags and cabbed it over to Good Units in the basement of the Hudson Hotel.
One-thirty-ish was just the right time to arrive at Brian Rafferty and Shawn Paul Mazur’s bash, called This Is New York Fucking City. Jake Resnicow of the
Matinée Group, the creators the World’s Biggest Party, was co-producing the party. "This is the city we live in, the city we love, the greatest city in the world," Rafferty wrote on the flier. Since the party was also his birthday celebration, I’ll cut him some slack. A former host at Mr. Black’s, Rafferty—along with Mazur—is also throwing a new weekly party at Juliet called Kings. Until now, the duo has been best known for the popular Griffin Sundays in the Meatpacking District, on break for the summer.
I didn’t know them, but I recognized popular "door bitch" Roze Black stationed by the entrance, all glammed up in a sequined black dress. Once inside the basement lair, the first person I saw was Birdy Presents sitting on the couch, elegantly attired in a black satin hooded number. "Here, have my drink. I don’t need it anymore," she said, handing me a Sea Breeze. Then, the outrageous hostess Demanda Dahling came over, her face painted white and a gold star gleaming on her forehead, to join in a drink. Nearby in the darkness, I heard someone mutter apologetically, "Sorry, I’m in a K hole right now."
I certainly wasn’t. I dragged my energetic self out to where DJ Theresa was playing hardcore unst unst house music. The dance floor was packed with built guys, some shirtless. The light show was flashing, the go-go boys were shaking it and the disco ball was glowing. This was like a circuit party with a few chicks and trannies thrown in. But the boys were more interested in rock hard pecs than my 36 double Cs, so after a few dances with myself, I sashayed off around the corner to Club 57.
At 3 a.m., the downstairs was empty.
On my way to the balcony, I noticed Cherie Lily, celebrity trainer and Mrs. Andrew W.K. walking by, but then was distracted by a glitzy entourage pushing through the crowd. "Don’t move," security guards barked. "What the heck’s going on?" I asked. "That was Lil’ Kim," promoter King Ralphy said. Little did I know the rapper had just performed with Amanda Lepore. Now this, I thought, is New York Fucking City.