#luke nero

[mrturk]

The Mr Turk Tropical Tiger jacket on lukenero 📷 wadleyphotography

[mrturk]

Suit up with Mr Turk, Ryan Rogers and Luke Nero

[mrturk]

Ryan Rogers and Luke Nero get cozy in Mr Turk. 📷 wadleyphotography

[mrturk]

lukenero by wadleyphotography new swimwear available now at MrTurk.com

[bjpandabear]

BJ Panda Bear Bday Evita

Bottles and mayhem as I continued to celebrate my birthday at Evita. I was coming off of my hangover from the night before, but I couldn't say no to the lights music and crazy crowd that night. 

[clubscholararchives]

Finally

Do you ever enter a room and feel like you recognize every single person?

            I’ve kind of stopped having expectations in Los Angeles for a while on account of the fact that most parties I go to are not any genuine fun. So when I am hit in the face with true awesome glory, I forget myself.

            I walked into Evita in a red, sleeveless American Apparel hoodie that I christened at my first pride parade when I was 17. When I approached the bouncer, I heard something unexpected: Rihanna’s “Jump,” my favorite song on her new CD.

            Entering the room was like stepping into a gorgeous photomontage from an ‘80’s party movie. In perfect harmony with the music, row after row of neon-colored party people shook and stirred to the vibrations of the sound. It was like each tableaux had been cut and paste into the picture, just a layer above the next one.

            After all this time of wading through empty dancefloors, replete with withered old beards, and aged Silver Lake gays way past their irony, I had returned to the other side to a packed dancefloor filled with moving people. Finally: Some Life!

            I was surrounded by dancing 20 something freaks and I was back. And the music! Oh the Music! Josh Peace did the unimaginable: he played actual songs. Not endless clamor and clangor, not 1970’s Afrikaans hits, and no “revivalist” disco bullshit. Britney Spears. M.I.A. ‘Lil Kim. David Banner. It had been so long since I could close my eyes and take off that it took me a little to readjust. But once I did, it was all muscle memory from there.

            I started to notice the crowd. There was a huge delegation of young neo- Club Kids. These boys all saw or read Party Monster at a time of great influence in their lives, and have taken to paying tribute to it every few Tuesdays in Hollywood. There was a chiseled black boy who wore nothing but liquid leather tights and heels. Another had blue lipstick, denim shorts, and platform boots. Another wore a gray charmeuse dress and no wig. During some of the slower songs, they would clear space(my space) and start voguing like it was their job. By whipping around animatronically, falling on their calves, and snapping dramatically, these boys clearly felt like they were holding court. Suffice it to say, I was instantly competitive with this rabble of semi-costumed goons. What is it about them that bothers me? I’ve done just about everything they have, from bombing with nonsensical costumes to fighting for attention on a dancefloor that doesn’t really care. Am I just jealous? I’d like to think that I resent this new guard for their lack of originality. If my generation is expected to make something out of the corporate cesspool of our gay times, can’t we mount a more novel attack? Look, none of these kids are going to be Michael Alig because none of them have the chutzpah to start their own parties, create a new costume theory, or change the game completely. They’re just kind of crashing. And what’s more, I don’t like Voguing. It turns dancing into a complete performance, without any of the joy or the selflessness of just feeling like a fucking idiot.

            But I’ll have to make peace with these boys soon. As of now, they’re all I’ve got.

            On one of the tables, there shimmied a buff Andrew Christian Model in Clark Kent glasses and boy shorts. Next to him, an old club promoter gave his boyfriend a lapdance. To his right, a fully tattooed, mustachioed Pacific Islander lost his mind to the music. This loony tunes level of diversity makes Evita an instant classic. You may not fit in, but neither does anyone else.

            I took my spot by a studded pillar and made myself comfortable. I was so comfortable that I kept thinking that I was seeing someone I knew. Is that my old college roommate, only hotter? Is that my ex-personal trainer? Is that Roseanne’s Sister?

            I was with my countrymen, and the DJ was mashing up M.I.A.’s “Bamboo Banga” with Britney’s “Big Fat Bass.” Nothing could bother me. Not even monogamists. At least not for the first five minutes of this mood.

            There was a gorgeous young man of Arab descent. He wasn’t that tall, but he had a certain solidness to his figure that made him irresistible. He danced gracefully, but only for the entertainment of his friends. I smiled and let him go.

            A stunning Japanese Drag Queen with luscious ambre hair and glowing pink lips bumped into me. She smelled like wintergreen mint and raspberries.

            “You smell so good,” I said, pretending to be drunk.

            “How old are you?” she asked.

            “22.”

            “But you’re so little,” she smiled.

            When you are in your own head, or your own blog, you tend to lose perspective. When someone tells me I look like a teenager, it can often throw me off, especially when I claim to be shutting things down as the virtuoso ClubScholar. Most of the time, I feel like I have experienced it all and that it was nothing compared to what the last generation went through. As I count down to 23, I worry that I may be starting a new, grim, chapter of my life in which I become responsible, learn how to be a competent worker, and function in a healthy relationship. But maybe, if I’m lucky, I’m just at the beginning. It’s possible that in seven years I can see the version of myself that was mouthing ‘Lil Kim lyrics with his back to the wall and his hands on his thighs and laugh at how he hadn’t seen nothing yet. Perhaps the true party is yet to begin, and I’m just waiting things out until my six pack materializes or I come into an inheritance.

            I feel old, because I live in a city designed for old people. I am happy that I’m becoming a real person who can function in society and take on some responsibility. But if I have to spend another year of this blog complaining about how much nightlife sucks in this town, I can guarantee I’m not going to be much fun at 24.

            But here’s the thing: if I can be surprised by a simple Tuesday night at Evita, then maybe I don’t know anything at all. And if I don’t know anything at all, then maybe I really can be as young as I look under those pink laser lights.

[clubscholararchives]

save yourself, destroy the others

            Something was different last night. I didn’t care as much. I didn’t do pushups before I went out so I’d fit better in a tanktop. I wasn’t too tired to go out, and I definitely wanted to, but I had almost lost the understanding of why I was going out, other than to prove to myself that I still could.

            Cafeteria had a big crowd by the bar, but I was disappointed by the anemic turnout on the dancefloor. The air was murky and the furniture was brown and the music was some kind of a reductionist chill-vibe ambient sound that I couldn’t really hear. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I just stood there in the middle of the dancefloor, eyes closed, totally alone. My own thoughts and neuroses were so loud that I couldn’t even try to connect to the boring, Rhonda-lite disco bullshit playing overhead. I felt alone in my own mind; forced to endlessly ponder my failures, disappointments, and lost friendships until I could fall asleep. I kept trying to open my eyes so I could form a connection with the passing strangers around me, but there was nothing to be done: they were just strangers. There were a lot of decently handsome late twenty somethings who probably work IT jobs at Soda companies or something. They had nicely groomed facial hair, ironic beanies, and leather jackets. Many of them embraced a kind of friendly body odor that to me read off as just normal body odor. I passed in and out of the bar and dancefloor, waiting to find a reaction to something. I needed to feel disgust or adoration or jealousy. I needed to get out of my own mind. But I couldn’t; not with these people. They were aesthetic, and seemed to want to have a good time, but they lacked the desperation that I needed to connect to. I needed to see a complete psychopath or get hit on by a costumed weirdo. I needed someone extreme who could reach down and pull me out.

            The midnight show finally arrived. Devan M., who really gets lovelier every month, welcomed everyone and introduced Ambrosia Salad, the evening’s performer. Looking like Lisa Kudrow in the Comeback, the little creature stepped out in a pink knit strawberry ice cream get up. She proceeded to perform Diana Ross’ “Muscles” in wrestling shoes. For the climax, she devoured two cheeseburgers and even covered one with whipped cream, which she then continued to spray in her mouth – Betty Draper style. I know I enjoyed the song, but I was still to wrapped up in my own garbage to feel it, to be inspired by it. I want to be anonymous, I thought, as I longed to be caught in a crowd at a Tel Aviv Megaclub, lost amidst hundreds and doused in sweat.

            The music resumed, James Cerne took the wheel, and it was business as usual. James was playing something crudely ironic and reasonably catchy from the ‘80’s, but I was too far gone to care. My mind was racing with my own self destructive thoughts.  On a normal night at a place like Cafeteria, I would look at someone who is older and hotter than I am(James Cerne) and project myself onto him. How would I look, and who would I be at his age? I would look around at the deluge of human variance and wonder where I fit in all of it. But last night, every connection I tried to make in my mind only led back to my own shortcomings. I didn’t want to think anymore. I wanted to be out – in the old fashioned, I’m 18 and I don’t have thoughts sense.

            The music was good but it wasn’t saving my life. I tried to reason with myself and explain that if I left at 12:15 I wouldn’t have anything to write about and I might miss out on some good music at around 12:45. No, I told myself like a person with multiple personalities, I don’t have patience for this. Am I happy now?

            I knew the answer, so I left.

            I drove from Silverlake to Hollywood so I could make the last hour and a half of Evita. I had been so exposed in Cafeteria that the safety of my insulated vehicle was reassuring. I realized that I could always have this safety, so long as I didn’t have anything to sacrifice. I could become a shallow West Hollywood Homosexual who ate pinkberry, watched Bravo, and met his female friends at the Abbey. I could be a pretty husk, with no pain or anxiety to endanger me in the world. At the thought of all the intelligent Gays I’ve known who have gone wrong, I felt a pang of disgust, and with it, a rush of satisfaction. My ascension had just begun. Out of the ashes of the stupid and silly members of my species, I would be reborn, with a redeeming superiority complex! I may be miserable, down, and alone, but I would never sacrifice my intelligence and ambition to become one with the rest. In looking down on other Gay men, I could remember who I am: an asshole. A snotty, pretentious, flabby asshole. And that categorical definition could prove to be my salvation against the swelling rushes of loneliness. I could put others down and feel better about myself. And it could redeem me.  

            I entered Evita at an interesting time. Eva Universe, who looks like she killed Ke$ha, stole her face, and ate her flesh, was on stage with her gay, denim(and I mean denim)-clad male back-up dancers. She got off just as I got on, and all was well. Evita was alive. It was unpredictable. It was dynamic. For once, I didn’t want to be by the stage, even though that had the best surface for me to place my back on. I didn’t want to be exposed. I just went into the small crowd and found a space. The music was not too strong at first, but I let myself take in my fellow freaks. There was a bearded fairy with a hello kitty strapped to his breast. A beautiful blonde boy strolled around in a Finick ODair netted jumpsuit that was very flattering. The Boulet Brothers, in their customary Parisian Royal wigs and fucking creepy face paint, glided around and wished salutations to their guests. Yara Sofia, out of drag, danced like a bush baby on the wall. The burning pink neon on the walls made the place feel like a dense chasm of infinite surprises. Anyone could come out at you.

            Two really handsome, overly groomed Gays danced together in front of me during Beyonce’s “Get Me Bodied.” Then, they started to kiss. I’m sure that for them, in the moment, under the confetti, life was suspended in perfect harmony, but for me, life was returned to total despair. I instantly despised these two, but was then delighted by my burst of loathing. As I swore celibacy for an indefinite stretch(get ready for a long 2013, ya’ll), I felt the joy of diverting my own self-hatred onto other people, namely, the monogamous.

            I was happy, I think. I was feeling free. But I wasn’t totally unleashed. I realized that I was at Evita to escape my life. I needed to dance. I didn’t need to make witty observations or show my face to club promoters who didn’t remember my name anyway – I needed to dance.

            My prayer was finally granted. Josh Peace started a remarkable run of greatest hits that included Aaliyah’s “One Minute Man,” Missy Elliot’s “Pass that Dutch,” ‘Lil Kim’s “How Many Licks,” Christina Aguilera’s “Dirrty,” and Britney Spears’ “I’m a Slave 4 U.”

            I returned to the raised Dais, overlooked the crowd, and fell into a trance. I knew the lyrics and I was a monster. Pretty would-be-actresses walked by me and I growled Lil Kim’s lyrics about Puerto Rican Papi at them like I was declaring war. I closed my eyes, put a hand in the air, and simply melted into the walls. When Britney came for me, it was over. I dropped it low, picked it up, and bounced it around. I could feel myself levitating up, as if I were suddenly able to ascend past my own mortal woes and swim on a higher plane just above the dancefloor, omnipotent and carefree.

            I left at 2 A.M., at last a blank slate. My problems were more unresolved than ever. But I had been allowed, if for an hour, to let the lyrics of nasty women wipe them away.

[clubscholararchives]

American Evita scores high- for now

            ***This piece is in reference to L.A.’s newest freak boutique on Sunset & Schrader, not to the long-standing Tel Aviv Gay Bar, which was pretty much made for undead tourists. But we digress.

            By the final months of Mr. Black, the Tuesday dance party that for a time defined its zip code, we were all starting to take things for granted. It was the same crowd of costumed nutjobs, the same queers who wanted to cut out and prove how wild they could be by going out on a Tuesday night, and an eerily swelling surge of straight buttoned-down Hollywood partygoers. We all needed to rest and return again.

            But I didn’t know how much I missed my little Tuesday night Bizarro pocket until I arrived at Evita, held at Blok Hollywood. It’s rare for someone as snobby and morose as I am to be struck aghast by the sight of a party, but damnit, it happened last night.

I walked into the club wearing a green sparkle-lycra shirt that cost me $1 at Danny’s Dance Warehouse. What makes the shirt really special is that because it was originally a girls’ ballet top, it has a padded chest, so as to keep a young lady’s bosom in. This creates an interesting effect on me; my chest looks bound and restrained, like Barbra Streisand’s in Yentl, while my stomach area is allowed to flow out into hanging jowels, bursting out of confinement and stretching the fabric. It was destined to succeed.

Anyways, back to my first look of the club. BAM! Laser lights! Dungeon mirrors! Bougie VIP seats! Bearded men with plastic horns coming out of their foreheads! High class Russian sluts! What a visual panorama ensued. I took to walking through the place, shouldering past people like I had somewhere to go. But I just had to consume it all. How far did this club go on for? It’s not particularly bright, but it’s also not dingy either. It has a bit of a British darkroom aesthetic, with escalating daises and seats, and plenty of mirrors to make it feel bigger. Blok reminds me of some of Montreal’s nicer gay clubs: it’s clean, dark, and sturdy, but there’s plenty of colorful shit being smeared on the walls.

I missed this crowd. I missed blonde Hispanic boys in fishnet bodysuits. I missed fraternal male twins dressed as bottomless French dandies from pre-revolutionary times. I miss strapping Black women who may or may not be drag queens. In Mr. Black’s absence, a chunky community of dog and pony partygirls like me were left without the chance to put costumes together or hear our new favorite songs every Tuesday. There’s not really anywhere I can go on a weekly basic to hear good music from the past two years. Hopefully, that has been remedied.

I kind of resented seeing the VIP seating spaces literally elevated above the small dancefloor. Are we really going to do this act again? What is this, Rasputin? And there were too many of them. What’s more, there were too many strippers. Look, I know I always carp on and on about go-go dancers being a bane on our nightlife scene, but in this case, it is a practical matter – almost a fire hazard. Blok is not a large enough space to fit four go-go dancers at a time, let alone dancers dressed with elaborate headpieces. There’s just nowhere to put them where they won’t take away from the people who came here to dance au gratin. I found my spot for the night on a thinly raised platform by the DJ booth. At one point, I actually had to fight with a go-go dancer to keep my spot. I turned to a nice 40 something in suspenders and made some assholey comment about how I’m not even getting paid to dance in the same place as him. Whatever.

I kind of chilled around with a tall Dame Edna at the office type Queen who had pink & blue, crimped, cotton candy hair and pink lips. She wasn’t too interested by the music. I danced a lot with a wild one who looked like a Klub Kid from 1990’s Atlanta. But I let go. I relaxed and zoned out. Luke Nero seemed to be having a good time, dancing on a table, and Andres Rigal was in his domain as he buzzed about the club neurotically. Manila Luzon arrived wearing a plastic bag over her head and Raja was super comfortable in the back.

I’m not sure what is going to happen to Josh Peace. There were some points last night when he’d try to resurrect Mr. Black(it’s time to put “Show me Love” to rest) and others when he’s try to wow the Silverlake crowd with some derivative La Cita material. What is he going to make of this party? How will he set it in a new direction, far different than that of previous parties? I worry that he’s started to lose his drive. Of course, when he hit his stride, he was classic Josh Peace, not new or diet Josh Peace. At around 12:30, he went on a roll with Gaga’s “Government Hooker,” “Hung Up,” Missy Elliot’s “Lose Control,” and the piece de resistance, a new dance remix of Robyn’s “Dancing on My Own” that made me close my eyes, put my hands in the air, and levitate above the crowd.

My perch allowed me to watch the stream of various forms of human detritus onto the dancefloor. There were some poorly shaven, poorly dressed Eastsider quasi-gays, the handful of buttoned-up straight dudes, some beloved illusionists & gender killers, and, of course, the pestilence of boring gays. I couldn’t help but watch a well-groomed, seeminly fit set of late-20 something’s make out throughout the night. They were just there. They wore unfunny Hollister shirts and kind of grinded and looked at each other. They contributed nothing. And what’s more, they brought a third wheel. He had trimmed his eyebrows and done an extra set of pushups before going out tonight, and all he did was rock his elbows back and forth and watch his friends make out with each other. I don’t want to say that these peanuts didn’t belong, because Evita seems to be pretty inclusive, and for my own safety I don’t want to exclude what is quickly becoming the shape of things to come. But, suffice it to say, I was finally back at a party where boring gays did not hold court; but where the psychedelic, purple-bearded weirdos of an alternate universe are the arbiters of taste and desire.

Now that the Mr. Black crowd is back and better than ever, Nero & Rigal need to push their new party in a totally different direction. Who will it attract? What will be its theme? And what will keep it from becoming a facsimile of parties past?

As for me, I was back in my scene. I was watching the crowd. I was zoning out, closing my eyes and bending my knees till I brought it low. I was contemplating my life, my poorly managed friendships, and letting it all go. I was finally in an L.A. worthy of culture. I forced myself home at 1:30, though I didn’t want to. I never get to say that anymore, do I?