Team Party Crash: The Dark Room's First Anniversary Party
Oddly enough, not the guy who does the scary spoken word at the end of "Thriller." We kid! Say hello to Jason, owner of the Dark Room.
It's the first birthday of LES hipster breeding ground the Dark Room, and, because no one seems to care that the bar's proprietor declared his own bar over just a few months ago, there was a big party last night to celebrate. (Hey, if heroin is back in vogue, then so is the Dark Room!) Of course nothing was going to keep hipsterly bred photog Nikola Tamindzic away from the festivities, and we thought this would be a great time to indoctrinate a new Party Crasher, former Mediabistroteer Jill Singer. After the jump, Nikola and Jill put on their cowboy boots and ironic tees and cross to the, er, dark side.
[You can view Nikola's complete gallery here.]
A full year of hipster patronage! Our heart swells with pride, and our impeccable upbringing says that it's polite to bring presents to these sorts of things. But what? The first year being the paper anniversary, we anxiously wonder if we should bring a Successories poster edged in black that says Dare to Soar? Tickets for a hot-air balloon ride, just us and the Dark Room? Soon we come to our senses and realize Gawker doesn't traffic in that print shit. The Dark Room will have to settle for an online valentine.
When we alight from a cab at the corner of Houston and Ludlow, we realize we're not entirely sure where the Dark Room is. So following the girl in patterned tights, cowboy boots, and a sparkly green sequined belt seems the smart thing to do. As bouncer checks our ID, a swarthy man in tight pants and a poofy yellow scarf wrapped dramatically around his neck cries into his cell phone, "I'm here, and no one is here! I feel like a loser!" (You said it, dude, not us.) He makes a dramatic and flouncy exit, and we head into the subterranean space. This isn't looking good.
Please. Blue Steel is so 2001.
The new Men's Vogue will show you how to combat your male "muffin top." Got to control that tummy, boys!
It's 9:45, it's dark, as advertised, and a small crowd is huddled along the edges on both sides of the U-shaped space, sitting in dim booths and drinking PBR. We've got girls in boho skirts and slouchy boots or pink pumps with minis, but there's an element of the inexplicable, too: Can someone explain the guy with a coontail hanging off his waistband? Or the one in tie-dye and white denim cutoffs? There are, in fact, a frightening number of men in shorts.
Spin EIC Sia Michel is on the decks, looking foxy, spinning White Stripes, bass-heavy rap, something that sounds suspiciously like ska, and something that sounds delightfully like rollerskate Motown (it's the new hottness). It's going to be hours before the Interpol guys show up, so we make friends with the open bar.
Two guys at the end of the bar make us vow not to slander them like the wicked girl from the Observer did at the last party they went to. "She was secretly taping me!" The one on our left is indignant. He stops and eyes us suspiciously.
"Team Party Crash? There's no list here! You guys are the laziest fucking reporters ever." Indeed we are, though this particular example has nothing to do with it.
This guy starts law school in three days. Toss one back tonight for the poor guy, won't you?
If you mess with Tricia Romano, her lesbian bodyguards will cut you.
Tricia Romano, the Village Voice's resident party girl, has taken hold of the DJ booth. We plop down next to the guy in the tie-dye and cutoffs. "Turn up the fucking Nirvana!" he screams. He turns to us.
"I know Gawker. You're going to make fun of me," he accuses. "You better fuckin' keep me anonymous."
He refuses to reveal his name, but he happily divulges the other details of his life. He's from Alabama, likes long walks on the beach and puppies, and he thinks Gifford Miller is really neat. He's also a local DJ. So, what's the best song to spin at a party like this? He considers. "Mother, by Danzig." He looks at us intensely. "No, wait! If you play Attitude by the Misfits, people will freak the fuck out," he declares proudly. Service journalism at its finest.
Message tees are big tonight. This guy has ironed on a full-fledged manifesto: "You might've been cooling, you might've been styling, but you won't be smiling on Rikers Island." Seems pretty fatalistic for a t-shirt, no? But hey, these guys seem to kick it French philosophe-style.
"I'm his manager," the guy next to him says.
"What's his talent?"
"Existing."
These girls own 8,000 shares of Clairol stock.
After Renton took the opium suppositories, all hell broke loose.
From across the bar, we're accosted by two Irish guys. "I like your beads," one slurs.
"Thanks!" His friend leans in to graze our cheek. We step back.
"I'm just trying to be internationally friendly," he protests.
They've taken to calling us Kim. "What's Kim's deal? Is she an enemy or a friend?" Kim quickly extricates herself.
An impromptu game of telephone with Interpol's Daniel Kessler.
The game of telephone ends badly when Tara rushes to the bathroom in tears. No one was ever supposed to know!
OMG, lost scenes from the film adaptation of Judy Blume's Summer Sisters!? Or did we stop in at the Cubby Hole on the way home? We don't remember; there was free Stoli.
It's midnight. The crowd thinned for a while, but now it's packed. A guy slaps a girl on the ass. "Woo!" he screams. We make more rounds. Everyone is in a band; everyone's got a demo or a flyer or was the opening act earlier this evening at Pianos. "I'm the anti-thug rapper who has to be super dirty so I don't turn into Nick Carter," a white guy confides.
The post-Blossom years really took their toll on young Anthony.
If a hipster passes out drunk on the Lower East Side and Ultragrrrl isn't there to hear it, does he make a sound?
"Is it Fleet Week again already?"
We run into three guys who seem perturbed by the music selection. "We're not from around here," they say. How very Griswolds-in-East St. Louis of them. They're in a heavy-metal band, they want to hear Slayer, and they want to hear Slayer now. "I want to smash records over the deejay's head!" one yells. His friend is massive, and his flowing locks are deeply in need of a conditioning treatment. Every time he leans in to say something, we get a mouthful of frizz. His name's Lil' Earl, "but I'm only Lil' Earl because my daddy's Big Earl. Ain't nothing else little about me," he explains, leering. We have no idea what these guys are doing here.
New York Post hipster correspondent Maureen Callahan (right) is just so tired of it all.
"Look what Carlos D gave me!"
It's 1 o'clock. Sia's gone. Interpol still hasn't shown. Jason, the bar's owner, says, "It's too early to be this drunk!" The gypsy lover in the yellow scarf is back, making the international symbol for "this party is awesome" with his hands. The party has clearly been a success when we note at least one set of twins and one midget (but sadly no pliant dwarves.) Somebody puts on Rick James and the crowd goes nuts. The hipster head nod is out the window, and all bets are off. A guy backs his butt up into a crowd of girls while his friend throws an imaginary lasso. Carlos D finally shows up, and girls squeal.
At 1:30, we're in a room we didn't even know existed. The girl next to us, wearing a striped minidress and Chuck Taylors, walked into something, and now her head is bleeding. That's our cue to go home. On our way out, we hear a guy mumble, "Who are these people?" "I don't know, dude," his friend responds.
Us either, dude. Us either.
Goodnight to the beautiful people!
