Opening weekend on Cruise Corp

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Impose is proud to announce a new column called “Cruise Corp”, where we send Alaina Stamatis, Brooklyn debonair and the writer of Showpaper's bi-weekly (and hilarious) horoscopes, to notable parties of the DIY scene and beyond. Then we ask her what she thinks. Enjoy!


My roommate Justin Frye was asked to perform solo, opening a show at Big Snow Buffalo Lodge, but chose instead to make lasagna and construct a straight jazz band with our roommate Mike (who is also in PC Worship) on saxophone, Justin on upright bass, Nat Roe (from WFMU and Silent Barn) on cymbolic drums. Then I did ham poetry at a mic, reading things from Overeaters Anonymous and Yahoo Answers concerning Leonardo DiCaprio and the McRib season from my phone while rubbing a rack of jingle bells on my chest.

Someone said it sounded like a live band that would play in the background at One Eyed Jack's and I took that to be a legitimate compliment. We opened for Frank Hurricane's Hurricanes of Love, which is sort of “What Jack Johnson Would Do if Jack Johnson was conscious of the 'righteous goddesses' in 'the all-holy' Massachussetts”.

Then Guerilla Toss played, which was awesome, very tough. A dude in that band was making a saxophone sound like Aretha Franklin. Big Snow Buffalo Lodge really reminds me of the small party bars in LA's Koreatown. Once BSBL starts having tiny sweaty dances with trannies and K it'll be the coolest place in Bushwick.



The problem with super-well-dressed 22-year-old boys is that they look 25 so you let them make out with you in front of your friends, and your friends are all fooled too because he's wearing a cashmere cable-knit sweater and slanted eyeglasses casting a shadow with the appearance of a concerned, emotionally-mature furrowed brow. C'H'C'M was sort of crawling with that. The store's debutante ball prompted one of its owners to DJ disco records from his own collection, and I took in 4 or 5 glasses of Austrian wine. There was also a nice focaccia bar.



Showpaper came together to make 285 look like a high school gym, with streamers strung from the ceiling and balloons on the floor. Like 2010's OK Prom, attendees and bands were clad in bad suits and dresses with pink, netted petticoats. When the novelty wore off I slipped out, and when my date asked me where I was I told him that I had given birth and needed to find a trash receptacle, but thanked him for letting me wear his pin.



Shams had a belated birthday party in his new apartment. The lights were off, and the room was only illuminated by the open fridge and some street lights outside. Eric S. and Ariel Z. had two pans of sliced root vegetables in the oven, and Alex Winter of Blissed Out, reputable recluse, was there in a bulletproof jacket. A girl with black lipstick asked me invasive questions about one of my roommates while I was waiting in the bathroom line, and then I decided to just walk home to pee.


285 KENT

On Sunday night I was invited to three all-girl dinner parties; it had seemingly dawned on each host that she doesn't see her ladies enough and that this specific time (around 8pm) would be the perfect opportunity to right the wrong. I was deeply saddened and reluctant to make a choice, as my main objective for the Lord's day was attending the Babycastles afterparty at 285 Kent with So Percussion and Calder Quartet doing Tristan Perich's compositions, featuring star DJ Andrew WK.

In lieu of my own ability to party and review I asked afore-mentioned roommate Justin Frye to text me the scene throughout the night. Frye writes: “'90s jean butts, floral jackets, new glasses style I've never seen before, probably sol moscots, less jean jacketss, more leather jackets, synth loops pumping thru the wall from glasslands, sparse hoodies not black, jittery whisky foot shaking / Lots of combed hair parted at 3 o clock, WK dressed like classic party hard white pants long hair, neo classical * non chalant murmur in the smoking section / The most blazers I've ever seen at a DIY venue, but the whiff of weed is still just as present / Room full of eyes closed to Fred Frith's meditation on a scale, zoned out and zoned in / Skeletons sounding super thick, booty bass vamp outs in UFO time / WK dj sets like heshers partying with Jamaican mall rats.” So that's that.



They have white tiled walls! Not like a bathroom! Like a pool or subway station in a wealthy neighborhood. The new Vibes HQ must be a defunct spa for perverts because it's totally tranquil. They have a handful of big potted ferns and dark-stained wood for all the doors. The backyard is shaped by the skeleton of what once was an enclosed space with a firepit in the center. Sasha Desirée was bartending and fixed for me two Azusas: fresh watermelon juice with Reyka and dashes of cayenne pepper.

I thought Shams' set was awesome, thrashing and huddling on the floor, calling DJ Dog Dick a nasty girl, but he seemed distressed afterward. There was an old skateboard in the backyard so I kicked it into the fire, allowing it to emit a pretty hilarious fume. Shams had just been in Anchorage, Alaska, to play a show with DJ Dog Dick, so he showed me cell phone pictures of Dog Dick standing on a glacier.

Angelina started throwing her Bank of America checks into the fire, and then I got the NY Times email that Zuccotti Park was being invaded. I went inside to watch Laser Poodle, an electronic beat duet from Amsterdam who play really interesting module stuff, constantly shifting, the way it would sound if you set off your car alarm whilst drunk driving in heaven. Dog Dick joined them to sing in his choppy vibretto, and Shams took cell phone pictures.