On Sunday, I attended the annual concert of New York's finest and only guido house station KTU, Beatstock. It was absolutely amazing...for the 30 minutes I was there. See, it was held at the Nikon at Jones Beach Theater on Long Island, which isn't so much a theater as it is a 20-story tall series of steep concrete steps with plastic chairs drilled into it. There is no overhead covering and it just happened to be pouring that day. There were some freestyle people on the bill and as much as I, uh, appreciate Coro, I was not about to stand for hours in the rain to hear "Fallen Angel" live. He isn't Stevie B, you know? And, anyway, Coro could have very well made me sad. I don't know what havoc a life of freestyle wreaks on the body, but I'm sure at, at minimum, it makes for incredibly clogged pores.
For the time I was there, I did, however catch Lucas Prata. I swear to god, his between-song banter included, "Here's a song about the one thing I like more than pizza. It's called 'Girls.'" Perhaps even better: "How many Italians we got in the house?" He also talked about his My Super Sweet 16 appearance, which is clearly the highlight of his life. But then again, it's one of the highlights of mine, too. Prata: whadda guy. I heard a woman who was probably sitting at least a thousand feet away from the stage yell, "Take it off!" I want to make love to her, and I don't even know what she looks like.
It maybe goes without saying, but being nothing less than totally obvious, I will meditate on it: the audience was much, much more fascinating than any inadvertently retro-futuristic neon light show or voguging queens that the stage offered. Maybe the funniest thing about it was that the cyclical nature of fashion combined with the tackiness of Long Island meant that it undoubtedly mirrored what a freestyle concert at the same venue would have looked like 20 years ago. Authentic! Seriously, the banana clips and the lace-lined leggings and the slavishness to gel and the UV-ignorant tans and the denim that was damaged like so many freestyle singers' hearts, together made me wonder if I had somehow wandered into a huge, concrete version of the "I Wonder if I Take You Home" video, or, I don't know, Over Our Heads.
I didn't take pictures there (I'm this close to pulling out an eyeball to punish myself for not taking a picture of the girl wearing an "I Heart Guidos" shirt who complimented my boyfriend's shoelaces in the parking lot), but someone else did! After the jump, a whole slew of local color brought to you by Nikon Live. Normally, I'd apologize for the "PROOF" watermarks, but in most cases I think you'll agree that they enhance instead of detracting.
And now for the Italian-pride segment of our presentation:
It's like the Cobrasnake but...raw.
These pictures don't quite do it justice, but the guys there were so fuckable. Seriously, at least every other guy I saw needed some of what I'm offering. I told my boyfriend that and he said, "Probably because they all look so stupid." I think he's onto something.
Oh and in the interest of equal-opportunity derision/being able to laugh at myself, the whole reason I know about this gallery in the first place is that I'm part of it:
Vomit. That expression on my face approximates John Waters engaging with French tickler, while I believe my boyfriend's face is about to slide off of his head. At least we were tan enough to fit in.
We actually shot some potentially awesome footage during Prata's apparently invigorating rendition of "And She Said..." We just walked around the venue and filmed the audience as it collectively freaked out ("Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!"). The only problem was that we only caught about 15 seconds of it as my memory card ran out of space and we didn't realize it until the song was over. Sadness.
The reason, by the way, that my camera ran out of memory is that I shot footage and many pictures of this crazy animal that made a cameo in my life:
His name is Ernie and my father's dog sitting him for a few days. I thought I was over dogs but then I remembered how great it feels to have your tongue licked by an animal.
And while I'm on the tangent tip, it bears mentioning that the most New York experience of my Sunday wasn't Beatstock -- it was watching the commercial below that my boyfriend caught while watching Survivorman. I'm totally having my next corporate event here because I am a beacon of professionalism.
(Download)
So, basically they're whores, right? They can't be strippers because removing those dresses would be both too awkward and too short of a process. And I'm pretty sure they aren't on their way to the prom. Whores. The body sushi will give you herpes. From their lips to yours.
In case you missed it, I made a gif of my favorite part:
I have a feeling that she licks tongue just as well as Ernie.
What a lot of love you've written into this remembrance of your abuelita . . . how wonderful to have had her as a central character in your life for so long! I wish everyone had an abuelita like yours . . .
Posted by: pvc cover | November 15, 2011 at 02:39 AM
Beautiful piece, as lovely as she was. Great tribute on what would have been her birthday.
Posted by: Plastic hook | November 15, 2011 at 02:40 AM