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2 Hours at the Butt Magazine Valentine’s Party

By John Russell

The line to get into Rush, the improbable venue for Butt magazine’s Valentine’s Day party, stretches all the way to the corner of 17th Street—possibly further, but I can’t really tell—and it’s only 11pm. It makes sense. It’s Valentine’s Day. And the night before President’s Day. And it’s Fashion Week. And Mardi Gras is on Tuesday. So the people have something to celebrate.

There’s some whining from other people in line, and I have to be honest, waiting in line, not being on a guest list, it’s no fun.

“I’ve never felt so un-famous!” a friend quips. But the line actually moves pretty quickly, and it’s only a $3 cover; I’m happy to support Butt.

Inside, we wait in another endless line for the coat check, all the way at the top of the club, and then head back down the itty bitty stair well to the actual party. It’s packed. Wall to wall alty, arty fags, beardies and fashionistos. Lots of Buddy Holly glasses, lots of flannel. It’s like Williamsburg planned a hostile take-over of Rush, and we’re actually kinda worried about what they’ve done with the usual twinky, 18+ crowd. There’s a guy running around shirtless with Keith Haring-esque decals painted all over him and a crazy look in his eyes!

We head down to the main floor where DJ Michael Magnan is spinning a pretty kick-ass mix of rock ‘n’ roll. There are red lasers scanning the crowd, and if we thought the upper level bar was packed—well, we need a new word for “crowded” to describe this room. We spot DJ Van Scott, Mao Padilha, DJ Josh Sparber, some guy we made out with, like, a year ago, DJ A.Martini, a couple Daisy Spurs. Marc Jacobs’ new Brazilian “husband” is supposed to be hosting, but honestly we wouldn’t know him if we saw him. (Which is a shame because we Google him later and find photos of him in a Speedo on the beach and he’s super hot, in a post-waxing-era Chelsea kinda way!)

One of our friends comments on the possibly trick racial politics of the go-go boys, who are all either black or Latino or Blatino, dancing for an almost entirely white crowd. But then Butt is from the Netherlands, so maybe they just don’t have the same racial hang-ups as we do.

Somewhere between squeezing our way to the bar and posing for, like, three different photographers, House of Ladosha kicks of their performance. It’s like, faggoty, Banjee queen, hip-hop realness. Actually, that might be the name of one of their songs.

We’re tempted to pull a Crocodile Dundee and climb over these people’s heads to get back upstairs to our coats. Outside, the line is even longer, and people waiting keep asking the smokers, safe behind their barricades, whether the party is actually worth the wait.

“Yeah,” we tell them. “It is.”

We weren't the only site there, check out more pics here: http://www.homo-neurotic.com/2010/02/16/butt-mag-valentines-party/