3.5 Hours at the F Word
.jpg "The F Word Fridays @ rebel")
By John Russell
If I was a little late checking out the F Word (the latest incarnation of Michael Formika Jone’s Friday night party has be happening at Rebel for, like, a month or something at this point I think) rest assured, I picked the right night to finally make an appearance.
I tag along with the always fabulous S(He)quida—miss thing isn’t working a wig tonight, hence the “(He)”—not realizing that it’s Formika’s big Aquarius birthday bash. Inside it’s full-on faggotry reminiscent of those not-so-long-ago days when Area 10009 tore down Opaline every Friday night. I get super duper excited when I hear that the queens in the show are actually going to perform with a band, like they used to at Area. Maybe it’s nostalgia, maybe it’s the fucking Redbull, but suddenly this seems like the greatest night ever. (A couple people tell me they’re pretty sure the band is just a one time thing for Formika’s birthday, but I decide to ignore this and pretend that East Village rock ‘n’ roll faggotry is back for good.)
If you’ve seen the flyers for the F Word you’ll know that you could fill a phone book with the names of all the drag queens and promoters and club freaks at this shindig. But I’ll leave the name-dropping to the gossip columnists. Suffice it to say that everyone is here—and they’re all having their photos taken with the creepy dead rat that Francis Legge is dragging around.
Let’s talk about the show. I push my way through the crowd toward the stage in the main room just as Mimi Imfurst launches into “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” It’s a tried and true alterna-drag standard, but it works; the crowd fucking loves it. Ditto Michael T’s version of Bowie’s version of The Velvet Underground’s “White Light, White Heat” and Peppermint’s take on AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long.” It’s like a parade of downtown legends on that stage: Sherry Vine, Joey Arias, Dutch. The kids throw that word around a lot these days, but these bitches really are legendary!
Upstairs, some kind of photo shoot is happening, flooding the little mezzanine with really bright light. My first thought as I’m walking up the stairs: Jesus, those lights are unflattering for the rest of us! My second thought: OMG! I wanna be in the shoot! In fact, the F Word isn’t really a party you should go to if you’re camera shy. Photographers are snapping photos left and right of all the brightly colored and extravagantly coiffed creatures of the night. Who could blame them? There’s a lot of eye candy, including the mouth-watering go-go boys, who run the gamut from muscle-bound barrio boys to tattooed and painted-up freak-tards.
One problem with the F Word: it’s the kind of party you end up staying at way too long. The bartenders wrap up last call, the crowd starts to thin. It’s creeping towards 4 a.m. and I guarantee you’re still having a blast.
The F Word at Rebel, 251 W 30th St., Fridays, 10pm, $5 before midnight, $15 after.
