I went to see a bunch of Mexican death metal bands last night at a place that was rumored to be Matthew Barney's studio space but I think might have just been some sort of a Deitch gallery extension. But part of me hopes it really was Matthew's working space, because among all the meticulously organized boxes of miscellaneous tools like packing tape and rods was a box marked "metal nipples."
Outside a large pig was being roasted for pork sandwiches, and later the head got severed off and used as the headpiece of a staff brandished by one of the lead singers. During the next band someone got hold of it and the boar's cranium went flying everywhere until it landed smack on the inside of my leg. If I was a real dude I would have caught it between my knees, but I was too pissed off about the thought of having to wash my favorite jeans to react in time.
The bands themselves were just OK, except for the last one. They ruled. The crowd was a weird mix - lots of aging metal heads, fashion girls with Chanel bags, and tall, skinny fags. Good eye contact with a few of them, but no dice. Which sucks because finally, FINALLY my libido has returned. But I'm scared to do anything about it out on Fire Island. A walk on the beach there is enough to give you herpes.
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