Fine guys, I admit it. I'm normally into all that high-class shit. The clubs and lounges on the beach are usually what I hang around. The rich kids and Eurotrash tourist boys that compliment me on my 'exoticness' (as if I were a car) and pronounce my name Mizz Lecks. Or Liz or Legz, even. Mmmm Eurotrash boys.
But! I took the time out on Tuesday night to head to PS14 for a Spiderpussy WMC party with Stephy, my wonderful beautifully overly-opinionated friend that reminds me of myself. Now, I've been to PS14 before and I told myself it sucked and that I'm so much more of a Washington Ave. kind of bitch. Admittedly no matter WHAT day I'll ever go to PS14 I'll feel kind of strange. The crowd seemed to mostly radiate people with awkward extension-mullets, guys with jeans that outline their packages and girls that Dov Charney would pay to stand in revealing positions wearing (only) purple lamé leggings. Not my crowd. They seemed less hostile and lacked the beach douchebagery that I'm familiar with though, so it all evened out. Except I felt stupidly overdressed in a short black jumper dress and plaid-printed (they're not tacky, STFU) Hilfiger platforms. Not my Louboutins, not pumps, not stilettos -- platforms.
Music-wise it was BAD. ASS. Imagine my fatass standing on top of my desk with a science project board with those words on it really big. BAD. ASS. Really danceable stuff with bass that you feel in your stomach. Some of those androgens are milking the good electronica more than I am, damnit! See the full list of the guys (and girls!) here. This list includes Dalton, who I spent time with chilling for the most of the time.
ULTRA IS TOMORROW. OMGOMGOMG.
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