Kim Gordon at The Kitchen's Gala by Gerry Visco
I’m no starfucker. OK, I threw myself at Jim Morrison once. But there were some pretty big names attached to The Kitchen Spring Gala 2009 on Wednesday night. Mary-Kate Olsen? OMG! Iman and David Bowie? Yowie, let’s get that party started quickly! And what about that ubiquitous art-star team, Lou Reed and Laurie Anderson. I see them out so goddamned often I now know Lou’s favorite pair of shoes.
Entering Capitale on Bowery is like going to church because the ceilings are sky-high. The place is humungous and grand, an apt venue to see Sonic Youth, the night’s musical guest. Searching for the loo, I went upstairs and stumbled onto the balcony where I had a bird’s-eye view of the no-wave post-punk noise band doing its screechy thing for about nine minutes. Some of the gala goers, who had been snacking on tuna tartare with avocado mousse and chive blinis with caviar and creme fraiche, plugged their ears.
“There’s Thurston Moore,” someone said. He was chatting in the middle of the dining room floor so I went straight for the gold. Nearby Kim Gordon was showing off radical beige leather racecar gloves with the fingertips cut off. “Can I take your picture?” I asked Moore, in my dizzy blonde helpless mode. He was one tall hunk of a man and he was looking fine.
“Sure. For who?” he asked me politely. “New York Press,” I told him. “New Press?” he said, confused, but with a sexy voice. “No, New YORK Press,” I said, setting him straight. “I like New York Press much better than the Voice. They’re not afraid to be different.” I’ll show you different, I thought.
People had started moving into the dimly lit lobby for the after-party, where the premium booze was flowing and the culturati were shaking their asses to the sounds of DJs Matt Creed, Gibby Haynes and Nate Lowman. I wasn’t quite done with Mr. Moore.
I launched into the usual rant about how New York has changed. “I know,” Moore sighed. Acting like I had no idea who he was, I asked him how long he’d been here. “I came here in 1976. I’m 51,” he said. My reply: “I moved to New York in 1974.” Envious, he confided, “I wish I’d moved here in 1974. It was even better then.”
Entering Capitale on Bowery is like going to church because the ceilings are sky-high. The place is humungous and grand, an apt venue to see Sonic Youth, the night’s musical guest. Searching for the loo, I went upstairs and stumbled onto the balcony where I had a bird’s-eye view of the no-wave post-punk noise band doing its screechy thing for about nine minutes. Some of the gala goers, who had been snacking on tuna tartare with avocado mousse and chive blinis with caviar and creme fraiche, plugged their ears.
“There’s Thurston Moore,” someone said. He was chatting in the middle of the dining room floor so I went straight for the gold. Nearby Kim Gordon was showing off radical beige leather racecar gloves with the fingertips cut off. “Can I take your picture?” I asked Moore, in my dizzy blonde helpless mode. He was one tall hunk of a man and he was looking fine.
“Sure. For who?” he asked me politely. “New York Press,” I told him. “New Press?” he said, confused, but with a sexy voice. “No, New YORK Press,” I said, setting him straight. “I like New York Press much better than the Voice. They’re not afraid to be different.” I’ll show you different, I thought.
People had started moving into the dimly lit lobby for the after-party, where the premium booze was flowing and the culturati were shaking their asses to the sounds of DJs Matt Creed, Gibby Haynes and Nate Lowman. I wasn’t quite done with Mr. Moore.
I launched into the usual rant about how New York has changed. “I know,” Moore sighed. Acting like I had no idea who he was, I asked him how long he’d been here. “I came here in 1976. I’m 51,” he said. My reply: “I moved to New York in 1974.” Envious, he confided, “I wish I’d moved here in 1974. It was even better then.”
