Bash Compactor: More Fang for the Buck

Vampires may be dead, but they should never be boring. And though there were plenty of beasts and dark angels haunting the cavernous tri-level Element, none were biting.

It was the 14th year of the Anti-Valentine Vampire Ball and there was tons of black clothing, vinyl, piercings, tattoos, eerie contact lenses, blood and, of course, pointy canines. The creatures of darkness stood around looking pretty but that’s it. “Come and say hi to me. I’m going to be making fangs there,” Father Sebastiaan of Sabretooth G-chatted me a few days earlier. He IMed me the Youtube video of his handiwork crafting permanent fangs, a trend sweeping the planet. Arriving at the witching hour, I spotted him in his leather cowboy hat on the upper level in the roped off lounge. “Hey Sebastiaan,” I called out. “Just wanted to say hi, maybe take a photo.”  Van Houten grimaced.  “I’m busy now, going to smoke a cigarette. See you downstairs later.”

There was no later and I never saw him downstairs, but who cared. In the basement vault, things were livelier with fewer dead-as-a-doornail stiffs and DJ Xris Smack was spinning an Addams Family theme song cover. I danced with my vampire date, James Orona, in top hat and tails and sporting some fangs. Not a vampire myself—I just amass bloodsucking friends—I played the good witch, all in white, red and silver décolleté Marie Antoinette drag.

Bidding adieu to the Valentine succubae and hobgoblins, I took my broken heart over at the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre at Le Poisson Rouge where things were more lively, despite the way late invitations. The crowd was sparser, but they were partying harder. The music was suitable for a melancholy V-Day with Michael T and Justine D playing pouty punk and forlorn new wave all night long, emceed by the sassy Peppermint.

As I entered the VIP Lounge, full of nightlife’s more depraved denizens, bloodied boys in ghastly garb were squabbling over the bottles of booze on the table. Our hosts, Astro Erle and Herra*C, were lounging, the latter dressed as a bloodied-up surgery patient with Lolita-heart glasses. The Adonis-like singer Tyler Stone was half-naked except for a scrap of wire twisted around his head.

It wasn’t long before I was grabbed, prodded, poked and thrown down onto the sectional sofa. Finally I was starting to feel loved. OK, I didn’t get lucky but I won a few love bruises. “Come on, we’re going to Van Dam!” Herra*C proclaimed at 3:40 a.m., but it was time to kiss the bloody boys good night.