Bash Compactor: They’ve Stopped Being Polite, Started Getting Real
Friday night, the producers of The Real Worldexiled from bars in Brooklynwere shooting a nightlife scene in the East Village dive bar Plan B. Who are these people? a redhead asked me as she watched Caitlin, the lithe, passable young tranny gyrating under the bright lights.
She started grinding up against a tall jock in a plaid shirt. Lindsay Luv, a character on the show who was promoting the party tried to get the trannys attention but was thrown back by the duo as the dancing turned into frenzied dry humping. Chet the Mormonhis signature Ray-Bans and kaffiyeh in full effectwas pumping his fist and egging the duo on to some New Order.
Im not supposed to talk to you, he said when I approached him. You always get me in so much trouble. Someone tried to snap a pic, and he covered his face. As Caitlin and the tall jock continued to go at it, I hit up Sarathe hot, tattooed house rebel. Ive got just about everything here. Look, this is a Beatles quote, she said, as she guided my hand up her intricate sleeves. Im going to get another one next week.
Baya, the shows little girl lost, cued up an overblown 80s ballad; Caitlin and the jock gradually became motionless and then sighed. Questioning glances all around as they awkwardly parted ways. You can just see the close-up: He could be the one! But does he know? Cut to Brooklyn streetscape, and Is This It. Caitlin cries alone in her room. Maybe not so alone. I approach her. I dont talk to the fucking press! Caitlin screamedpancake makeup melting off her face. She pushed me against the wall as I try to stifle a laugh. I dont talk to the fucking press! Whoa, sister! Just stay away from me! Chet jumped in chivalrously. It was a major scene.
Later, Lindsay and I sat on the hood of a Honda, smoking and discussing the melee. We felt sorry for Caitlin. How can she take any of this seriously? The producers picked it up on her body mike. A thirty-something Asian dude, with long hair and black NYFA T-shirt, came up to us. Are you talking to a member of the press, youve signed a waiver. We can sue you, he intoned like a principal. Listen this is a bar not your set. Its not Lindsays fucking fault, one of your kids lost her shit. I cut in testily. So are you going to write a story about this? he asked sullenly. I shook my notebook slightly. You bet your fucking ass.