Party Monster

by James St. James

In chemical terms: he’s a catalyst, I’m a noble gas.

  How bloated we all are to think that our childhoods matter, that anybody really cares about our little lives. Nobody wants to read about your little rag doll or your first-grade teacher. I always notice a slight glazing of the eye whenever I trot out my old “pooping in the neighbor’s lawn” story.

  One time, while snooping through his things, I discovered Michael Alig’s unpublished memoirs. In them, he goes on for an eternity about “digging a hole to hell” when he was a child, and listening to the furnace at night, thinking it was the voice of the devil. Sure it’s a sweet bit of foreshadowing: we see his paranoia, his fascination with the dark side . . .

  But really.

  Wading waist-high in Michael’s childhood memories is not my idea of fun.

  So very quickly: his childhood.

  I imagine it was full of, you know, pathos and pain. And there was a divorce, of course, and it was very hard on the kids . . .

  He was poor. I like to think of him as a dirty street urchin, sucking on a stick. But somehow I bet he was the apple of everybody’s eye—Bonnie Prince Michael—and what little the family had, went to him.

  He talks endlessly about a certain “experimental school” he went to—one of those terribly progressive early ’70s things—where you went to “blue rooms” and everybody applauded when you had a bowel movement. He credits this school for his freethinking, rule-breaking ways.

  Even so, I suspect he was a Ritalin child, impossible to pin down—you know, asking “What does this button do?” after he’s pushed it and the building next door has exploded and collapsed in a pile of dust. I would also imagine he seduced the neighborhood children during sleep-overs, and poked out the eyes of many a neighborhood dog.

  His mother, Elka, was a blowzy Shelley-Winters-in-her-sexpot-days, and I’m being kind here. In that attempted autobiography, if you choose to believe it, there are all sorts of juicy tidbits about her, things you wouldn’t believe. Of course, I’m too much of a lady to go into detail here. Suffice it to say, Michael alleges that there were all sorts of comings and goings in the Alig household, a topsy-turvy little world.

  The elderly couple next door, Clarabel and Earl, swooped in and took over the daily job of raising him. I’m sure he was their little gift from heaven, as they had nothing better to do, and it allowed Elka the freedom to pursue, well, “other things.” Hmmm. I seem to recall there was a brief stint at catalogue modeling, ski wear and what-not, and oh! you should see the pictures!

  So that’s his childhood. There it is.

  Yada, yada, yada.

  We all have issues, we all had problems. I was no different, really. We were both boys, two boys, two Midwestern misfits. We had parallel running lives . . .

  While I was getting boogers wiped in my hair during Biology, he was being spit on in Social Studies.

  A common story.

  But there was a day, a sunny day in May, I’m sure, when at exactly 2 P.M., we both looked out of the window of our different schools and . . . What?

  We didn’t wish—wishes are wasted . . .

  We didn’t hope—because our future was inevitable . . .

  And we didn’t pray—we were on our own.

  So we sent out energy bullets: “This is for New York.”

  “This is for when I get there.”

  Little pockets of energy, to be saved and accumulated and used upon arrival.

  I can only project my longings and my needs onto him. I can only express my rapture in finding an Interview magazine, seeing a picture of Andy Warhol or Divine, and just aching.

  I was so scared it was all going to be gone by the time I got there. Ninth grade, tenth grade—can’t this thing go any faster?

  In the magazine, there were funny people with funny names like John Sex, who had wild white hair and a snake!—and didn’t that just open up a kaleidoscope of new possibilities?

  And how long the years are—endless! And the minutiae of your daily life! So tedious, when there are BIG THINGS happening a thousand miles away. And when you go to bed at night, it’s hard to believe those people, those fabulous, daunting people, are out there right now!

  So we wait, and we endure, and someday we will be there, and we will make it.

  And, by golly, we did . . .

  The club scene that I arrived onto in the mid-’80s was an impenetrable clique, with a complex hierarchy of “superstars.” There were intricate rules of behavior, Byzantine rituals, and unspoken customs that were designed to exclude the unwanted, and massage the egos of the Chosen Few.

  There was a certain type of person who was deemed “fabulous”—but only if that person understood the system’s infrastructure and played by its rules.

  At the tippy-top of this system was the nightclub Area, the downtown society magazine Details, and the titular Queen of the Night, Dianne Brill. The goal, then, was to have your picture in Details, with Dianne, in the VIP Room of Area. If that happened, well, God himself would drop out of the heavens and give you a drink ticket.

  It was a tough nut to crack, I’ll tell you that much.

  But for someone, like myself, who had all the time in the world, and a closet full of flowing lamé things, it seemed like a perfect way to while away the evenings.

  I took to my task with the plucky determination of a Perfume Sprayer at Bloomingdale’s. Nothing could stop me. I was like a rabid MCI operator—oozing sincerity, feigning “spontaneous” conversations, and always, but always, just right there in your face.

  Oh, I had moxie, all right. Like Pia Zadora on a sugar rush.

  I enlisted the aid of a buxom young girl, to counteract my sometimes unnerving flamboyance. She was my sidekick. My partner in crime.

  I schooled her in the Art of Schmoozing.

  I even went so far as to make up flash cards to help her remember who stood where in the social scheme of things.

  “Who’s this?” I asked, as I held up a laminated card.

  “Cornelia Guest!”

  “Very good. Now what’s her dog’s name?”

  “Mr. Whiskers.”

  And then, when we would actually SEE Cornelia out and about, well, we were her BEST FRIENDS! We would hug her and kiss her: “How is Mr. Whiskers?” and she played right along, too embarrassed to admit she didn’t know us from a hole in the wall.

  I learned very quickly, watching the master, Dianne Brill, at work. She was brilliant. And now I will pass her ancient secrets on to you. Here, for the first time, is the Art of Working a Room.

  Now you, too, can conquer any scene in high style! Watch as uppity faggots fall into line! Semi-important people think that you’re a Somebody! Has-beens cling to your coattails! It’s easy! It’s fun! It’s the patented Brill-o-matic 1-2-3 to Social Acceptance!

  First: Spend at least six hours getting ready. Study yourself in the mirror at home. Is your hairdo media-friendly? Will your outfit read in black and white? Does your “look” inspire at least two clever sound bites?

  Remember, you must be eye-catching but simple. If you and your “look” can be reduced to a simple caricature and not lose any essential qualities, you’ve got yourself a hit. Think Carmen Miranda. Jessica Rabbit. The band members of Poison.

  Be sure that your partner doesn’t clash with your look. Plan ahead and execute together.

  As you stand outside the entrance to the party, take your partner by the hand and shake it once for solidarity. Quickly, adjust your vibrations to the music. Throw your ears back, push your energy forward, turn on that smile and SWEEP into view.

  Enter the room in a clatter of commotion.

  Circle the room, once together, smiling and saying hello to EVERY PERSON in the room. Even if you don’t know them. ESPECIALLY if you don’t know them. Pretend that you do. You should make a snappy comment about something they’re wearing: “My what a beautiful corsage!” (if it’s a woman or a drag queen); or “Darling, look at those massive shoulders!” (if it’s a man or a drag que
en).

  Smile and acknowledge EVERY PERSON in the room . . . in a clockwise rotation—never stopping, never pausing—always moving, always smiling . . . brilliant . . . animated . . . ON!

  This takes twenty to twenty-five minutes.

  Then: Separate!

  Both of you circle, alone, in opposite directions. (You continue moving clockwise, your partner retraces your steps.) Pretend you are searching for each other—that it’s a matter of life and death—and be sure to involve every person in the club in your desperate hunt.

  (This should take no longer than twenty-five minutes.)

  Finally, regroup and scream with transcendental bliss at the thrill of finding one and other again.

  Now, lock arms and work the whole room again, telling all your newfound friends, “Not to worry, we’ve found each other at long last.”

  Then leave.

  Never stay longer than an hour and a half. And that is on the very outside. I MEAN IT!

  Always leave them wanting more.

  Do this every night, for three months, at the hottest club in town, and I personally guarantee that for the rest of your life you will know everybody in every room of every party, everywhere.

  That’s what we did. We climbed our way into their charmed little circle. Me and my booby best friend were dubbed “celebutantes” by Newsweek magazine, and soon we were the toast of the town.

  Now, if you’re looking for some sort of lofty moral summation—like: “Being Popular Isn’t What’s Important”—well, you won’t find it here. Because I had a wonderful time . . .

  . . . met a lot of fascinating people . . .

  . . . and saw sights that would make Caligula blush . . .

  And I also learned some VERY IMPORTANT LIFE LESSONS.

  For example:

  • If two or three people of equal social standing are posing for a photograph, you always want to stand ON THE RIGHT of everybody else. That way, in the picture, you will be first on the left, and the caption will read: “James St. James and Blah Blah Blah were seen at . . . ”—So psychologically, you get top billing.

  • Once something appears in print, it automatically becomes true. Ipso facto. If a columnist says that you are an ugly baboon with two noses and a spastic colon—well then, prepare to live out the rest of your life that way. Nobody will ever believe otherwise.

  • Contrary to popular belief, there is such a thing as bad press. Just trust me on this one.

  • Which leads me to the most important rule of all: Never, ever dish anyone in print. No matter who they are. No matter how many looks they’ve stolen from you over the years. No matter how many times they’ve humiliated you at dinner parties, or peed on your pant leg. If somebody asks you for a quote about your mortal enemy, simply drip with sincerity as you gush: “I worship him.” And leave it at that. IF YOU’RE CORNERED AND YOU HAVE TO TELL THE TRUTH, AND THE TRUTH IS, WELL, SLIGHTLY BITCHY, put a positive spin on it, then quickly follow it up by giving three reasons why you’re even worse. FOR EXAMPLE: “Sure, Michael is a monster—but look at that flawless eyeliner! How many monsters do you know that can wield liquid liner LIKE THAT? Besides, I have anal fissures. And I just love Captain Lou Albano. Oh, do I have bad breath? Here, smell . . . ” Works like a charm.

  That’s what I learned when I was fabulous.

  What does it all mean? Not much.

  It qualifies me to be a hostess at Denny’s.

  But, remember—at the time, I took it all rather seriously. I paid my dues. Played by the rules.

  There I was, sitting pretty, perched in the upper branches of the nightclubbing hierarchy.

  Suddenly, in whooshed Michael Alig—just as brazen, just as devil-may-care, just as uncouth and unschooled. . . .

  A big old bowling ball searching for a gutter . . .

  I remember I was at the bar at Area, coolly studying my reflection in a Doublemint gum wrapper that was lying there. More lip gloss, perhaps?

  That’s when he came skroddling up to the bar. I saw him and I thought, My Lord, that could very well be my uglier twin sister! He had the same pigtails, same lunchbox, same fashionable blue lips! It was unnerving!

  “Hi. I’m Michael Alig. And you’re James St. James!”

  “Well. I’m glad we finally got that worked out.”

  “I saw you on Oprah and I have your picture from Interview magazine on my refrigerator.”

  “Of course you do, darling. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . . ”

  “I’m going to be a party promoter.”

  “So is my Guatemalan housekeeper. But you hang in there, dear. Goodbye.”

  “What do you think of this idea: a masquerade party at the Kit Kat Club where everybody comes dressed as their favorite Saturday morning cartoon character, like Electra-Woman or Hong Kong Phooey?”

  “I’d rather have rectal cancer, darling, but it was sweet of you to ask. Now, goodnight.”

  And I ran for the exit, hoping that was the end of it.

  But there he was again, the next night—draped across Village Voice gossip columnist Michael Musto! And the next night, and every night, every party, everywhere we went—THERE HE WAS! Smiling and chatting up everybody in the room!

  Well, everyone was just horrified!

  Of course, I ignored him. Who wanted some loud, young upstart, just brazenly walking up to total strangers in a club, acting as if he knew them!

  How crass! How contrived! Did he think we didn’t see through his blatant social climbing?!

  There are a million stories of how we all tortured him, ran from him, and tried desperately to thwart him. When he was a busboy at Area, I might throw drinks and ashtrays on the ground and scream “Busboy!” just to make him grovel. When he started throwing parties at Danceteria, we wouldn’t be caught dead gracing them with our social presence. He wasn’t written about in Details. He was simply not allowed in our clique.

  There was only one reason I maybe tolerated a moment or two of his presence at all: I was madly in love with his boyfriend:

  The future Superstar DJ, Keoki.

  When they met, Keoki was still a baggage handler for TWA. He somehow got into Area one night and met Michael, who was still a busboy. They were both very different people then from who they are now. This was before the egos, the drugs, the successes, the failures, and the fans. But maybe they saw the future in one and another. Who knows? Who cares. Anyway, they left together and embarked on an eight-year, whirlwind, codependent, psychotic love affair.

  Little Keoki was just adorable back then. Cute as a bug. I was immediately smitten. I remember we all were. The entire club stopped cold the first night Michael brought out his hot little Spanish boy-toy.

  How could he get someone that cute?

  But there he was, and there they were. Keoki was in his underwear on a mattress in the corner of the lounge at Area. I don’t remember why. Perhaps Michael had gotten him a job as an Art Installation. Or maybe he just felt fabulous.

  But here was this gorgeous, Dionysian, creature, a real Latin heartthrob, smothering MICHAEL ALIG in kisses.

  We were flummoxed.

  Absolutely flummoxed.

  And so, I was in love.

  Now maybe, if I look real deep into myself, I can admit that just maybe I have a few intimacy issues that need to be resolved. I mention this only because I dealt with my “crush” just like any ten-year-old would: I chased him around and tortured him mercilessly. If he had had pigtails, I’d have pulled them.

  Michael launched an elaborate campaign to secure a job for Keoki at Area. Keoki decided he wanted to be a DJ—despite the fact that he didn’t know the first thing about it. Oh, he was just awful. His selections were a mishmash of the pretentious, the obvious, and just plain bad taste. Nobody could clear a room faster than Keoki.

  Nevertheless, Michael began billing him as “The It Boy of the ’80s” on every flier for every party.

  “The It Boy of the ’80s”?

  Ludicrous!

  How could
I not make fun of that? Nobody even knew who he was!

  But I did go on a bit. Anytime he walked into a room, I would scream, scream: “OH MY GOD! IT’S THE ‘IT BOY’!”

  I was braying like a herniated yak.

  Every night—“IT’S THE ‘IT BOY’!”

  Until one night, he was go-go dancing in his underwear, and Michael and I stood transfixed, unable to stop ourselves from gawking. Then, abruptly, I launched into my tirade.

  “LOOK AT THE ‘IT BOY’!”

  But Keoki had had enough. He grabbed a drink from the bar and began pelting me with ice cubes. Cube after cube, CLUNK, on my head, CLUNK, down my shirt. Ice cubes were followed by lemon wedges, and before I knew it, I was being pummeled with cigarette butts and beer bottles, OH THE HUMANITY!

  The other go-go boys joined in. Spurred on by Keoki’s taunts and jeers, they poured drinks on me, seriously staining my pretty new tube skirt, I will never forget it.

  I fell to the floor, racked with sobs. How could somebody so beautiful be such a monster?

  Another time, Musto and I were posed in our corner of the Palladium bathroom with our force fields UP. We were saying deeply superficial things to each other, and looking very soigné doing so. Nobody would have dared to approach us. We were that good.

  Nobody, except . . .

  Leaping and bounding through the crowd—arms flailing, invites spilling everywhere—looking for all the world like Old Yeller in heat . . .

  MICHAEL ALIG!

  He dared enter our sacred personal space! He was out of breath, panting, and looking positively CANINE, in some weird furry sort of getup. He poked his face RIGHT INTO OURS, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, something he did every day.

  “JAMES! MICHAEL! MICHAEL! JAMES! Oh My God! Hi! I AM SO GLAD I FOUND YOU! I’m throwing a party, you have to come! It’s at Area and the theme of the party is BLUE. Doesn’t that sound like fun? Can I put you down on the YES list, please?”

  I’d rather suck a urinal cake.

  “I’ll be sure to red-letter it on my social calendar,” Musto gushed in that ego-squashing way of his. “I was going to go to Bianca Jagger’s birthday . . . but . . . hmm . . . Bianca or Blue? Blue or Bianca? Hey, it’s Blue for me! I’ll be there!”