mr. mittens (akmed) wrote,
mr. mittens

ancient dj artifacts

someone recently reminded me of some of the whack shit we used to pull at Sporters- like playing things from sesame street or spinning industrial all night like a bridgeport lathe on speed then ending up with 'copacabana' and having everyone sing along.

sporters had existed as a gay bar for quite some time . it was always sort of dive and used to go by the name of the ' west end tennis club' to disguise the fact that it was a gay bar. there were weird dusty old country club like decorations in random corners and a charlie's angles pinball machine. here we see the outside of the club decorated with one of it's colorful, glamorous, and friendly patrons near to to passing out on the curb. you just can't find this kind of charm anymore - not for love nor money nor a big pile of coke:

it's now a sleazy breeders sporty bar called ' the hill' and a starfucks- it had 3 rooms. we will not talk about the basement.

our alternative night was sunday. it was started by a protege of the 1270/man ray dj linda lawrence named john. once the 12 purged alternative music ( and rid itself of it's only female dj) and the emergency room moved around and closed, the gothic minions had no where to go and thus sunday at sporters. most of those of us who were GOTH/INDUSTRIAL NOT NEW WAVE were pretty much linda's chillens- john, christina ladanay ( who was my best friend and original dj partner), mr. mittens. when i started linda was very generous- giving me crates of records and taking time to help me learn to beat mix. i regret that i never really got to tell her how amazing she was for doing this- and what an intuitively incredible dj she was- absolutely the best in boston.

in the afternoon until we spun at night- usually the time for the honored gay tradition of the tea dance- they had a cabaret singer we dubbed " patty o' furniture" complete with a toned down liberace character in a tux on the piano. she was always shit faced by the time we arrived and sometimes we had to pull the plug on her because she just wouldn't shut the fuck up and stop singing. sometimes she didn't notice the dead microphone in her paw and would babble on about the "djs and their punk rock music coming up next...". she made this really odd drawn out trilling noise at the end of stanzas that everyone in the club would launch into the minute she started doing it. again she never seemed to notice nor that we would pitch coins at her head from the dj booth (we were completely evil but, then again, she was so far gone it never made her even flinch an inch). her favorite song- filled with numerous opportunities to trill-was 'hero'/ ' wind beneath my wings' from beaches. the time i walked in and everyone was clapping and doing the funky hand jive to the theme from the jeffersons ( "movin' on up....") with ms. o'furniture in full vocal flight... a priceless, glittering memory- a magical thing filled with horror and its own twisted beauty.

here's an old skool flyer i made- assembled just like a serial killer's brag notes to a newspaper:


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