One Night in Moscow

Big ups to Paris Hilton, who appears to have made Moscow her second home. She was just in town last month to visit roosky BFF Kiira Plastinina, the heinously rich teen-cum-heinous fashion designer. (I wonder what that last sentence will do for my Google hits…) This week Paris came back with that guy from Good Charlotte to promote her sexy new fragrance Can-Can Cocktail. (Again...)

Paris and Kiira ride the short bus the elevator at Yevropeisky shopping mall

Most Western stars are far too prudent to venture east of Cannes, and with good reason. A bad night in France ends with herpes and a sugar hangover, not missing organs and a ditch in Butovo*. Also, many customer service mainstays we take for granted in the West have not yet reached the former Soviet Union. Like human rights. And TiVo.

But I guess some people have a taste for extreme tourism. And you better believe Paris is getting real paid every time she shows her face in these parts - $1 million a night, if you read the Russian tabloids. Ow, ow! For that money, few people would kick Moscow out of bed for eating crackers. Certainly not me, with Long Island Ice Tea prices at 500 rubles and rising.

Paris about to get feised at her own party

Paris was last spotted at Wall Street Bar, the new and thoroughly weird conflation of all things English speaking. In the neo-modest tradition started by The MOST, it is touting itself as a not entirely depraved place for serious businessmen to meet other serious businessmen and stupidly attractive women. Seriously, looking at the girls in these photos, Paris Hilton comes off as about a 7 and me a feral gypsy child.

The Russian PH knockoff -- plastic smells weird, causes headaches

Wall Street Bar frequenters work hard and play hard. And get paid hard and pay hard (450 rubles for a mojito). There’s Bloomberg TV on the plasma screen cuz the Asian markets open at 3 am. Buy! Sell! Buy! Jackpot!

Checkin' her stocks

The ol’ co-opting-a-famous-name-sans-any-connection trick reminds of a scam language school Garvard Inglish which operated in Moscow in the early naughties. They flew in hordes of teachers from the First World then kept them as indentured servants in Russia, raking all the dough without paying the help. I knew some of these forgotten victims -- Americans and Brits who came with a dream to see the world and exploit innate language skills rather than get a real job. They were left destitute and malnourished, without enough money to cover the rounds at Silver’s. Since the expat.ru servers crashed, there’s no one left bearing witness to this atrocity but MDBIT.

But anyway, unlike that naughty Garvard, we trust Wall Street will provide refreshing beverages and invaluable business connections.

*Moscow suburb you never want to end up in. May as well be Afghanistan, because there’s no sushi and kalyan.

Wall Street Bar, 9/1 Volkhonka Ulitsa, Metro: Kropotkinskaya, Tel. 7(495) 916-5731

Photos: Paparazzi.ru, elite.ru

Twipster 'Do-'Do

Mysteries of Russian indie steez revealed! Twipster (Third World Hipster) internet portal Look at Me now has step-by-step instructional videos on how to do your hair like a Moscow club kid. Featured are the vaguely Latin "Idalgo", the ironic '90s throwback "Luke Perry" and the "Decembrist," named after revolutionaries who tried to overthrow the tsar and were exiled to Siberia. History remembers both their revolting and their revolting hair. Noticeably absent from this hair collection is the mythological mullet. Perhaps it was all just a bad dream?

Eagle-eye readers will recognize this крутой stylist from a previous episode of MDBIT.

That's right, it's the Karl Lagerfeld impersonator from last summer's Thriller party! Thanks for playing.

Photos: lookatme.ru

Firsto de Mayo

Once upon a time, Oleg Gazmanov was the lone ranger waxing nostalgic about the CCCP. Senile as he is, he kinda has a point. Some of my favorite people were born in the Soviet Union (then fled immediately). If you filter out all the bad shit, you come up with a pretty neat set of things: chess, cosmonauts, torpedos, spies, “big science” (our favorite, too). We’d add that ambisexual Mickey Mouse knock-off Cheburashka and those medical bars for kids made of dehydrogenated cow blood to the list, as well.

The original O.G.

Nowadays, when journalists are accidentally getting deaded and history textbooks are giving a more patriotic look at the past (Stalin was a great micromanager), nationalism is just the safest hand to play, even on the club scene. Opera’s Pervomaika (1st of May) party resurrected that old proletariat spirit, and showed the world that a monstrous regime is a pretty sexy beast when it lets its hair down.

Now most Opera frequenters were born in the Yeltsin era, not the Evil Empire. Having never been forced to endure long queues and pointlessly circuituous beauracracy for basic supplies (unless you consider sushi and kalyan basic supplies, in which case every weekend at Etazh), they have a somewhat glamorized version of the not too distant past. It's less about Lenin and Marx, more about free vodka shots and STDs.

I survived 80 years of oppression and all I got was these stupid rigger grandkids?

Keeping it really real: gulag chic

Surely the Soviet Union wasn't this bad

If you want a vision of the Moscow future, it's a stiletto stamping on a human face. Forever.

Photos: geometria.ru

Faster, Stronger, Bigger Veranda

Ah, spring. It doesn't get any better than this. The snow's thawed to reveal all sorts of interesting animal, mineral and vegetable. All the metro dogs have that special look in their eye for you. And you've just got out of paying any taxes back home because you made waaaay below 84K this year (damn you, flaccid dollar).

Oh deer. It's this time again.

Moreover, just surviving the brutal spiritual washboarding of a Moscow winter is thrilling. Like winning a Darwinian marathon. The weak of spirit all gave up ages ago and went back home or to Eurasian safety zones, like Turkey. It's called the Great Winter Sucka Dropping. The strong remain in Russia to get the spoils of good weather: verandas.

Pagan spring veranda goddess

"Suck it, Zimaaa!!!" Ubermensch

There's no happier time on the club scene than "Goodbye Winter" party season. For one, greeting spring is a testament to the human will. And with thinned out crowds, there's more room to get freaky deeky. These photos are from a Vesna party at Emporio Cafe, where the beautiful and seski Survivors emerged from the tundra to take what's theirs. RWARRRR!


Photos: Mainpeople.ru

The Friksi Come Out at Night

Being a freakazoid is tough goings in Moscow, where not wearing the right seasonal stockings is enough to put a babushka's panties in a firm knot. Drinking vodka at 4 p.m., demanding exact change, answering your cellphone during dinner/symphonies/sex -- all socially acceptable. But exposing your legs before June 1? You degenerate.

Luckily, Moscow's subaltern experimental hipsters have a voice in photographer/party orgainzer/super attractive man Ja'Bagh Kahgado, who is coming out with a CK1-y photo book, Moskva Raw, of all the skinny tatooed people with weird hair you'll find perculating in the mix at the city's underground clubs (all three of them). His company Brainstorm Management throws/helps throw/threw Idle Conversation, which kickstarted, love it or hate it, the Novy Rave movement in Moscow (RIP); New Wave Fridays, where it was finally cool to be gay, or at least dress like it; and Labelfucker, which makes homesick expats feel less bad about a terrible life decision (Moscow); as well as bangin' secret parties that weed out all of the unattractive freaks and leave just the freak babes. Once, a few years ago, I got into one, but it was definitely an accident.


This last photo of Ja'Bagh's, it's not from the book, but enjoy anyway.

Bumping caviar -- something we've all wanted to do for a long time.

Photos: Brainstorm Management

The Weekest Link

Moscow fashion -- no longer an oxymoron? Places like The MOST created a new market demand for dignifıed, pretty things you can wear on the street without your lady pieces falling out. At this year's Russian Fashion Week, designers Alena Akhmadullina and Terexov spearheaded a revolution in sartorial understatement, forgoing peacock colors and FM boots for gray tweed and sensible shoes.

The new rank-n-file dyevushki -- elegant, timeless, boring as fuck.

Goodie Sveta in Akhmadullina's Pilgrim collar.

But who cares about them. Certainly not MDBIT, who cares only for the zeniths and nadirs of human achievement. And for every Terexov and Akhmadullina, there's ten more Russian designers pushing the bill on what can be worn in public.

Sergey Zverev for Ilya Shagin. Schwing!

Nationalism sellz: Two Gun Towers' flag cape will be the season's hit

Sergei Efremov Doesn't Believe in Pants.

Carnie chic

Fuck.

As an amateur social anthropologist, Konstantin Gayday's Russian folk print ghoulie faces Muslim keffiyah just made my head explode.

Honorable mention: After all that bad press they got for being rapey, Slava Zaitsev makes being a Cossack cool again.

Good evening, bitties!

Recess tip hats

Taking the fug cake is the 2008-2009 fall-winter collection of Kira Plastinina, the teenage daughter of dairy magnate Sergei Plastinin. A high-powered corporate father and an independently sucessful daughter -- so much talent in that family, it's not fair.

Ma'am! You dropped your vag.

Photos: Geometria.ru

No Oirish Need Apply

The Oirish have a right to drink. Not only has the proud Celtic culture been reduced to Lucky Charms and theme bars, you have places like Rai in Moscow Effing Russia co-opting their sacred holiday of the apostle St. Patrick saving all the potatoes from leprechauns. And making it really skanky. Jameson, you Uncle Tom!

Riverskank

You think that everyone loves the Oirish but look how many of them made it into Rai. A sea of Slavs without an O'Drunky in sight. What the hey, Rai. The Oirish are fun, too. So cute you want to feed them cereal out of your pocket. Moreover, now they're all at Silver's, feeding me Long Islands and making me sing folk songs about hating the Engrish until I can't stand anymore.

Barman! I'd like a refreshing beverage...

Can you recommend anything?

Just to wet my beak.


What to have, what to have...

What am I here for again?

I'd recognize that dewy Northern European alcoholic facial slick anywhere. An Oirish slipped inside -- get him!


Don't be fooled. That elephant always has green lasers coming out of its eyes.

As usual, Andreas takes it completely beyond the Pale with his fashion choices.

"Boobs," the Opera

In light of the insiduous Puritanism of Soho Rooms and The MOST, thank Bog there are still places like Opera, where funky-ass hos can roam free.

You forgot your....nevermind.

Photo: Geometria.ru

A Return to Modesty

Watching the Moscow nightlife scene has always been morbidly fascinating, like watching a large bruise change colors, but this current shade of yellow-green is particularly unbecoming. What happened? Is this the last stage on Moscow's teleological journey? Before it goes straight? Before it abandons pleasuring you in the bathroom for high-necklines and non-alcoholic beers, like the rest of the world?

I'm talking, of course, about the advent of The MOST and Soho Rooms. These places, now dominating the elitny nightlife scene, are cast from the same mold: sophisticated, uber-exclusive pick-up joints that cut out all of the fun stuff, namely lasers, midgets, glitter and hoochies a go-go. The MOST boasts a "no hos" door policy and Soho Rooms claims not to be interested in anyone under 25.

It seems reasonable that oligarchs don't want to wade through all the carnival trash and tubby Americans before they find a diamond. But that's all the fun. Sure, you can meet Roman Abramovich at The Most. But will you be able to wear your favorite FM boots? No, sister.

After a few raspberry cordials, a tender embrace with a bosom buddy at Soho Rooms gets out of hand.

It's not like the options are getting better. For the girls, that is. Rather, it's stripped the fabulously degenerate, all-or-nothing club scene to its most basic porportions: smokin' babes, malformed men and shit music. Boo.

SOHO ROOMS -- a place where Nastya, achingly beautiful Nastya, can finally find her sponsor and be home by 11 pm.

SOHO ROOMS -- where a genetic failure can buy Katya a mojito and still be 90% sure she'll respond to his text messages by next weekend because she's 28 and can't be arsed with this club shit anymore.

Call it disillusionment. Call it growing up. Call it Medvedev onset. But Dyagilev will always be the President of my heart.

Photos: mainpeople.ru
The Most, 6/3 Kuznetsky Most Ulitsa, Metro: Kuznetsky Most, Tel. 660-0706, themost.ru

Soho Rooms, 12 Savvinskaya Naberezhnaya, Metro: Sportivnaya, Tel. 988-7474, sohorooms.com