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

C-Rai-Mes of Fashion

Russian clothing line Orby designs clothes for kids with young, hip parents. You know, the kind who aren't afraid to leave them in the Hummer with the driver while they get their drink on in a club. Like Britney Spears. So it makes sense that Orby would debut its collection at Rai, where the laws that govern adult behavior (and fashion) in the rest of the world do not apply.

Irresistible and confusing urge to punch a child.

Girl, they wanted a cat.

Did you know you were gay before they dressed you?

Sometimes when Mommy drinks she makes bad decisions. Mommy's sorry.

Yea, your jeans are cool, but your girlfriend has horsey face.

Forget the silly clothing. Your parents left you alone with Sergei Zverev? They must really hate you.

Say what you want about belittling children, the fact of the matter is that all these fuckers got into Rai, and we didn't. Waaaaaaa!

Photos: fashiontime.ru

Dyagilev Self-Immolates!

Contrary to popular reports, I was not playing the fiddle while Dyagilev burned, nor did I have any hand in it. I am not even in the country anymore, an issue I will address at a later date when there are not nightclubs to eulogize. At noon on February 6, Interfax reported that Dyagilev, the city’s legendary elitny mega-club in historical Hermitage Garden, the one that sadistically split up groups of friends between the club and the showers, the one that told supermodel Natalia Vodianova to home and change at the door (she did), was en fuego and not in the Corona-sponsored Spring Break sense. In the end, they managed to evacuate Anka and all the acrobats, giraffes and midgets in ass-less chaps from the premises, but Dyaga itself shuffled off this mortal coil. (No, actually, the fire was started by welders doing set decorations during the day.) Nightlife photography website Geometria.ru responded by immediately posting images of the smoldering club on its society photos page. Klass.

Yet many had long expected the demise of this particular nightclub. At two years old, it was a toothless crone in a city that continually defects to the fresher, hotter and more fascistically exclusive. On the down-for-anything front, Rai had it pwned, and new oligarch clubhouse The MOST had siphoned away all the truly sophisticated beauties looking for husbandry. Which meant that all Dyagilev really had left going for it were obscure theme parties, impressive silicone artistry and carnival hoochies. In light of these physical facts, it’s not hard to believe any number of conspiracy theories. Did Sinisha Lazarevich torch his own place for insurance money? Or had the nightclub sensed its own demise and courageously choose to go out in a blaze of glory rather than jump the shark? Or did someone just leave the fire torch on? In that case, Dyagilev died as it lived -- fabulously retardedly.

History will remember Dyagilev for raising the bar for human humiliation with $40,000 tables and people with the surname Feis Kontrol posted at the door. Katie's panties will remember Dyagilev for being ditched in its bathroom at the behest of a minigarch. We'll all remember Dyagilev for learning us good what it means not to believe in tears.



Photos: kommersant.ru, 44100.com, geometria.ru