Harry Shearer Recap, Whoreoween

I hope you are all pulling up as well as I am on this fine, sunny, post-mayhem Sunday morning. The scariest Halloween costume that I saw this season was the guy with the Harry Shearer mask on. No wait, that was really him. As much as I want to jock the 92st Y Tribeca, I have to say that I was far from impressed with my first event there. I’m hoping that was an anomalous experience and will reserve judgment.

Harry Shearer on the other hand, prepare to be roasted! The roast master himself seems to have not quite realized that the very act of mocking our misbegotten president and his team of political pariahs, does not give one carte blanche to use every racial and sexual slur in the Book. I was offended by his likening of Colin Powell to Smooth Jazz, his bashing Alberto Gonzalez with a Mexican ole song, and his repeated references to Condoleeza Rice’s perm. Seriously? Worsened by his descent into toilet humor, and the essentially boring old-timer band that backed him, Harry Shearer’s Songs of the Bushman (rock/jazz/weird Al Yankovic style?) concert blew, to put it mildly. Definitely on the BL

Luckily for me I did meet some nice folks during the ordeal and we commiserated together. Afterwards I checked out Whoreoween as promised, with a quick stop at Metro on the way. I still love that place, go Metropolitan, go community! Well the party was actually pretty fun, the DJ (who doubles as my GO co-worker) was pretty darn fab. Anyone who plays Arthur Russell, next to The Gossip, and on top of old school hip hop is alright in my Book.

Speaking so highly, as I always do, of books and words, I’ll part with a word of the day:

Trustafarian: Someone with a trust fund. This trust fun dictates one’s choice of social activities. Not a Brooklyn Socialite.

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