Ding dong, the bitch is dead

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Ah, Easter weekend. What better way to celebrate this somber, holy occurrence than to spend it looking at roughly rendered, graphic depictions of genitalia and real live boobies?

That’s right, it was time once again for the best (and nastiest) annual “art” show in Detroit, the Dirty Show. This year’s incarnate, entitled DIRTier, garnered a new location at the Bankle Building, located on a particularly desolate stretch of Woodward. After desperately searching for a parking spot that would not ensure the theft of my car, my compatriots and I eagerly ventured forth into the sticky, sordid depths of unadulterated smuttiness.

As is historically typical of the Dirty Show, some of the works are wryly amusing, a few are subtly erotic, and some of them are just plain icky.

The highs — er, lows — of the show included spotting the naked photos of your friends, naughty photo-ops with plaster-cast dildoes on precarious perches, live burlesque performances from the SPAGettes, painted bouncing breasts, and a Jerry Vile painting which depicted a tiny TV set which was actually playing a porno — the asking price of $800 even included the attached VCR and the porno: What a bargain deal!

Essentially, if you’ve ever appeared in this column, chances are you were there. The usual suspects for the evening included: Ricky Rat and the rest of the darn swell guys from the Trash Brats; Dan Panda and J.R. from the Padded Cell, Renee Vincent, Tim Caldwell, Eve Doster, Karen Lackner, Paul Horton, Candy Sprinkles, Dana from 60 Second Crush, Bubba, Dan and Tracee Miller, Mira Hill and Craig Posegay, Mary Mans and Jenny Henderson.


Dear reader, it seems the time has come for me to retire my battered camera and beer-soaked notepad; yes, friends and enemies, it is with mixed relief and regret that I inform you this will be the last Loose Lips column to appear in Metro Times.

The higher-ups at the paper have wisely decided it is time to boldly explore fresh territory for the back page; not to mention that after two years, I was just damned sick and tired of writing the thing. The proverbial well o’ gossip had run dry — there’re only so many new bars to rip on, wacky stunts from Rick Manore to exploit and Niagara controversies to document.

My experience covering the circus sideshow of nightlife in the D-Town has been educational to say the least. It seems like only yesterday that I arrived at Metro Times, bursting with naive enthusiasm, a sparkly eyed struggling journalist fresh out of college just thrilled to have shoved my leopard-print six-inch platform-shoed foot through the door. Little did I know my new profession would involve a scarlet “S” — for scenester — branded smack-dab in the middle of my big-ass forehead.

In no time flat, people were shaking my hand, greasing my palm, kissing my ass and knifing me in the back, all in a desperate and shameless attempt to get their name or image on the back page — and I’ve never been able to figure out why.

For chrissakes, it’s just a silly column, people! There are certainly greater things in life to aspire to, you know.

Certain things I will miss — the comp tix, the free drinks, waking up with my false eyelashes stuck to my hand and four different bar stamps smeared across my cheek, my beloved hate mail which included such anonymous, misspelled gems as “the princess of pretension,” a “bleached blonde bitch who needs to be taken down a notch,” and “some chick who thinks she’s the shit because she learned how to use a thesaurus.”

However, I won’t miss those Monday-morning deadlines, and I sure won’t miss the sea of fake plastic trees, pretentious blowhards, insincere sycophantic leeches, and the cutthroat cheerleading-squad drama that is a slice of life in Detroit after dark.

I could very well call out each and every one of you by name, but that would be far too detroitmusic.com of me, now wouldn’t it?

Instead, I’ll leave it at this: To all the smarmy, shallow, self-righteous morons whose sole purpose in life is to attain an esteemed level of status within the “scene”; to all the revolting, loathsome club promoters and bar owners who leave a trail of slime wherever they crawl; to the bulimic Birmingham snobs who hold their cocaine-packed noses high in the air as they desperately attempt to conceal their lack of validity as human beings with as many designer labels as they can accrue in one outfit; to the shitty, selfish and unsupportive bands who rely on shock factor and shameless publicity stunts for attention instead of crafting their musical prowess — I say this to all of you — there’s more to life than the bar, baby. “Professional scenester” is not a wise career choice, and sooner or later, you’ll figure that out — hopefully before you wake up one day in your mother’s basement on your 35th birthday, realizing your hopes of headlining the Palace or gracing the cover of Vogue will never come true, and you’d better go after that management position at Taco Bell before it’s too late.

However, before I come off too bitter and jaded, I must say it’s not a complete loss out there in the cocktail trenches, and there are plenty of talented, intelligent, inspiring, sincere and utterly hysterical shining gems to be found. Much love goes out to Dorothy Moulds, Tobi Matwiejczyk and Sheri France for supporting me from day one; Lisa Wright and Kelly Joseph, Danielle Arsenault, Goldie Adore and Top Kat and the entire crew of SPAG for pushing me into a career as an amateur burlesque queen; Jeremy Harvey, Jimmy Doom and Jerry Vile for always supplying me with an endless amount of classic material for the column; Tony Blowout for being a true friend; all of the DETgoth darklings and the detroitrockabilly cats; Jennifer Jeffery for photographing my exploits: Carole Bannerman for my very first introduction to the bar life; Karen Neal; Lou Lizyness for his extraordinary kindness; Keith Howarth; the Magic Stick, City Club, Gus’s and the Gold Dollar; Alisa Gordaneer and Larry Gabriel for giving me this priceless opportunity; everyone at the Metro Times for making each day at work seem like a party; all the hardworking, entertaining and immensely talented bands in this town that make it such an incredible place to live; B. for making me smile and keeping me on my toes; and all the greasers, goths, punks, rivetheads and rock ’n’ rollers who have crossed my path and made it all worthwhile.

You’ll still spot me out at the clubs and bars and parties, and I’ll still be in the same foul-mouthed, smart-assed form; and for those of you who think you finally got rid of me — ha, ha! My words will still grace (and disgrace) our fair alt-weekly, since I finally suckered the paper into hiring me on as a full-time staffer.

So there you have it. It’s been thrilling, disheartening, riotously fun, abhorrent, outrageous, depraved, toxic, unadulterated and partially censored for content — and I will always treasure every moment of it all.

See ya around.

Sarah Klein has not, in fact, left the building. Send your rejoices, regrets and final thoughts to [email protected]
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