I have beef with poetry readings. After being on the flyer for so many of them, I sometimes question the self-importance plaguing the “downtown scene”—a cultural moment into which so many Notes-App-Novelists are eager to self-mythologize. Partying with novelists doesn’t legitimize you as a writer. I can only listen to so many pause-filled, expectant poems about how you swallowed because you loved him and that funny thing your therapist said after. I’m tired of reflection. Tired of reverence. I’m at Alex Kazemi’s New Millennium Boyz paperback launch hoping to find anything else. 

Usually, most afterparties involve drinking until language loses its meaning, but tonight’s afterparty is different. It’s both a reading and a battle of clout; a “microcelebrity death match,” according to Peter Vack. The precarity of the guest list makes everyone brutal. Obscene. So salacious I have to anonymize most of my information sources. Lydia Lunch hits on Matt Weinberger. People get fashionably offensive. Halfway through the afterparty, Alex tells us, “Someone just texted me that this party is like a bad episode of Girls.” Is this what Whitman experienced at Pfaff’s? 

Left: Alex Kazemi, Douglas Rushkoff. Right: Anna Delvey, Jonah Almost, Kelly Cutrone.

I interrupt my week of nocturnal living for Alex’s event. Surprisingly awake while the sun’s out, I’m cosplaying normalcy at The Strand to hear Alex and Douglas Rushkoff talk about Columbine. The Rare Book Room is packed with editors, unemployed Substackers, and provocative posters. Next to me, Peter updates his poem’s innuendos to include present company. Alex accidentally says something that’d get him canceled if he operated in more “woke” circles. “But everyone in this room can get canceled,” he says. If I ever get, I hope it’s for my writing. 

Left: Filip Fufezan, Honor Levy. Right: Emma Rogue.

Later, at the afterparty hosted at Gelso & Grand, no-bullshit punk icon Lydia Lunch kicks things off with a performance, snapping at the girls in the room, “All I want is for you to be as free as I am…We’re past #MeToo, now it’s #You’reNext.” I want to film her, but I chicken out when she yells at everyone for watching through their phones. Someone behind me whispers in my ear, “You guys have the same vibe.” I admire Lydia too much to let her hear that. She says raunchy things about Matt’s height: “He’s big enough to take it and I’m big enough to give it.” Matt grins. 

Left: Lydia Lunch. Right: Alex Kazemi.

I chat with Alex when he’s not wandering around, hiding behind his indoor sunglasses. He reminds me of that Sky Ferreira meme. Apparently, it’s his first ever time in the city from Vancouver. He’s certainly moving like it. He says he loves my writing. “I’ll probably Substack tonight when I recount this two-week bender,” I tell him. “Make me sound like a villain,” he replies. I point at the tag sticking out of his shirt. He says it’s Sam Finger, ignores it, and then rants about celebrities. He’s upset Cat Marnell and Cory Kennedy didn’t come. He wishes Matty Healy saw him as a peer instead of a calculated fanboy. Alex’s voice carries a recognizable longing—he only threw this party 4 u. 

The lists fuel tonight’s conflict. Guestlist… On the list to read… The list will not save you. Crashers and latecomers berate Ava Cutrone—doorgirl is a hazardous job. I was the doorgirl for a basement reading in Chinatown once—no one was famous but even that sent me over the edge. “I don’t care how many followers your meme page has. I don’t care that you’ve slept with everyone on the flyer. You’re not getting in.”

Left: Anna Delvey, Caroline Calloway. Right: Honor Levy, Peter Vack.

Someone tries to start a rumor that Kelly Cutrone hid the mics “so less famous people wouldn’t read.” Bravo could’ve filmed a reality show for writers who think they’re above reality shows. Alex has no social media, but the readers are some of the most online people I know. Madeline Cash was supposed to read but allegedly dropped out because “being on the lineup was embarrassing.” Aside from Lydia Lunch, there’s Ryan D. Petersen, Honor Levy, Erin Satterthwaite, Britt Menjivar, Filip Fufezan, and Peter Vack. We’re all in the same class at Instagram University. 

In the Gelso basement, arguments simmer between people who want music and people who want readings. It’s been about twenty minutes since the end of Lydia’s piece, but none of the other readers have gotten stage time. Now they’re edgy and impatient—some incredulous, some threatening to leave. They all posted the flyer, their expectations publicly immortalized. I guess fashion types and literary types have different definitions of an afterparty. Half the room wants to dance to Britney. The other half wants to listen to prose and controversial passages from Alex’s novel. Nothing says “friday night” like listening to a fictional Marilyn Manson devotee defending his school shooter worship.

Left: Lydia Lunch. Right: Prince Prkr.

The poets win the war and prepare their texts. The tension in the room encourages theatricality in their readings. Everyone recites passages from novels that don’t exist yet. People get horny during Ryan’s piece. Honor white-knuckles through pages from My First Book. Erin tells Lydia’s table to “shut the fuck up.” Britt does damage control and mellows the room out. Filip’s wearing lamb ears. Peter yells in Anna Delvey’s face. He later admits to feeling bad about yelling. He wants a new bit. But what did I say? I’m tired of reverence. 

The night gets blurbed in Page Six. How underground can you really be if you’re in the tabloids? I imagine the simultaneous pride and shame that comes from masturbatorily calling yourself “subversive” only to end up on the front page of New York’s most popular gossip column. “Too cringe for X, too based for IG, just right for this party,” says Peter. 

Left: Douglas Rushkoff and friends. Right: Anna Delvey, Alex Kazemi.

Earlier at The Strand, Alex had said, “since there’s no centralized media, there’s no counterculture.” Sure, there are counterpublics formed against the Capital-P Public, but what happens when your counterpublic gets exclusive? You can be “literati” in one room and turned away from another. Caroline Calloway gets dragged away from her “scammer girl tabloid photo opp” with Anna Delvey. Apparently her friends started a little tussle at the door. I wonder how many poet fights broke out at Pfaff’s. Between guests like Serena Shahidi (@glamdemon2004), Alexi Alario (Nymphet Alumni), and Isaac Cole Powell (literal Broadway), where do we draw the line between lowercase-c clout and capital-F Fame? Douglas asked, “Is the real counterculture love?” Does love have a spot on the list?

Left: Ana (Neoliberal Hell), Right: Ryan D. Petersen.

Left to right: Erin Sattherwaite, Brittany Menjivar, Peter Vack