Worst DJ in the World & White Slab Wonders

It's crowded at the top. Choosing the best DJ in the world would depend on quite a few probably impossible-to-quantify criteria. For some it would be a Junior Vasquez (yes, still); others Carl Cox or a Sasha or a Digweed. Some go goo goo over Jonathan Peters, while others rave about Steve Aoki or Mark Ronson or Armen Van Buren or Armen Van Helden. For me I gotta think of Funkmaster Flex, and I adore Paul Sevigny. And yes, tragically, the dude at the top might have been different just a week ago. It would be real hard to pick a numero uno ... a best. The worst is far easier: that would be me. Despite my limited skills, zero technical prowess, and a set that has three tracks post-1987, I keep getting hired. This Sunday, in an end-of-summer act of desperation, the Chelsea Hotel down in Atlantic City will whisk me down to bore its guests off the dance floor, forcing them to seek sanctuary at the bar. Maybe they're brilliant!

My set will include but is not limited to “We Gotta Get Out of This Place” (Animals)—that’s a song not a strategy! Then “Cocaine Man” (Baxter Dury)—again, a track, not a strategy. “Why Don’t We Do It in the Road” (Beatles)—hmmm, a strategy and a track. “Baby Please Don’t Go” (Them)—I think there’s a pattern emerging here. Last but not least, “I’d Love to Change the World” (Ten Years After). I’ll be slaying them Sunday night with oldies and goodies from an old hoodie. I’m extra excited. Special thanks to Sky Group’s Alan Philips and Josh Shames for taking me down to one of my favorite places.

My favorite Friday-night party, “Inga Goes to Sweden,” is taking a hiatus. That’s Swedish for a trip to someplace far from Delancey Street. I attended the “Inga Goes to China” incarnation last Friday at White Slab Palace. It’s such a loosey-goosey kind of place that you just gotta have fun. They say it’s an invite-only affair, but nobody seemed to be controlling the crowd ... it’s in some back room with a caribou head on the wall and a DJ set up on top of a catering table. The DJs kept changing throughout the night and all were basically nuts. Sets included everything from Rosemary Clooney through the Damned and ABBA. Even I might have been accepted here. I squealed along with the girl seated next to me (Stephanie Lopez) when a Sonny and Cher platter was played.

I adored her ... you see, I was supposed to be a Stephanie and she was supposed to be a Steven. It went like that for hours. Even the Swedish people were friendly. My Swedish assistant, the gorgeous Nathali Glanzmann, struck up a conversation in her native tongue with the bevy of beauties packed at my table. They all talked of styling for Fashion Week and silly model boys and the wacky things they do, and I had to keep repeating to myself: Steve, you are not at La Esquina anymore, just to keep up with the conversation. Maybe it was down?

The food came out late but great, and all these paper-thin, stylish, hipster beauties hit the food real hard. How do they maintain those figures? The centerpiece was a pile of spare ribs that would have sated Fred Flintstone. There was some Swedish wonton-looking soup, and something I hoped was noodles. It was really tasty nice, and I can’t wait to be invited back by my pal, host Travis Bass. I had to leave just as the mob was showing up to partay, but I promised to return. I did meet Tribeca Grand’s GBH Saturday-night door diva, Kendra, for the second time in a week. I think she is the next big thing, and I can’t wait to tell you all about it.