I don’t know what you did New Year’s Eve, but I went to a marvelous party. It was not in the South of France and young Bobby Carr didn’t do a stunt at the bar with a bunch of extraordinary men, but it was fun anyway. (That’s a reference to Noel Coward, if you didn’t already know.) It was at White Flag Projects, the non-profit art space on Manchester near the corner of Kingshighway, and it was “produced” by Tom Huck, the local arts huckster extraordinaire. Huck plays at being evil, but he’s really got a heart of gold, tarnished gold perhaps, but gold nonetheless. He comes from Potosi, the mining town, after all. Although they dig for lead down there, not the shiny stuff. (Maybe he has a heart of lead - actually, that sounds more like it.)

Anyway, I arrived late - at about quarter to midnight, and the joint was jumpin’. Huck promised depravity and he delivered. There were hillbilly go-go dancers in chickenwire cages, there was a paint-ball shooting gallery, there was a live performance by the Livers, and, just as I arrived, a neo-burlesque performance by Lola van Ella, who later came back for a second act with a partner who swallowed fire while she stripped. There was supposed to be a station for bobbing for bloody doll parts, but I couldn’t find it.  But there were two bars and the drinks flowed freely. I had more than my fair share of Mr. Jack Daniels. 

The crowd was young, extremely young. People I know in their 30s were complaining of feeling old. (They should only know.) Everyone - man, woman, straight and gay - agreed that there had never been so many cute young men under the same roof at the same time in St. Louis. (The sound man for the Livers was the cutest of all.) But few of them seemed to be art world regulars. If it is indeed a fact that the best parties are art world parties, it is also true that many of those who show up at them are more camp followers than card-carrying members. I’m not complaining.  If it had been nothing but artists, it wouldn’t have been so wild. You would have found disgruntled clumps of slumped shoulder beer-drinkers complaining about Wash. U. or their dealers, if they are among the local artists lucky enough to have a dealer.

Matt Strauss, White Flag’s impresario, seemed highly stressed during the evening, failing to share in the fun he himself made possible. Heavy rests the head that wears the crown, which is not a reference to Noel Coward, but a playwright from several generations earlier.

Strauss might have been tense from all the responsibility he felt, but he’s been putting on the best art-related parties in St. Louis for the past 3 or 4 years. He swears he’ll never do it again, but one can only hope he’ll relent. There is nothing else quite like them.