There are literally hundreds of email newsletters that want to tell New Yorkers what to do. Daily Candy, Flavorpill, Going, and Nonsense NYC are all hip and fun, sorting through the billions of events held daily in New York and offering up the cream of the crop. They proclaim what's hot and what's not, and somehow manage to support themselves with inoffensive little ads hidden in between the advice.

And then there's ThrillList.

I've been suspicious about them for a couple weeks, since they offered some odd sartorial advice. Every female here under the age of eighty is a designer, so it takes a unique point of view to single out this beachwear as New York's best:



This isn't a hip New York newsletter, I realized: this is email from my Cousin Ted. This is some idiot "entrepreneur" trying to pretend he's not pushing crap to hipsters for cash. But no! ThrillList can't be swayed by advertising bucks:



That promise is stretched to the breaking point with today's ThrillList. While every other newsletter is touting four a.m. Burning Man fundraisers in Tribeca lofts, ThrillList watches the sun go down and draws a blank. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Wait -- isn't Denny's open?



Because, you know, what else is there to do here after midnight except stare at tourists under fluorescent light and eat food that'd make your dog throw up?



Definitely not on yesterday's ThrillList were the hundreds of gallery openings in Chelsea last night. I'm a huge David Wojnarowicz fan, so I scurried straight to P. P. O. W. for their tribute to him. It was about as good as most tributes are, meaning it looked like Gay Art School Crap compared to the original. With embarrassing art and a block-long line for Ocean Spray and vodka, I hit the road.

Just a few doors down, at the Moti Hasson gallery, something called Micki Pellerano was performing at their opening. Usually when musicians can't plan they instruments they just smile and strum them, a la Josie and the Pussycats. With avant garde art, though, you crank those suckers up to eighty and smack away with cement blocks. Wearing diaphanous robes and pastel-colored pillowcases over their heads, this combo bashed away like mad.

A few heads turned when one robe opened to expose a pair of utterly stunning breasts, but mine spun when a bandmember pretended to stab another with a letter opener, tearing away his clothing and exposing the perfect New York penis. It had a coiffured little curl of pubic hair resting atop it, like what you'd imagine Bridgitte Nielsen has downstairs. The barebreasted woman then took a white dove outside and set it flapping off into the Chelsea night.

"Seen it, seen it, seen it," somebody yawned.

"That's how I lost my virginity," came the reply.