This image was lost some time after publication.

Nothing like a tacky outfit, bad hair, and a tired, self-aggrandizing act to make one want to pull a knife out of the pocketbook and start cutting. And that's just RuPaul in cowgirl gear. Gawker Special Correspondent Jared Abbott braved the rain and the has-beens for the magic of Wigstock, featuring a slew of interesting characters pretending to behave badly. When there's a party Tompkins Square Park, you know we're there, even if it proves to be a booze-free version of hell.

This image was lost some time after publication.

The show began with the rather large and mean hostess, Lady Bunny, doing her usual filthy variations on pop songs; example: Avril Lavigne's "Complicated" becomes "Constipated." After a few charming half-numbers and dirty jokes, the mostly talentless New York drag community tortured, I mean entertained, the enthusiastic gays with crappy stuck-in-a-time-warp numbers. The audience was clearly full of fame-whores, because the two most well-known performers, RuPaul and Boy George, received the loudest applause but had the stalest acts.

This image was lost some time after publication.
This image was lost some time after publication.

The backstage scene was rather boring; no food, no booze, no ego-clashes, just a lot of attempts at rowdiness that just isn't in the city anymore, no matter where you look for it.

This image was lost some time after publication, but you can still view it here.
This image was lost some time after publication.

Talk show host Graham Norton was bouncing around (it was a Red Bull sponsored event) and chatting up just about everyone. Most interesting tidbit from our conversation: he is helping Joan Rivers launch her own talk show which will mainly be her taking calls from viewers and giving them advice on all sorts of topics. I can see it now: "Get a lot of surgery and tell the same jokes over and over."

This image was lost some time after publication.
This image was lost some time after publication.

Boy George arrived a few minutes before he went on. He was there to perform a less than stellar song called "Pretty Boys," and forgot to leave his messenger bag backstage. The snarky brit was a bit confused about which level of diva-ness to pull on that particular afternoon. First it was "stay away, no photos!" Then photos were fine. Then he performed. Then he left. I cried and then, in a fit of exhaustion, I ran home.