Wild Style turned 25 last year; this spring, Martha Cooper and Henry Chalfant's Subway Art hits its quarter-century birthday. For the milestone, the classic's coming out revamped in April, with a new cover, publisher, and text. Decidedly dope.

UNTITLED. Tonight's the opening reception for Untitled, an all-original skateboard-art show curated by Cey Adams that looks amazing. First off, Cey Adams is one crazy-real old-school cat who busted out of the Def Jam heyday, designed record covers for DMX, Method Man, and Jay-Z (Volume 2. . . Hard Knock Life), and got his own Adicolor commercial spot. On top of that, the artists he brought together to paint decks are a roster of hot shit: Shepard Fairey, Espo, Greg Lamarche. Be there or be lame.

CLAW MONEY BOOK RELEASE. Female-graf legend Claw Money not only has a piece in Untitled, but also has a super-secret book release party tonight sponsored by Duvel beer. Wow, that's some rough Belgian shit. RSVP for the top-secret info; all we know is below.

Thursday, April 12, 2007
7:00-9:00 pm: Book Signing. Music by Wowch
10:00 pm: After Party. Music by DJ Roxy Cottontail and DJ Free Simon
Party locations provided upon confirmation of your RSVP.
Drinks courtesy of Duvel Beer
Mandatory RSVP@brandpimps.com

THAT '70s SHOW: NEW YORK CITY IN THE 1970s. This is the last weekend of this old-school New York show featuring Daze, Iz the Whiz, Dondi White, LAVA, and Seen. We haven't made it over to DUMBO (37 Main Street, BKLYN), but call us suckers for any press release that includes the word "pimp." Like this one: "The exhibition pays tribute to the people of New York—from the pimps and the pushers to the police and the politicians, the musicians and the artists to everyday citizens—whose perseverance during [the '70s] reveals the true spirit of our city." The true character of our city puts pimps and pushers on the same level as police and politicians? We like the honesty. All the rest of the info's here.

DUNKXCHANGE. Yo, and if anybody's got a pair of those awesome Valentine's Day Vandals they want to donate to All City, we'll love your forever. (Size 7 or 8, please.) Help us scope out a pair this Saturday afternoon from 1pm to 5pm at Club T, 240 W 52nd Street is DunkXChange. All the info you could possibly want from a MySpace page here.

KICKSCLUSIVE RELEASE PARTY. We almost forgot . . .

Saw above book Burning New York this weekend at Zakka, the neat Soho shop/gallery that we liked very much until the floor manager gave us a verbal spanking for 1) Trying to take a photo of a sneaker-box character to share with you ("No PHOTO!" the dude said, all getting up in our grill. "No PHOTO!"); 2) Later trying to write down another url to share with you ("No MEMO!" Why? "Our policy! No MEMO!"). Fine, whatever, but why ya gotta be all assholey like that?

Hopefully you won't have to deal with that shit to check out the book tonight, when a bunch of writers get together at independent Prince Street bookshop McNally Robinson to blab about graf, burning, New York. All the info is in the flier above and here. We know you don't like to read, but this is different!

Bobbito and Fat Joe

Bobbito and Biz Markie

Getting downstairs was like licking a Tootsie Pop and discovering tuna inside -- a whole lot of work for a prize that makes you want to puke.

Yes, All City is run by a girl. Now get over it.

This is only momentarily relevant because we're about to tell you how bored we were at the first-year anniversary of the female-sneaker boutique Laces last night. Granted, we were so miserable that we ditched at 10:30 -- and perhaps the Crash Mansion event turned into some amazingly off-the-chain throwdown that we totally missed. (All signs screamed no.) But our annoyance with the Tuesday-evening event had nothing to do with gender. We like Laces. We like sneakers. We like ladies and sneakers. And if the party had been even tangentially about women and sneakers, we would've found something good to say about it. But, ah, nope.

According to the online flier in yesterday's post, there was an RSVP for the Laces event. Turned out that RSVP list was purely fictional. Instead, it was a line of 100 people asking each other if this was the line for the RSVP list. Yes, suckers! People just kept getting annoyed and left.

Forty-five minutes later, we finally got into the door around 9:30. Then we got searched, felt, patted down by club security. Fine, whatever, we ain't got no guns. But then there was a mandatory coat check -- mandatory, as in a bouncer actually forces you to check your coat before entering the event. And checking your coat at this free RSVP-only event costs $4. Whatever. If there'd been a banging pawty happening downstairs, we would've forgotten the hassle and chalked it up to crappy club rules. But getting downstairs was like licking a Tootsie Pop and discovering tuna inside -- a whole lot of work for a payoff that makes you want to puke.

Downstairs was basically a roomful of 200 dudes strutting around in their brightly colored hoodie-sneaker get-ups, like angry peacocks. Then there was a scally-capped DJ. His best jam: JJ Fad's "Supersonic." (Otherwise, boring.) There were people pressed up against an empty bouncer-manned runway, a walkway that was allegedly supposed to hold a 9:30pm-scheduled lady-kicks fashion show. There was a wall sheet of logos hung as a photo backdrop by the exit, like this was the MTV Music Awards -- and on the way out, we should take turns posing in front of the sponsor list. The runway was still empty at 10:30. Looking impatient throughout the crowd was a smattering of pretty ladies. Mostly in pumps. What was the point of this again?

Smile, you've won nothing!

I am laced up like a sneaker, yo!

Laces, a New York-based female-sneaker boutique, celebrates its first anniversary tonight.

RSVP here: rsvp@laces-nyc.com.