Inching towards its 1st birthday, RPM (Roving Party Machine aka Rover P Machinery) is an amorphous entity of excess prying and posing its way into every nook and cranny it can cram itself into.

RPM has dolled out boozy slushees in gold lame booty shorts, flung pastry at the Playhouse, served a multi-course instant thanksgiving feast at a lil dep pick up joint, developed a carnival side show for its own amusement, photographed the best bouncing sissies, missed all the connections, characterized and cataloged the worst astrological omens, received an academic smackdown with a shit eating grin, and created flash, class and sass videos for the queer icons of tomorrow.

Adamantly coddling the cockles of pop music, vapid culture, excessive overindulgence, earnest sentimentality and always posturing; RPM brings it on, takes it on, adds it on, no holds barred.