“Where did OJ go?”
Someone told it was called “The Irish Goodbye” I call it “The Number.” It’s when you just get up and just leave. No goodbyes no wait for me’s no hold ons… Gone. My true friends know me to do this often and could care less. If you just met me you would probably be offended by my lack of decorum. I’ll apologize in advance but know it isn’t sincere because I can’t sit still. Rarely has there been an event or a party that would hold my attention for more than 45 minutes. People would try to tame me by asking me to host a party or an event but to no avail… I would show up late and leave early. It’s not for a lack of work ethic or disrespect it’s just that… I live in the biggest city in the world. Something is happening every minute of the day in every corner of this concrete maze. Why not discover as much as you can? Or allowed too? That’s another story.
One second I’m on the JMZ train switching up to the F train at Essex st. The next minute I’m at an art show that resembles CBGB in the early 90’s. The Brooklyn band known as Ninjasonik is celebrating their EP release with a gallery show by over a dozen artist designing their EP cover. Genius. The gallery smells like crusty bike chains and Colt 45. Cigarette smoke fills the space. Art school girls and bike boys in an orgy of denim and tights with colors coming together like jigsaw puzzles. There’s a new Marc Jacob’s bag mixed with an old vintage pair of Chanel shoes thrown over some American Apparel. This is the new rich. Everything is ripped, frayed, or neon.
The people running the gallery keep kicking people out due to over crowding. The more people get thrown out twice as much rush in. Someone is selling rolled up weed joints. The hallways to the bathroom is dark and people are doing whatever they do in the shadows. Drugs or fuck. The fancy “I own my loft” crowd in Dumbo is not ready for this but they love it. Casually trying to keep the red wine from spilling on their J. Crew, reminding them of a time when they didn’t pay bills or cared what their co workers thought. Deep inside we all want to be forever young.
Oh yeah, the arts not that bad too.
Back on F train again. Zoom to the city. The night turns into a festival of cab rides and bummed cigarettes. At times I wonder if politicians on the campaign trail go through this. A “hi” here and a hello kiss over there. It’s dizzying as it is intoxicating. One minute I’m at gallery bar with Mattise and James from Lola the next minute I’m at the Tribeca Grand Hotel lobby with Sarah lee and Jimi from Alumni NYC. This is the equivalent of going from Ralph Laurens Hamptons to Madonnas East Village. We all think we are cooler than the next and we are all smart and creative and on drugs. The drug of indulgence and self-confidence. That assurance 12-year-old bulimics wish they had. No one can tell us shit about shit.
“Where’s Mike Nouveau?”
In between the sea of black outfits with asymmetrical cuts and bangs that stop short of your upper lip he’s nowhere to be found. Our promoter gifted bottle is done, now what? Hop in another cab. There are nights where my cab fare spending would top at least 80 bucks. Most people don’t spend that at the bar, I spend it getting to bars. Who cares? No receipt, thank you. Doors shut. Now I’m at a Dim Sum place at 88 East Broadway with a bunch of night life refugees hiding from the bridge and tunnelers that rampage New York on any given weekend. Walk in. Theres Katie from Good Peoples. She takes me to the bar. The bartender takes me to a Jameson and soda. The Jameson takes me to the dance floor. Stop for Bronques. Hairs ok? Back to the dance floor. Now I’m in the middle of a shirtless and heelless puddle of sweat and exhilaration. It’s gross but yet beautiful. OK. My favorite DJ isn’t spinning. Time to go…
It’s nearing 4am now what? There goes my cell phone like a digital Tinkerbell. Rooftop after hour with Team Facelift and Smart Crew? I’m there. Quick stop at a deli for some beer and a fresh pack of Camels and BONG, it’s summer in NYC…
And then it’s daylight again.
“Welcome to hell”