Archive for August, 2010

Night Loops: The BBM Edition

Posted in Uncategorized on August 13, 2010 by SLUTLUST

“To be happy in this world, first you need a cell phone and then you need an airplane. Then you’re truly wireless.”

Ted Turner

The battery life on my cell phone now only last about a full hour after charging ever since I became a member of the PPP Black Berry messenger group. There are only about 13 member’s  in this memory factory but that doesn’t stop us from covering most of New York and as far as Los Angeles. Moments are like seconds to us and there’s no telling what minute will provide the unforgettable magic our everyday life feeds off. The irony is that we don’t remember these moments, you probably do if you’ve seen us out. We have to go to the bbm group chat and read our timeline like some scene from the movie Memento. Torrid details of a night gone wild with incriminating and career ending photos. Some of us own our own galleries while others create for them or perform on stage for bass addicts and future ex groupies. Some of us have nothing but some leather holding collected business cards and petty cash. When the lights go off and we are in pursuit driven by our thirst, we are all the same, blinded by the fireflies we call street lights. Our wants know no bounds and our imagination recognizes no limits. We will never grow old or bored… the Peter Pan Posse.

It’s amazing how much life has changed since the invention of the cellphone. All our moves, vices, and needs are kept in this little handy device reminiscent of what Spock used to use in Star Trek. These phones are now extensions of our personality. Your Black Berry means you all about business while your iPhone means you’re creative and might have good credit. You pull out a flip phone in front of me and I’m thinking either a drug dealers throw away phone or poor people who didn’t spring for the insurance. Simple text messages have built and destroyed countless relationships yet our eyes stay fixated to the L.E.D. screen. It’s our social guru, it’ll tell you where to go and how to leave when you get there in case you hate it. If you love it you get even closer to the screen as you have to share that moment through the million social networking sites at your thumbs reach. Your camera phone captures the truth while you tell lies and send them via email. Your bbm says your busy while you’re chatting away in your bbm group or making a playlist in Pandora. Your Twitter says you’re at Lit while your Facebook says you’re at Kenmare and your GPS says you’re in a cab between both of those places. Welcome to the future, I hope you have an unlimited plan.

“Watching something on your cell phone seems like crazy talk to me”

Matt Thompson

The first thing I do when I wake up before I wipe the crust off my eyes is look for my phone. Mostly to see what I have missed, but after last night I’m more curious as to how I got home. I assume it was a cab by the uneven amount of crumbled up bills in my pocket. I didn’t lose my camera nor my sunglasses, sweet. I’m wearing 3 different wristbands and my hands are covered in stamps. I need water. I need to check the PPP bbm group. Nothing in the chat, but I do see a few recently pictures. It’s Matisse and Caleb taking pictures of themselves putting needles in each others skin. They are now following with captions of them hanging out in Heroin Park, also known as Tompkins Square Park, nodding in and out of sleep. Are they still up? What did I leave them doing last night?? Soon the bbm chat room starts to vibrate with the “what the fuck!?” everyone viewing is now feeling in unison. Both of them say nothing. Next thing you know I’m roped into a night out with Trybe. This mans voice sounds like he’s from Queens and has killed to protect his construction union workers at 32 B&J. He’s also a heavy drinker and I know he’s going to one day buy me that one shot that will kill me. It’s going to be a very long and classy night.

We reach the apartment Matisse is currently squatting at with 2 six packs of brown water. Matisse is doing her best drunk Parkour furniture flips and Caleb is playing darts with an underage blond that might have gotten off at the wrong stop in Penn Station. The table is littered with bottles and empty Camel packs half smoked cigarettes. There’s a Super Nintendo and a weird record player that makes anything on vinyl sound haunted. The bags under their eyes look like beautiful travel luggage as I’ve now walked into a Stockholm syndrome of fun. We call them dope fiends and they laugh and call us idiots.

“Those were acupuncture needles!”

“Whatever dad, let’s go to Gold Bar”

We go after convincing Matisse, doing her Cheshire Cat impression, to get down from the top of the cupboards. Same is not answering any of our calls and we assume he’s dead from last night. Everyone packs a stowaway beer for the ride. Gold Bar is more models and bottle then the Little Mermaid book bag Matisse is wearing and the cargo shorts Trybe has on but fuck if we care. Our faces are our ID’s. The gold skulls on the walls inside are all the bouncers we’ve killed over the years. I’ve walked pass angry black bouncers with a confederate flag patch on my jean vest just because of the power a white blond girl with a clipboard has. We breeze through the collared shirts and sequins trophy wife dresses to the DJ booth for bear hugs and double cheek kisses. We didn’t reserve a table but we seat ourselves anyway and help ourselves to someones trust funded baby bottle. He’s not going to get mad, he’s going to say hello and start a conversation littered with curiosity and wonder.  The Arab Parrot just arrived maybe he’ll take his picture and caption it with “what a douche”. Same is not answering any of our calls and we assume he’s STILL dead from last night. Mint and Serf show up and the move is last call at Lit. It’s 3:45 am and we are a 20 minute walk away. It’s all possible. It’s all probable. It’s all perfect. PPP.

You know that feeling you get when you lose your phone? The phantom vibrations and the feeling of disconnect? How Dependant are we? How fascinating has our life become? I didn’t have my 1st cellphone until well into my 20’s and to think there’s a whole generation of kids that will never know what it is to have the phone number to someones house. We don’t even need to remember numbers anymore just the first few letters of a name. With Google maps you don’t even need to know directions. It’s as if we’ve based our survival on a small box made out of circuitry and plastic powered by a lithium battery. My niece has a phone and she’s only 12. It amazes me how much more access she has to information then I’ll ever have. She doesn’t have to make friends like I did when I was younger she can just choose them on MySpace. Why would she need to go outside to interact and live when the entire world is in her hip pocket, just a few buttons away? We even navigate New York City’s crowded streets and text at the same time. You ride the train and even in the tunnels with no reception we still ride with our heads down. Constantly tapping away at whatever is on our mind. No more casual conversations with commuters on the G train just the latest Arcade Fire or Gucci Mane in our ear muff headphones. We’ve connected and yet disconnected at the same time.

My Black berry get’s me on the stage at Webster Hall. This night it’s Switch from Major Lazer and Skerrit Boy is jumping off the DJ booth “daggering” contestant number 1. The skinny Karen O models type blush and shy away at such “urban-ness” but inside are enticed by the power. All the men are wishing they could jump on to ass like that. I think his pelvis just shattered. Armand agrees with me. I text Alex English After I see Jeff to find Reckless so he can get me a wristband for the VIP room. I squeeze pass the over weight security guard on to a stage filled with too many DJ’s and the few girls who want to blow them. There is no more booze upstairs in VIP. Oh word dad? Where’s my phone?

My Black Berry takes me to Santos Party House on Lafayette Street for Trouble & Bass. I text Luca to come to the side of the stage because as many times he’s seen me this door nazi won’t let me backstage. I know Luca is there because a Twitter post just told me so. Lurker. Nadja finds me a spare wristband and it’s packed and sweaty backstage time. Some girl spills a drink all over someones DJ bag and Luca takes it personal. Kicking people out of VIP is not the most exciting perk but there’s a certain guilty pleasure about kicking girls out in a male dominated industry. Everyone is drunk or passed out due to the combination of beer, Ambien, and jet lag. It’s too crowded to smoke a cigarettes so I go outside so stare at the commoners on the line. The bouncer outside recognizes me and casually reminds me I’m banned from his fine establishment in front of the crowd of raving smokers. Fuck you dude you just work here I live it here. I’m not looking at him or the rubberneckers I’m looking at my phone, waiting for the guru to tell me my next move.

My Blackberry takes me to the after hours. Is it a random Brooklyn bar? No it’s in this apartment building somewhere around the corner of Mercer and the entire West Village. Trybe has been driving in crop circles with an anxious crew of derelicts so I Google Map the address. Soon we are pack man gobbling up balls as we go through the maze provided by us by the GPS. Google does everything for you except purchase the beer and ring the door bell. Now we are in some smoke-filled studio loft discussing everything from fashion to um… fashion. Me and Trybe try to keep it as masculine as we can with old new york stories and graffiti talk but it’s starting to sound like a 1st date. Prince Terrance is playing what I’m gonna call “Nu-Dark Wave” on iTunes and the Asian dominatrix can’t keep her titties to herself. Now my blackberry is telling me I need go home. My girlfriend has only one rule: be home before she goes to work at 8pm and that’s in 15 minutes. I hope my phone can also send apologies and flowers.

“Email, instant messaging, and cell phones give us fabulous communication ability, but because we live and work in our own little worlds, that communication is totally disorganized. “
Marilyn Vos Savant

“Apparently we love our own cell phones but we hate everyone else’s. ”
Joe Bob Briggs


Sex and The Black Out 2003

Posted in Uncategorized on August 8, 2010 by SLUTLUST

(NOTE: None of these pics are from the black out, these were taken around that time and are only here to give you a sense of NYC in 2003. Enjoy.)

“Now what did you do Mel?”

Mel was the Inspector Gadget of New York Filmworks. We were the only two employees  with offices in the basement of 928 Broadway. Copy machine gets fucked up or the photo developer only prints black photos.. Mel’s on it. Wanna hear about how the military complex assassinated Kennedy? He’ll debunk it. He’s also a very good photo shopper having done work for the likes of Mick Rock and Ryan Mcginley. At times I thought he invented Photo Shop, waxing digital poetics over Lou Reeds face or making Blondie look 23 years old again. His office was this warehouse full of mechanical thingamajigs. A drill here some nails here and what appeared to be a charcoal and oil robot over there. Mel also fucked up. A lot. We won’t talk about the time he suggested pouring the photo developer liquid down the drain on the floor of the basement. The smell will burn your eyes out. The fire company showed up. I worked upstairs for a week.

“I don’t know, I wasn’t touching anything I swear…”

My room was black. The hallway was black.  The entire building sounded like everyone was flicking their light switches on and off at the same time. Soon we all gave up and started to walk towards the light. It was around 5pm. The city, drunk on air conditioning because of a heat wave, had blacked out.

“Nice, Mel”

First thing I did was run to the nearest Radio Shack on 23rd street. The store was already piling up with urban survivalist tapping into everything they learned when they were in Cub Scouts. I just wanted 1 thing: batteries, and a shitload of them. I run back to my office with my bounty and start loading up the boom box. I unplug all my electrical equipment in my office and wish Mel a safe journey home. He’s going back and forth with Margaret, our old southern receptionist, about the black outs that happened when dinosaurs roamed the Earth. As much as I want to hear about prehistoric ingenuity I bounce. I try to find my boss to collect my days pay but he’s already high tailing it to New Jersey. I laugh as I remember how most Jews have to be home before sunset for whatever reason. This black out must have been the equivalent of sunshine to a vampire. He was cheap and fat anyway so of course it didn’t stop him from screwing me over. That’s the life when you’re running the audio/video dept of a photo lab off the books.

“Yo kid what did Mel do to the lights?”

“He was reawakening Frankenstien!”

“Perro loco loco Mel was building a spaceship down there and you helped him.”

George was already outside smoking a bummed cigarette with Eduardo. They were porters for the building that housed my little VHS and Maxwell cassette emporium. Everyday at 6pm when I got off work we would always meet on the roof of our building to burn it down. Not the building but the pot we would religiously wrap in Phillies Blunts. George and I have been bff’s for a minute now, our only arguments being who should get and pay for the weed. Fuck all that it’s a black out. I had a radio with a couple of cds and a stockpile of batteries. He had the Purple Haze. Pooifect.

We started our trek to the Lower East Side from 23rd street. All of the surrounding office building emptying out like a water tower with a leak. Everyone’s on their phone. Everyone looks confused. After years of Mayor Guliani’s “Broken Windows” approach to petty crimes New York City had become a relatively safe place. But now all those thugs and addicts that were swept off the streets in the mid 90’s where due home from jail. This summer was a true test of the urban utopia first conjured up by the previous mayor Dinkins. New York City was on edge. 9-11 was barely two years old. All we wanted to know was when were the lights coming on and how do we get home. “Honey do we have enough food?” or “can you pick up some candles?” fluttered thru the hurried atmosphere of the evening foot commute. Some people would whisper about the gun in the shoe box on top of the closet or to make sure there was a bat at the door in case of looting. Soon stories of people stuck in under ground trains and sky scraper elevators started to pop like frying eggs. We were all stuck arousing our battery-powered radio looking for someone who knew the answer has to what had happened. Terrorist attack? The city still had missing persons fliers over every available surface. We were not ready for another attack. New York has never not been on edge.

“1st summer in NYC: saw dude masturbating on train, mobster told me he killed a guy, & Thompkins Sq park had like a 15 ft bonfire in a BLACKOUT “

 Kara Mullins

We arrived in the Lower East Side right as the sun starts to set. The streets look like a poorly developed photo where everything is dark except for the sky. Bodega owners are doing their best to hold the community down providing ice and coolers for people who wanted to save their refrigerator perishables. Most kids in my hood were buying up all the beer and cigar blunts. Cashiers looking frazzled while people were waving store items and money in the air like brokers at a frantic stock exchange with little light or security to guide them. Everyone was trying to get over or steal something. Stores were trying to make as much money as they could before their inventory spoiled but its was a buyers market and everyone knew it. A lot of businesses tried to close at the first sign of dusk for fear of looting but no one would let them. Everybody needed something.

“Outside, people were hanging out in chairs in front of every door. They were playing guitars and drinking. There was nothing else to do. It was like Cuba.”

Paul Smith

I stop by my Mothers apartment which was slowly starting to look like the cover of a bad romance novel with all the candles. She assures me that she has everything she needs and wonders why I’m not in Brooklyn already. I tell her the trains aren’t running and she gives me the bullshit look. Her only complaint is that she couldn’t call my sister in the Bronx to make sure she was ok because all the phone lines were drowning in calls. Oh well fuck that it’s a black out and I wanted in on all the black out action. I kiss her on the cheek and go meet with George who has been waiting in the backyard of my projects. Already my childhood friends and frenemies are grilling it up, stereo on blast with so many cases of beers you would swear the wagon tipped over on Avenue D. The only things visible was the smoke leaving my lips and lighter sparks in front of the trees backed by the indigo sky. My homies Manolo and Shrebs stop by for a brew and blunt with eyes lit up like cherry bombs. Everyone is using their cellphone as flashlights because phone calls are impossible. “Yo they just looted the Alife store son its on…” Before I can rub my hands menacingly like Ming the Merciless in Flash Gordon my mother yells for me. Her yell puts more fear in me than police sirens.  Some how she finally got an open phone line and my baby mother has been beating it up for a minute now trying to find me. Fuck. Time to go.

“So babe I was thinking about staying at my moms…”

“Oh hell fucking no… Leave me and your son alone in a blackout?!”

Damn it, I’m a dad.

It was worth the shot. At that time I was living with the mother of my beautiful 2 year old boy at the end of the 2 and 5 line on Flatbush avenue in Brooklyn. It was an hour train ride to the Lower East Side from there during rush hour. The trains can’t run without power so I thought that excuse could help me escape my family responsibilites. Wrong, the buses where running. She was not trying to hear it.

“Ok ok I’m on my way.”

“You fucking better be, how you gonna leave your son alone in Brooklyn during a blackout?!”

“But its gonna take forever…”

“Then I’ll wait forever, hurry the fuck up.”

Me and my baby mother didn’t have the best relationship.

But I loved her anyway, and plus she’s a damsel in distress now so hey, black out sex.

Yes please. Thank you Mel.

So I give my round of goodbyes to the gang and start to make my way towards the Williamsburg Bridge. I stop at the bodega on 4th street and avenue C to pick up some more smokes for the road. I rest my box on the hood of some random car and proceed the tedious process of rotating my batteries. As I lean against the hood of this Honda Civic to start my 4 armed operation I hear this sound of fear and anger. A Puerto Rican man complete with the goatee, skinny gold chain, and the overweight muscle behind him are screaming at me to get away from his car. I try to tell him I’m sorry that I’m only changing my batteries and not breaking in to his car but he’s not hearing it. The city is loud. And its getting dark.

Everyone’s on edge.

I finally make it to the bridge without incident. The entire bridge is now completely lit up by all the cars stuck in traffic. Since there is no power pedestrians have taken it upon themselves to become human traffic lights. Cars are moving at the highest speed possible considering the insurmountable logistics of this quandary. Ugh, I have to walk the bridge. I’m ready with a fresh set of batteries and a bootleg CD in the radio. Cue Barrington Levy.

“I’m too experience to be taken for a ride…”

I light a cigarette and begin my pilgrimage to the city of Brooklyn. Barringtons high falsetto is filling a night sky already flooded with concrete and steel shadows and police helicopters. All I’m thinking about is seeing my beautiful son and the sweltering uninhibited black out sex I’m gonna have. I got provisions. I got batteries and enough cash to see us through the weekend. I’m braving a Brooklyn troop through some of the worst neighborhoods ever to make it home. I’ll be a hero. Yeah. Nothing sexier than a hero ask any comic book nerd or Jared from Subway. It’s all about the black out sex now.

By the time I reach the bus terminal on the Brooklyn side of the bridge I notice a small party of people following me as if I was the Pied Piper of party. My crossing the was full of  hi 5’s and the random “booyakah!” from strangers. Amazing. One guy shakes my hand and tells me this is the best walk he’s ever taken. Music conquers everything. We play music when we celebrate as we do when we lose. Nothing captured that walk perfectly like Barrington Levy.

I’m finally on the B44 Flatbush bound bus. I had to fight through what looked like a small concert to get on through the back door. There is no control. The bus driver is yelling at people to get off and nobody wants to move. It 100 degrees in the bus with the air conditioner on and the temperature is only rising. A push here an elbow there next thing you know there’s a brawl in the back of the bus. No one is having it. The weary commuters, exhausted and desperate to get home squash the tensions and expel the trouble makers. The floor of the bus is littered with plastic bags and spilt orange soda. A bunch of people smell like cheap booze. This is New York at its best.

As the bus goes down Nostrand Ave I can see the candles illuminating the many windows of Bed Stuy. All I can think about is how many people are probably getting mugged now. Veterans from black outs before are starting bonfires out of trash cans and drinking warm beer in public like the law never mattered. Shadows flickering in front of the bright colors of sirens from ambulances and police cars doing there best to maintain an orderly and lawful New York. Con Edison workers in the street holding the burden of every drunk “yo when the lights coming back on?” or “does this mean I still have to pay my bills?” New Yorkers are very good for that. The following day I would hear from George how Manolo and Shrebs were arrested for being in an already looted deli back in the city. They were only looking for cigarettes and whatever change that might have been abandoned. For weeks we would joke about how they were arrested by a set of police flash lights. Like who gets caught in the dark? When they shined that light on them why didn’t they just step to the right or left? So funny. All the kids in the Lower East Side had new sneakers from looting. Junkies had loosies for days.

“The noise was coming from Tompkins Sq Park and it grew louder and more exciting as I approached. When I got there it was a sight I’ll never forget. People had grabbed all the recently delivered city phone books from all the buildings and piled them up and set a huge bonfire. People were grabbing every metal trash can they could find and throwing them onto the fire as well. The flames were licking the tree branches, 30 feet above. Dozens of people were banging on drums, lending the scene a primal energy, and there was a large crowd just standing around the fire. Then energy was growing in the crowd and it burst out when people starting charging the fire and jumping through it.”

Paul Smith

I finally get off the bus. My excitement is showing in the crotch of my pants. I did it, I survived the ordeal of a life time. I look at my watch and realize its taken me 4 fucking hours to get home. I don’t care. I just wanna see my family. I’m a hero. I turn on the corner of my dark block and make my way to the back porch. There she is. My son sleeping on her lap while she’s having a beer with the neighbor, her kids, and the cool Hasid that lives across the street. She jumps in excitement.

“OJ you made it home, see? My baby daddy came home for me!!!”

Now she’s taunting the next door neighbor because her baby daddy chose to stay with his mom. Little does she know I’m slightly jealous of him. Whatever. I made it home over a river a bridge and a Brooklyn and a Manhattan and the night. Yup. Now it time for my reward.

“Ok I’m tired I’m going to bed OJ can you take Chance upstairs?”

What?! This is my cue. I say my good nights and carry my charming little man in my arms. I’m climbing the stairs to the 2nd floor two steps at a time. I tuck my little tyke in and give him a small peck then blow out the burning tiny dancers I call candles. I gently shut his door. I’m ready. My clothes explodes off me. There a sock on the television, boxers on the couch, t-shirt is on the floor. I should shower but fuck that I wanna make love with the humidity still fresh on me. I’m a motherfucking hero.

And she’s fast asleep.

No blackout sex for me

“…the black out was overrated!”

 Alex Wilmont

(Right click image to save.)

A special shout out to Jolene Kao who let me have a scanner so I can do this for you.

Find her stuff here

Mickey Mouse went to Morrissey Night

Posted in Uncategorized on August 5, 2010 by SLUTLUST

I would go out tonight, but I haven’t found a stitch to wear….

This Charming man by Morrissey.

“OMG” is all I could think when I first saw it. It was just siting there on this rack of clothes in this vintage store ran my some Asians, right off north 6th in Williamsburg.

Exactly-someone passed on this shirt in Williamsburg. Why no one purchased it was beyond me. It was only worth 18 dollars and in perfect condition. A Motherfucking Mickey Mouse original from the 80’s. I had to have it. It was bright, colorful with a touch of neon. It’s the beginning of summer. It’s pooooifect.

I know I can’t keep it forever. To be wearing such a loud shirt after 35 years on this Earth might be a little too much. I’m 34 so it’s ok I have a little time to burn it out. When I’m done I’ll send it to my friend Michele in Texas whose much younger and can pass off this ridiculousness way more than I could. In my mind it’s all about art and gifts and we had initially met trading stuff. I send her a picture text of the shirt and she’s so stoked I drop the phone from the weight of all the exclamations marks. She promises to make me an original t-shirt in return and now I’m excited. She made the logo for my blog so I’m confident this shirt is going evict all my other t-shirts from my rotation. I put on my white shell toe Adidas and a pair of white jeans with the bottoms cuffed up. I put on the Mickey Mouse. Fresh.

It’s time for brunch.

Relish was on North 3rd street close to the East River waterfront in Brooklyn and looked like a diner out of the 50’s. The motorcycle shop across the street and the hipsters in their late 20’s dressed in the Rockabilly look didn’t help either. Here is where I surprised my friend Jolene with a visit during her birthday brunch while I was living in California and took a picture with Agyness Deyn . This is also where my girlfriend crushed my heart and made croutons for her salad. I never told her how I went to the bathroom downstairs and wanted to flush myself down the toilet, cursing out some undeserving patron for watching me die slowly. All she saw was the Hispanic Men Don’t Cry front little latin boys are taught by their dysfunctional parents. But here we are now, arriving together hand in hand from our apartment together. I still order the same eggs with chicken gravy on a biscuit while I read the NY Post and she still orders the Bloody Mary except everything is ok now. She playfully interrupts when I read Page six and I steal her celery. Everyone is staring at Mickey.

It’s the last shirt I’ll ever wear at Relish, for after so many years they have closed their doors permanently.

Wiped my face tipped my hung over waitress and smoked a camel light. Kara bows out of going to the Thompson Hotel pool party because of the on coming rain. The humidity is super gluing my nuts to my leg and I can’t take it. I have to go to the city and run a few errands. I kiss her Goodbye and it’s a seat on the very air-conditioned J train. Next stop Essex st. Alexandra sends me the password for me to whisper to the hotel clerk. Cool. I trade jokes with Napolean in front of the Rivington Hotel while I simultaneously Twitter, Facebook, text, and bbm. My phone is shooting steam out the headphone jack from so much action. The rain is starting to leave little beads of water on my cell phone screen. It’s time to go.

Now I’m in this elevator levitating to the pool level of the Thompson Hotel. Everyone is seeking shelter from the rain under balcony’s and the umbrellas provided by the sponsor of the week. Frog and Alexandra have been trying to find the remote control for the flat screen tv inside the towel lounge for 30 minutes now. We find someones crusty thong. Gross. This pool party is “meh”. I take Mickey in the pool for a minor dip for a picture then leave because getting struck by lighting and paying for an overpriced drink is a reality now.

Piano’s. Can’t say much except the bar food is great and Ninjasonik has a permanent residency on the first 5 bar stools. Everything is brown or green and the tables on the side are weird and uncomfortable. Bands also play in the back but unless someone recommends me one I don’t pay attention. With the internet and Myspace it’s like everyone has a band now and even if they made trading cards I still couldn’t follow them. We all get margaritas with  french fries and Prince Terrence shows up along with Jonna . I make a bad and borderline racist joke about Palestinians to the Israeli waitress so now I don’t trust the fries. It’s time for me to go again.

Mickey Mouse is ketchup stain and Gaza free.

Mickey is very well-behaved now. Walking through the Lower East Side streets reading every wall like spray paint was hieroglyphics. He almost blends into the concrete. It’s amazing the colors that a cloudy day make. Every bright color is layered with the wet tint. The blocks smell like sulfur and the rain turns the street garbage into dirty soup, almost like the colors are melting into the asphalt and cement that makes up our universe. How can you not love New York City rain? Intrusive and annoying yet romantic and lustful. A welcomed shower in the summer or a brutal hail in the winter. The puddles dirty the back of your jeans the steam makes your skin look sultry. Your bags get wet and rip on the way home or that goodbye kiss makes separating from your lover even harder. life, like the storming sky, is one big grey area.

The Mouse is now making plans. He’s directs me to St. Jeromes to pick up Britney and Veronica. They have a few friends in town and and want me to show them a good time. Personally I feel the only people who could have fun at St. Jeromes are crusty punks and Lady Gaga. As much as Mickey is a trooper I put the kibosh on his Jack Daniels and water. “Let’s go to Sway…”

Brittany will only go to Sway with me. She hasn’t had the best of luck with the bouncers and door gods at the velvet ropes. Doesn’t help that her look is Maine wholesome with a tint of Park Slope Prep and not the heroin goth of Tompkins Square Park that frequent that party on any given  Sunday. Her night usually ends up at Motor city after cursing everyone out and drunkenly taking a cab in the wrong direction. Mind you, you can never tell when she’s wasted, they build drinkers and Senators in Maine. Veronica could give a fuck less. Everyone’s tough as shit until the door girl at Sway tells you  it’s a private party or is asking you for whose party are you there for. She didn’t ask the Kate Moss wanna be or the dread locked dude wearing sunglasses at 2am and all you can do is think “what gives?!”.

Once you’re inside you’re a member of the league of extraordinary New Yorkers and the jet setter “fashionistas”. Skate boarders from SoHo with ski equipment dealers from Uptown. Everyone is exceptionally unique but the identity in whole is all the same. Everyone is just too fucking cool. An industry party for indie social vultures and the transplants that want to emulate them. It’s always 3 people in a bathroom stall and the smell of smoke in the air which taste like sweat. It takes you 30 minutes to get from the front to the back and the bar is as small as a 2 bedroom loft in Brooklyn. Everyone is moshing to Morrissey and signing the words off-key. Loudly and sloppily. Why Ben Cho is DJ’ing and not making clothes is beyond me but this is his party and he’ll spin if he wants to. Everyone dresses as if they are trying to inspire him. A beer has now fallen on me and I’ve been burned by someones swaying cigarette twice. Everyone is pushing and shoving and jumping and hugging and loving it. Brittany is now the photographer as she follows me from one hand shake to another. I watch two girls go at it while this other man rebuffs the advances of  an overly eager coke zombie. I can’t stop laughing. This is my favorite party. Mickey Mouse now smells like a bar rag and my sneakers are shit brown. It’s only 2:37 in the morning and I can’t stop jumping. No one can.

Michelle is going to be receiving a very gross t-shirt in the mail.

Done with the help of Brittany Saliwanchik