A Brooklyn Pool Party: Part 2
August 23rd 2010. 9:15am: Monday morning at my imaginary water cooler.
Sometimes I wish I had a regular job. A job with a water cooler and some co-workers. I would hang out there and listen to people gossip about their lives. The latest movie or some fab new diet they were trying out: all the things that would make you want to kill yourself or kill myself I’m so sorry maybe you like those things. They might even be talking about the other co-workers, the office is soooooo crazy. I can talk sitcoms but once I get to the E Channel of things I shut off and have less use than a leather jacket lying on the couch. Can’t someone pick up and put that shit away? Why else did we buy that coat rack?
Maybe the office would have little hints of tan and brown splatter over what could have been an old Butter Fingers commercial with a peppering of manila folders everywhere. So many file cabinets, this place is a dust bunny’s dream. Hopefully one co-worker would have a mustache and the other one could be fixing up an old Camaro. Yeah you make that Camaro your identity, buddy. I mean we are miles away from your garage but everything in your fucking life revolves around that piece of shit car. It doesn’t help that we have only two females in the office and only one is bangable, the other one is married to a cop. I’ll have a well closeted contempt and utter disgust for every single one of them. It wouldn’t be because of the private dignity of settling for a beige routine that I could smell off them, it would probably due to the fact we all worked in Sales or something.
My favorite would be when we reach the “So what did you do for the weekend” part. Everyone would be so judgy, leering into you like you were the new Christmas Display at Tiffany’s. Oh you went to a spa? Oh when did you become so Jewish? We already know that other fuck was fixing his Camaro. Oh-no he wasn’t? He was just looking for parts? Shocker! Then the boss would come over and stand there with his military navy blue suit with the sharp cuffs and his perfect cup of coffee. Man, fuck this dude. What are you drinking even? Folgers Crystals?? He would talk about some yacht on some Rivanda or is it the Riviera? Everything is fancy dinners with his stunning wife and the Johnson’s in some cosmopolitan restaurant where people still smoke cigars. I would imagine his wife blonde dripped in a gold happy new year’s outfit. Yeah she can bite it too. I worked too many hours to have to tolerate the boss and his big dick of a weekend. Plus this is the 3rd time he’s asked to tuck in my shirt and not come to work in Chuck Taylors. But yeah I’m going to ask him anyway… I want to hear how he snobbishly describes boring. Why? Who knows maybe it’s the orange juice or egg and cheese stain I’m trying to hide under my cardigan or the bitch in accounting that keeps fucking up my check. The water cooler will now be the side by side bathroom urinal challenge.
“So… how was your weekend?”
I’m so glad you asked (cocksucker). It went like his: I met up with my brother early Saturday afternoon and me and my girlfriend went to the homies crib for a pool party. A pool party? Yeah a motherfucking pool party… in Brooklyn. The shit had bitches it had beer it had beats. The shit was so sick it had AIDS. Fun AIDS like when comedians do it on cable TV. We’re in Greenpoint at that. Everyone out here owns a bike and has a beard. Even the bitches had beards. Nah, nah, not like that. Like, I’m wearing Maui, they wearing Mishka, everyone is wearing flannel it’s like 1000 degrees on a grey day. Whatever we riding bikes out this bitch like after schoolers and the G train wasn’t running so we had to take the shuttle and when we got there POW!!! DJ Lucas Walters looking like a grizzly ginger bear curating the vibes. This was like an ironic Snoop Dogg video shoot around 94 but with real New Yorkers in 2010. People casually cooked up whatever meat they could find at the 7-11 and shit there wasn’t any lines cuz people in Brooklyn don’t eat but everyone drinks and dances and makes out and shit. A fat fuck in Brooklyn does Yoga and gets pussy, real talk. We even had the two girls going at it behind some bushes under the stairs. What!? All girls in Brooklyn kiss other girls and the ones that don’t, date them.
Everyone owns a unicorn. My Japanese friend had on leather shorts at a pool party but who cares we in Greenpoint and someone else is wearing a lazy stocking cap with a “That was so yesterday” attitude but motherfuckers is having fun. Soooo loose, paper plates and 40’oz bottles all over a Brooklyn realtor’s wet dream of a property. At one point my brother pulls out the Veuve Clicquot and the only thing that’s missing is Diddy singing “Bad Boy, come out and playyaaaaayyyy”. My life will eat your face off. DJ Schoolboy spun, Lee Trice spun, Dances with White Girls was there and he spun it out and we all got dizzy and a lot of us threw up. Fuck your suit and tie life. No fights or controversy, everyone co existing like Complex Mag had Benetton money with Levi’s doing the casting and co-opted by Paper magazine. Sexy young America in Brooklyn, USA. Some did eight balls others did cannon balls while they drank their high balls but when the Push Out Posse wrapped it up everyone played ball. So fucking cool, like a caviar Slurpee.
Then bang, wifey goes one way with her friends and I go another. Next thing you know I’m at my home girls Rachael’s street wear themed birthday party. Nooooooo it’s not racist at all. Rachael runs with Never Scared aka the kick ball team I’m on but have never played a game with. My dude it’s like a costume party but with stuff we brought that really wasn’t costumes at all just the everyday shit we wore and secretly still enjoy. Think Helvetica with a heavy rotation of patterns and neon. It’s basically what happens when rap music and graphic design students hang out. They smoke pot and put neon on everything. They also have a shitload of stickers. Stickers are the gateway drug of graffiti. At times I can’t tell if Never Scared is a lifestyle brand or a graffiti gang. Every Sunday I’m too drunk to tell if they are playing kickball or just hanging out in the park. All they do is win. Anyway the cops came. Talk about giving a street wear themed party credibility. Then the cops left and we had fun with cake. Birthday cake is always the shit no matter how old you are.
At this moment my boss would start to look at me like I’m a little crazy. There will be certain cues in his demeanor that would suggest he’s trying to get me to shut up in order to save myself from the firing he’s considering. His cup of coffee isn’t perfect anymore as traces of it start to stain the white porcelain from the slight twitch his once perfect cuff has. He secretly hates the Riviera. His wife makes him go so she can show off money she didn’t make. My little one bedroom doesn’t seem as stuffy as last nights dinner with the Johnson’s or the conference he had to attend earlier. My weekend now looks like a beautiful liability. Who lives like that and stays gainfully employed and yet isn’t this what we all work for? To have fun with the little time we have that isn’t even guaranteed? My commute is no longer the drab slave shuttle he thought it was. Maybe my wage servitude has some dignity dipped in this defiant jubilee against the status quo. No, he’s pretty sure he hired a maniac and a pathological liar, wishing that his coffee cup came with a button to alert security. No one can possibly do all of that in a weekend. And that’s when I turn it up like fuck it:
Fast forward, we move the party to the next stop. Some Brooklyn ware house these kids call the Shank. It was crazy kids were riding bikes around some while some dude dripped in black and metal was playing some electro rockabilly pop dance shit. That party must have gone on till like 10am. Craaaaaaaazy huh? You ever heard of Hussle Club? It’s like a heroin addiction on Ritalin or cutting yourself and a rainbow comes out of the gaping wound. Yeah, well I was rolling with them doing the shit rock stars used to do before they had real responsibilities like mortgages. We are rock stars that rent and couch surf doing things that can easily fuck up our rent or burn the bridge to the couch. Fuck that, worry about that shit tomorrow, right? Somewhere along the line I pick up my girlfriend from a local hipster drink & stink and take her home. She walks right into the floor. Exactly how it sounds is exactly what happened. Her bruise will take a lifetime to heal. We call those night life tattoos.
Anyway the next day we meet her best friend and have a screw driver infused brunch. We leave the other brunchers with a vivid memory of an obnoxious threesome breaking a plate or two while chirping and gurgling what could be an interesting conversation if not for the sound effects and the talking over each other. I don’t think we stopped laughing once. Shit I can’t believe the best friend likes me. You know the best friend holds the key to the girlfriend vagina jaw bridge, if she doesn’t like you then good luck crossing the friend shelf moat buddy… I’m sure the staff at the Rabbit Hole would love to have us back, for a private lynching. I was not trying to wait if they enjoyed their tip. We ran out of there and I ran out of film and can’t remember shit. I just woke up to tell you this, right here at this water cooler, Boss Man. Now I’m going to use this water for the Aspirin on my desk, don’t expect much out of me today.
Needless to say that man is going to fire me the minute he turn his back, only to find out I quit last Friday.
“It was like a corny Will Smith music video from -96, only this was in Greenpoint New York 2010 and it wasn’t staged; even the part where me and my boyfriend licked my best friend’s fake tits…. It felt like the most exclusive non exclusive party I’d ever been to. People passing by outside had no clue there was a real life video playing out right there in the backyard.”
“Pool party etiquette: never leave early. ..and always get in the pool”
“I almost died”
“I wish I could remember more…”
“I don’t know, I was blacked out”