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:: Subtext: I am a reluctant badass ::
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
There's nothing like a night of big plans ending prematurely to leave one all dressed up, stranded, and despondent. Thanks to Webster Hall's rather strange decision to start a rock show at the elementary-school-glee-club-plays-the-retirement-home hour of 6pm (BV thinks this is an effort to keep their regular patrons happy [and has pictures of a automobile-pedestrian collision on the block adjacent to mine]), and thanks also to my refusal to believe/accept that I could miss the second opening act by showing up at 8:30, I arrived just in time to catch the last song from said second opening act (Dios Malos) and stand through the headliner's prolonged sound check only to leave two songs into their set. Blech.
So there Dr. Glasses and I found ourselves at the ungodly hour of 9:30 in a part of town where, to paraphrase Detective Joe Friday, it's not exactly advisable to stand around whistling, unless the artist whose song you're whistling is signed to an independent label (preferably Matador or Def Jux... maybe Vice), or better yet unsigned. And you should be wearing denim.
What happened next is blurred somewhat by an iced double-espresso shot and muscat gummy-induced haze, but on our way to a bar to kill some time we heard the distinct sounds of an apartment party wafting down East Fifth Street, and decided to straight crash that joint.
The beauty of crashing a random house party is multifaceted and unique. You are, in layered order of increasing transgression:
- Infiltrating someone's close social circle
- Doing so in a private setting
- Doing so in the host's home
- Carving pentagrams into a bathroom wall (optional)
- Pilfering alcohol
Despite this bevy of violations emotional and territorial, you are not rebuffed or reprimanded but indeed welcomed. That is, of course, if the party is sufficiently large and you can hit the sweet spot of anonymity. And let's face it, there's a word for how two bespectacled twenties-something coming from a Fiery Furnaces show integrate with a party in that neck of the woods: blend.
So it was that we rang a stranger's doorbell, entered their apartment, grabbed a couple Red Stripes, stood around for a while, and left. Regular 007s, we were. At the very least we made the beer commercials proud.
I only really mention this because given my chronic meekness it's about the most antithetical behavior imaginable. I'm sure there's a party-crasher's guild out there shaking its figurative head in shame.
Posted by morland @ 12:36 PM
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