the lawyer writer

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Sunday, September 18, 2005

Loft Party

I'm not sure when the de rigueur decoration for a loft party became Fellini's Satyricon, but last night it worked. We were at a loft party in South Williamsburg, and I'm assuming the place was live/work as I did see a kitchen (near one of the stages) and a couple bathrooms (covering in tin foil). The roof was mobbed by people watching Blaxploitation flicks on the brick wall or making out near the potted plants or getting burgers from the grill. One room had a ska band; the other had latin hip hop, and still another had a dj spinning drum and bass. Once we walked into a room only to see what appeared to be cavemen (in Flintstones' type attire) doing a Jewish polka. From getting the word out (which they clearly did successfully) to the Surrealistic Kitsch decor, the whole experience was very well organized, down to the Brownies (Yes They Are...) and Chocoloate Chip Cookies (No, They're Not...) and Absinthe (disappointingly homemade rather than Czech). In every dark corner was a cave or a tent or a papier mache staircase where people disappeared into, probably to manage their acid flashbacks or chill out before taking another hit. Those corners always looked a bit sketchy to me.

The most difficult part was climbing up and down the ladders and staircases to get to the roof, which always brought to mind Jimmy Stewart staring down into an alley in Vertigo. But other than the looming threat of my clumsiness, the moon was full, the space was gorgeous and the company was perfect. There's something to be said in this day and age for an "anything goes" kind of party; if you squint or drink enough you can pretend you see Andy Warhol and Nico sitting on the couches, doing something terribly mindless and therefore terribly important. The only time it seemed forced was when a group of folks, apparently rediscovering Urban Primitivism, tried to get a Burning Man-type howl going--with an accordian. I think it worked--or, rather, I think they think it worked. It's hard to go tribal with an accordian.

You go to Rubulad to get wasted, to dance, or to hook up. It's a capital-S Scene, and you really supposed to spend your night wandering from room to room, looking for a white rabbit, or at least a chesire cat with a hookah. It's fun that way, because it feels like a good alternative to the Dimly Lit Lounge or Mega-Disco, which seem to be our only real choices sometimes. Of course, but it helps to have good friends to walk around with, spending the night trying to figure out the performance art and exactly how many of us had dated Moby (not me) and why there are so few people in book publishing who really want or even know how to party. Or maybe it's just nightcrawlers like me who feel sense of pride waking up at noon the next day, with a blue smudge on the back of our hands to indicate that we've successfully returned from the underworld.

No question, a good night--thanks, Penn, for inviting us!

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