Everyone is secretly in love with Lediso; so much so that I once spontaneously “manifested” the chorus to a song about it. I’m pretty sure that the way I’m hearing the melody in my head exactly replicates The Cosby Show theme song (it’s either that or Frasier – that I can’t discern between my memories of the two definitely takes second place in my “most embarrassing disclosures of this post” competition, at least thus far, which, in case you were wondering, does imply that I’m not the least bit ashamed of the fact that I would know the Frasier theme song at all). Though I’ve yet to conjure all the supporting lyrics wittily extolling her countless charms – how her tomboyish exterior is but a decoy for one of the most delicate, intensely thoughtful, nearly supernatural souls that I’ve encountered, that no one looks better in their glasses, that she could easily become America’s most trusted news broadcaster, just for starters – I have been choreographing an increasingly elaborate Cats-style dance routine that I plan on forcibly teaching her admirers to break into at some unexpected place and time. It’s sure to be epic, and with all of my knowledge of dance class torture techniques gleaned from a Russian ballet sergeant (ahem, instructor) acquired during adolescence, it’s likewise sure to be seamless…which is to say that I’ll be beating everyone with sticks whilst chain-smoking and hissing into their ears about how fat their asses are.

In the sea of sunglasses, summer dresses, bare feet, and ironic shorts, there were little thrills and to be had in the realms of thought, collaboration, and experience. The ones I managed to note are as follows:

Deep Thought of the Day: “Are you incredibly enigmatic or am I just really high?”

Best Casually Delivered Conversation Opener of the Day: “So when my ex was discussing Mariah Carey’s glitteris in his doctoral dissertation…” (PeaTea)

Psychic Realization of the Day: “Glit-Lit: the new discipline set to sweep academia off its feet.”

Million Dollar Idea of the Day: “The antidote to the intelligence-starving abbreviation-centricity and immediacy exemplified by Twitter: Grumble – find out………………….later. Unlimited characters, unlimited grumbling. Grumble today, pop it in the mail, and your followers will know in 2-10 business days. The past is now.” (Exclusive rights to Grumble belong to Cello, Evoo, Tiger, Aku, and myself, patent/copyright/trademark pending).

Involuntary Word Scramble of the Day: “You don’t have to abbreviate your ideas when you tweet, you just have to congest them.” (Tiger)

Miracle of the Day: $40 discovered in notebook when pulling it out to write something down.

Exclamation of the Day: “Where did this $40 come from?!? It’s a Lediso’s birthday miracle!”

Realization of the Next Day: My mom put $40 in my notebook to pay for my cab ride from the airport on my recent return trip from a visit home. Thanks, mom.

Thank goodness, too. Things were getting dismal.

There have been little hints of the coming inauguration into better days that, like unseasonably ripe cherries from a row of fallow trees, were ceremoniously plucked and relished. In early March, a city-walk Saturday spent straying liberally from my intended destinations as I wandered, gazing upon the faces of Manhattanites painted in the vibrant, unguarded, expressions of relief for having successfully emerged from yet another big chill. A bit later in the month, a few hours were idled away on a well-tended rooftop garden awash in the kind of rapturous early afternoon light that compels people to speak more softly – with the exception of a bony French girl who wailed, cackled, stumbled, and sprayed water out from her Polish Spring bottle (and then, unsolicited, our Polish Spring bottle) onto anyone in her ambling 5 foot radius, her prim friend in exaggeratedly puffy sleeves, the daughter of a Spanish diplomat, offering up the explanation that “It’s her first time rolling”*. It was a surprising respite perched just a few floors above one of the more shameless circuses of a party that I managed to wriggle into the belly of in quite some time.

*I saw her subsequently at an afternoon birthday disco a month later and she didn’t appear to have cultivated much mastery by what I can only imagine was her 8 or 9th time around.

But for all such hints, the first sure-footed step transpired a few weeks ago at the M. Everyone converged on the place in the usual way, but it had been awhile, and it was lovely.

It is difficult to discern whether I would be more self-indulgent to elaborate on the details of my funny little capers at the M or to wax philosophical about the grand meaning of it all, though I suppose that tending to a blog, however occasionally, indicates some inclination to “talk to hear the sound of my own voice”. Even as I blush, I imagine that I’ll be able to muster up the indecency to press on.

The music, as par usual, adhered to the M’s consistently refreshing “slow and steady wins the race” ethos. No Regular Play presented the crowd with the newest incarnation of their ever-evolving, simultaneously tender and urgent live set, and girl-crush worthy Deniz Kurtel, whose unpretentious self-discipline and ability to exercise just the right amount of tasteful restraint in her productions are marvel worthy, finally brought the set that she’d been carrying over vast expanses of sea and soil home. Taking the attendees on a musical journey through spirited tracks that dredge up the deep but discriminating inner “uhhhh” (the good kind – that is, the rapper kind) from the bellies of all who posses it, eminently adorable duo Soul Clap reliably delivered on their good-times-for-all reputation, and Wolf+Lamb rounded things off with their lush, roving selections that, at their best, meld to create that rare, seductive something that floats, film-like, atop the delicate cusp between the erotic and the religious.

In a recent conversation with Pea-tea – a friend in social analysis and co-occupant of the “academy is misery but I’m not sure of where else I belong” existential crises category – we sunk our speculation- rabid teeth into the waning patience for shit-shows infecting the souls of many among us. Naturally, one too many parties inspiring the fantasy of tele-transporting yourself 15 years back in time to cast a stake into the heart of the moment when you declared to yourself, green and adventurous, that “getting high is awesome” can certainly have that effect on a person. M parties, however, serve as an intriguing counterpoint to this sentiment. This is not to suggest that they are shit-show proof. Hardly. Anyone who’s had the honor of working the bar past a certain hour or has attempted to clear the place out when the cleaning lady arrives has an arsenal of stories about just how pathetic and devolved a broke man in search of a beer and a good time can be. Nevertheless, there is some kind of a tangible difference in an M night’s trajectory from civilized to strange.

The atmospheric alchemy, as it were, has something to do with the combined power of space, light, and the near scholarly intentions pervading fastidious musical selection. That it is a warm, golden, charming space – something of a post-modern, uniquely Brooklyn answer to an 18th century salon – must affect some degree of genteel behavior, at least for a bit longer than an average warehouse, dank and underworldly. This distinction does not only rest on the point of decor, but also the relationship between space and the progression of time. Warehouses, where it is perpetually night, are like inverted casinos (perpetually bright), rupturing nature’s signals of temporality to induce amnesia in the mnemonic lobe of hard-won, decision-directing, archives where life lessons that should remind us of the contingency between action and consequence dwell – to encourage zombie-esque debauchery of the highest order.

At the M, the transition from night to day is more like a pilgrimage, and the passing off of the baton between nocturne and the diurnal figure centrally into the scene; not repressed or scorned, but invited and delighted in. The skylights gently filter the reality of a new day’s arrival, easing the bodies lavishing beneath it– almost as if underwater – into yesterday’s future, and the soundtrack, slowly segueing from insistent thumping to celebratory, melodic, and sincere, dictates the pace of the carriage as it plods, steady, in the direction of pillows and dreams. With stock of witty stories to recount and performances for the ego to enact depleted over the course of the night’s passage, everyone glows for a finite, crystalline, moment with the freshly purged tranquility usually reserved for martyrs and sages.

There is a tangible cinematic timbre to it all, and not simply as a consequence of the dance between set, staging, characters, or plot. At its core, I think it has more to do with the way that our experiences become part of our memory’s inner film reel. On M mornings, you can almost feel the presence of your future self remembering those moments in the self-same instant that they occur, hearing it wonder if you’d ever been more extravagant…or if you’d ever been more contentedly undefined.

When it was announced that Shackleton would play at this February’s (2.19.10) Dub War event at Love, it was a given that we’d be in attendance. It was to be our second foray into the dubbier side of the electronic music scene in two weeks time, having paid a visit to the Unsound Festival’s Bass Mutations Bunker night the Saturday prior. These forays are atypical. And by atypical, I pretty much mean that they’ve never happened…not so much for a lack of interest as much as a lack of time and general familiarity with that particular corner of the technoscape, my feet being quite firmly (by virtue of a happy marriage between intention and happenstance) planted elsewhere. That said, I’ve traipsed upon my fair share of music extant under the dubstep umbrella that really “does it” for me. Indeed, it doesn’t only “do it” for me, it really does things to me, satiating my appetite for music that resonates in my bones in a very primordial (for lack of a better term) way. My recognition of this fact became clear not so terribly long ago when my ears found themselves entering a nearly ecstatic state as they delighted in EQD’s (one of Shed’s alter-monikers) Equalized #002 B1 track, first heard at the end of Marcel Dettmann’s Resident Advisor podcast (its final podcast of 2008). That track (which, to my utter dismay, I’ve yet to hear played out at a party) and the podcast, for that matter, are absolute revelations. They don’t get old. They really don’t.

With all of the bittersweet pluck of a grapefruit that is just a few grams of sugar short of being edible, I’m here to report that my little sojourn has bestowed upon me a renewed sense of appreciation for the nourishment of the soil where those aforementioned feet of mine have been so fortunate to have settled. In short, I left Bunker early and Love unsettled and frustrated.

In lieu of conferring a detailed depiction of Bunker’s Bass Mutations night, I’d prefer to keep things simple by briefly summarizing my retrospective reflections on the experience: 1, Pole was great though I wished his set was longer, 2, drum and bass, especially when the DJ is alternating mercilessly between seizure and coma inducing bpms (yes I’m exaggerating, but I’m not lying) is really hard for me to get on board with, and 3, I’m not interested in critiquing the event because it certainly isn’t the event’s fault that most of the music that night just didn’t really work for me. It was clearly working for the better part of the substantial and jubilant crowd, and I think that’s fantastic. Bunker parties are always well executed and a journey in sound, and this event was no exception. And goodness knows that I’m never crying myself to sleep when I make it home at a reasonable hour with enough time to make a sandwich and deeply immerse in slumber well before dawn, so thank you for “releasing” me, dear Bunker.

It was the Shackleton experience that continues to gnaw at my nerves – and it had absolutely nothing to do with his stellar and thoroughly satisfying live set. Nor did it have to do with the crowd so dense that I was literally forced to stand on my tippy-toes and stick my nose as high in the sky as possible in a vain attempt to suck in enough air to avoid what seemed like immanent death by suffocation and stench. It wasn’t even the seemingly large population of teenagers in said crowd that left us joking about our “Grumpy Uncle” mindsets (someone actually called a 30 year old friend of mine who doesn’t look a day over 27 “Sir” – the audacity!)…or the fact that the event partially fell victim to some sloppy (dis)organization that left us waiting outside in New York’s frigid dark depths of winter cold because the club was filled to capacity in spite of our having purchased tickets well in advance. No no. All of this could have been easily forgiven, if….IF….

IF!!! they had spared us the MC.

I’m not even sure of how to describe my feelings about my Dub War night in an even and constructive way without framing it like a letter. To do so is insanely silly of me, particularly in light of the fact that I haven’t so much as told more than 3 of my friends about this blog, so, really, there is no shot in hell that my concerns will ever find their way to the actual “suggestion box” unless I deliver them personally. Ahh well….maybe I will…

An Open Letter To Dub War NYC

Dear Team Dub War NYC,

First and foremost: thank you for bringing Shackleton to New York. I’m not sure if he doesn’t play here more often out of choice or for lack of suitable opportunities, but whatever the case may be – and to state the obvious – your efforts do not go unappreciated. Your events clearly have quite a strong following, and while I am not particularly well-acquainted with the city’s dubstep scene, you are undoubtedly doing what you do in a way that pleases your crowd.

Before commencing with elaborating on my big “however”, I will readily acknowledge that it may be my ignorance that has lead me astray. I do not know if MC’s are par for the dubstep course. If this is, indeed, the case, than I am in a rather lamentable pickle. You see, I quite enjoy the music itself, and this is why I made it out to your event….

…however…

…I quite prefer it unfettered by the vocal “enhancements” of an MC. I’m sure that Juakali is a lovely fellow, I’m sure that he performed because it is what you wanted, and I’m sure that a large ratio of the attendees enjoyed his presence – in fact, I’m sure that many of them count among his fans. So who am I to complain? Well, on that point, I suppose I’m not so sure.

I guess I’m just a fan of Shackleton’s.

Here’s the thing: Shackleton’s music is moody and provocative. It has the power to transport and inspire thought, emotion, and perhaps even intergalactic travels. When I go to listen to an artist of that caliber, I really want to hear the set precisely the way the artist intends it, in exactly the way they choose to execute it. I wanted to go on Shackleton’s journey, but with Juakali’s relentless (albeit lively) and scarcely coherent dance-hall babble, I simply couldn’t. I don’t think that I’m going against any stalwart grains in stating my firm belief that the DJ deserves to be the captain of the ship for the time that he performs. In light of this, even if having an MC is dubstep standard, it would still be quite problematic for that MC to not know when to show respectful restraint, allowing the DJ to take the audience where they see fit. Without Juakali, I believe we would have been sailing through quite different skies in our collective aural experience. What could have been a church with a convincing musical sermon was instead degraded to just another party, and maybe that was intentional. I was definitely in the midst of a crowd neck deep in their desire to party, and that is perfectly understandable. We’ve all shamelessly been key members of “that crowd” before, and I realize that promoters feel pressure to maintain that contingent’s interest and excitement, sometimes at the expense of all else.

It didn’t help that the MC’s tone and energy seemed to exist in such an obvious relation of conflict with the more introspective aspects of Shackleton’s productions. It felt the way I’d imagine hearing a wedding DJ loudly singing YMCA on the microphone over Kol Nidre would: namely, confusing. I can understand how Juakali’s spirited vocals, when paired with music that is well-matched to it, could really empower the overall effect of other DJ sets at your events. But because the instance in question entailed Shackleton playing a live set, the addition of an MC (any MC) seemed painfully superfluous.

I have no idea what Shackleton himself thought about your decisions, and I do realize that he may have wanted things to go just the way they did. But I can’t help but doubt it. In either case, my sincere hope is that in the future, your decisions to employ an MC are based on a consideration of who one would best complement. Not so much for me or the handful of my friends that don’t make it to your events all that often (though, in truth, had things gone differently, you did have the opportunity to earn our more committed participation in the future – not that you have any real need for us) but for your regular audience, who deserves it.

Wishing you all the best in your future endeavors,

S

Cello’s turned the big 2-6 last week. “Big” is to be taken with a grain of snark, considering that he is among the younger contingent of our charming coterie, though to be fair, the overwhelming consensus is that he is quite mature for his tender age, especially when you factor in his uncommon ability to grow such impressive swaths of fur. Being a man with an abiding passion for gangsta rap and not enough excuses or opportunities to get down to it, throwing a gangsta rap themed party in his honor seemed fitting, though, somewhat regrettably, this decision did ultimately take the working “Puerto Rico Day” theme (his favorite NYC holiday by a landslide) that he’d been hell-bent on since last year’s actual Puerto Rico Day off the table. But really, now. Puerto Rico Day is something we just can’t fake.

I spent a considerable bit of time in the preceding days researching gangsta rap and its aesthetic universe with the hope of bringing a certain amount of authenticity to the party. And by authenticity, I don’t mean authenticity in the least. Mostly I wanted to make sure that I had the right drinks and accessorizing options so that our guests were, to steal a sage motto from a sager tribe, “looking good and feeling great”. Needless to say, this entailed hours of scanning lyrics, pondering the merits of Seagram’s versus Tanqueray and the differences between bitches and hoes, trying to figure out if palate pleasing 40s of beer actually exist, and feeling confused about what the big beef between the east and west coasts really entailed. Delightful diversions they were, and I’m a better G for it.

Since I planned on hosting the celebration at our place, I couldn’t surprise Cello with the party as an event in itself, but I did do my very best to keep the theme a secret until his birthday night. I’m hopelessly devoted to birthday surprises…to me, they are better than presents. Or really, they are presents, but in the package of unexpected experiences. Which again, are better than presents, so long as they are pleasant experiences. Being that Cello and I are both chronically underemployed (which, as we all know, is a fancy way of saying that we pretty much don’t work, at least not in the traditional sense), there is a lot of together time at home. This makes surprise plotting extra challenging, and at certain moments it seemed that he was beginning to catch on.

It didn’t help that he was catching glimpses of the supplies I was accumulating. There are few things that make me sadder than arriving at an occasion only to find that I’m under-dressed. Being a habitual dresser-upper, this is not the most frequent of occurrences, but ensuring that this burden doesn’t strike the soul of any of the attendees is, as a general rule, among my most central party planning concerns. For Cello’s birthday party, I picked up bandannas, gold chains, and white undershirts to be placed on the “craft table”with rhinestones of plastic, glue, and other decorative do-dads that would, ideally, snag people’s attentions and energies as they walked through the door.

That’s right. I said craft table. It isn’t that I mean to put people to work…I just want to bring back the spirit of the goody bag in the form of bedazzled accessories that express and reflect each person’s unique personality. Because you just never know when your gem encrusted bandanna will come in handy; but you do can rest assured that its value will become indubitably evident when the time is just right.

…Admittedly, at some point during the party, someone mentioned that “bedazzling” isn’t an especially gangsta seeming activity. True that or touche? I’m still not sure….

Having seen the bandannas, Cello guessed at a “Wild West/Shoot Em’ Up” theme several days before his birthday. He was too close for comfort, so I tried to make him believe he had guessed correctly and that I had failed in my surprise bestowing mission. The problem is I’m a pretty lame liar, even when it’s for a good cause. I could sense that he knew I was trying to throw him off course, but he was gentlemanly enough to discontinue with his pesky prodding.

It was only when out to dinner just a few hours before go time that I realized I was in something of a pickle. Not only did I have to set everything up with Cello watching, but I also wanted him to be empowered to dress theme-appropriately. The news had to be broken, so we commenced with playing the guessing game.

Cello: Isn’t is a Wild West theme?

Me: Not exactly.

Cello: But it’s some kind of a shoot em’ up theme?

Me: Some kind….You are definitely in the ballpark.

Cello: Oh! I know! It’s a gangster theme.

Me: Well I don’t know about that. What sort of gangster are you thinking of?

Cello: 40s gangster. Or general Italian mobster. Godfather.

Me: No.

Cello: Irish gangster?

Me: No…. Wha–wai– whoa! What would an Irish gangster party even mean?!? What would everyone wear?

Cello: You know, suits!

Me: Our friends don’t have suits!

Cello: It IS Puerto Rico Day!

Me: Errrr… No. Sorry about that..I know it’s what you wanted but buying all of those flags would have put me way past budget. So, no. I’m losing you! You were much warmer before.

Cello: With the mobsters or the suits?

Me: (Eyebrows raised)

Cello: Okayokayokay. It is gangster of some kind, right?

Me: Maybe, but what kind of a gangster?

Cello: I don’t know! I already told you all of the gangsters I could think of.

Me: Every kind? What is your favorite kind of gangster?

Cello: ……………………TuPac?

Me: Ding ding ding!

Cello: A TuPac party?!?

Me: In a nutshell.

It started slowly, but by 11 our apartment was overlowing with gleaming chain-clad necks. Lumen rightly proclaimed it a total Tu-pacalypse! So much so, in fact, that on several instances throughout the evening I found myself stopping to survey the scene, paralyzed with an awe-stricken sense of gratitude for how impossibly amazing our friends are. Almost everyone came dressed the part, and, even more importantly, inhabiting their alter “G-go” with everything they had, completely without inhibition or the faintest trace of shame. It didn’t hurt that Princess, Goose, Professor, and Yargh had all come equipped with divine and lovingly curated playlists that – when paired with paper bag adorned beer bottles, actual gin and juice concoctions, and the sight of Astro fully bedecked in a red and cream “pimp suit” that made him the official holder of the party mascot title – teased out the latent TuPac living deep inside of each of us.

What is it about gangsta rap that inspires next-level inebriation and all-around silliness? Perhaps it has something to do with so many of us being adolescents during the genre’s golden age. I don’t think I’m making any excessively presumptive leaps in stating that we were generally clueless about what its real messages were, but it was damned good music to have nascent make-out sessions to, and it imprinted our subconscious’ with an innate appreciation for booty-shaking beats. For better or for worse, it was part of the soundtrack that we dreamed our futures to. And so, powered by nostalgia and Miller High Life, our eyes glinting with the bouncing light from a thousand sparkling rhinestones, we shook on and on and on…

The next morning I wondered why gangsta rappers never seemed to mention anything about their notoriously B-I-G hangovers, though now that I think about it, I’m wondering if maybe it was encoded in the whole “gangsta lean” thing. Forget the explicit lyrics, what those advisory labels should have warned of was the urge to drink the way you always fantasized you could in high school.

Note to self: next time, pour out more for the homies.

In my experience, there is no better social adhesive than the shared experience of tiny traumas…the kind that are almost funny the moment they occur, and that are definitely funny no more than an hour later. Of course, there was nothing so specifically traumatic about our night – nothing that we could isolate and draw a big red circle around – but we all agreed that we had just endured something. And it was something kind of terrible, especially if you factor in tumor dude.

There is some sort of a palpable magic in the act of retreating from the madness. Sometimes I wonder if I go to parties just to come home in the quiet of the early morning’s meek light, wash the night from my face, pick up my cat, and rediscover my sanity anew. Away from the party and all of its countless abrasions, we, by comparison, come to recognize our most gentle, placid selves, like deer nibbling on the dewy grass. To fully bask in such simplicity, one must be intimately acquainted with chaos. Of course, there are the chaos mongers – they who are terrified by the quiet – and perhaps the souls of everyone drawn to the all-night-long lifestyle, myself included, are woven of such fibers. But such is the stuff of another blog entry.

In hindsight, we all could see that we shouldn’t have expected things to be so much as a smidgen different from the way we found them at the party. Arriving at 2 AM on a holi-night? Come on, now. It is the very moment where drugs are kicking in, mascara starts smudging, and the bass dutifully smothers all the fears, worries, and regrets of the day (not to mention any chance of having a coherent – or even audible – conversation). Add the costumes, the fact that holi-nights draw the most occasional and unstudied of party creatures into the playing field, and the corresponding compulsion to ring the ‘bonus level’ bells, and you have one hot mess of mashed potatoes. It wasn’t particularly sexy, but, in the party’s defense, everyone there seemed to be having a glorious time.

Our night was squarely relegated to the “What were we thinking?!?” category of tiny traumas. I placed it on the same mnemonic shelf as mine and my best friend’s circa senior  year of high school decision to join the swim team during an el nino ravaged springtime precisely as our respective ‘stoned as baboons’ phase was peaking. Every time she raced in back stroke she ended up in a neighboring competitor’s lane and I, like the driver who gets pulled over for doing 25 in a 70 zone, was criminally slow. The only clear perk was being able to blame the chlorine for our bloodshot eyes, but I think telling our parents the truth might have been preferable, all toll.

The funny thing is that I really relished swim practice…being languid and weightless in the water, going back and forth and back and forth. Surely the coach was barking commands, but from the below it sounded like little more than a muddled alien language hailing from at least 10 galaxies away. My ears would transfix on the swoosh of my arms as they made contact with the surface and the little gloomp gloomps as they rotated through it. Such a beautiful blue blur. Sometimes I wouldn’t hear the whistle signaling the end of practice and I’d go on for a few minutes alone in the pool before realizing how still it had become.

It was the racing that I detested. Frantic and desperate with bated breath, my only salvation was the thought of touching the finish wall, mopping myself with a towel, and inhaling a burrito…or three. So really, the problem wasn’t with the act of swimming itself, but rather, with the spectacle of the event and all of the accompanying pressure to go harder, faster, and with my everything. I was too stoned to genuinely care about winning, and yet, from the moment I took my mark, a visceral sensation of caring would colonize my body. Maybe it was just adrenaline. I suppose it simply isn’t my chemical reaction of choice.

Holi-nights don’t strike me as being so different from those swim meets, even sans the snap-happy parents watching from the sidelines with cameras in hand as if you are some exotic animal about to pop its head out from the underbrush, so pleased that you are even trying because “you’ve never really been the athletic type”. Some people thrive on the thrill of competition  (even if they only seek to beat their personal best time), some prefer to practice at their own pace, and some can go both ways.

When we allow for the things we love to become obligatory, we run the risk of turning them into chores, and holi-nights are uniquely well-suited to teach us this lesson over and over again. We should have known better. It happens this way every year. Next year will be different, I swear.

With a ceremonial clinking of beer bottles and long deep stares into each others eyes, we made a solemn pact to confine next year’s Halloween festivities to house-party-only status. Ten minutes later team Halloween, save for Cello and I, called a cab and went outside to await it’s arrival. After all, the party was still going and “now that the sun is peeking over the horizon I’m sure it will be less crazy – and the music will definitely be better”.

Optimism served with a glass of fresh squeezed irony: breakfast of dance party champions.

Strike 1.

I went to retrieve it while the rest of team Halloween chatted over cigarettes, passing a man wearing a neon orange spandex jumpsuit and something that resembled a basketball sized tumor solidly affixed to his head en route. The sight of it made me nauseous. Rejoining the circle, my inner monologue raced with sinister plots to destroy the appendage:

“God it’s hideous. I wonder if it is inflatable? Maybe I should pop it. Do I have something sharp on hand? What if it’s paper mache? That would just be my luck. It wouldn’t seem so revolting if I knew it were a pinata. Pinatas are magical. No. No way… his head couldn’t support the weight of a pinata. Did it occur to him that it is really going to get in the way on the dance floor? He could really hurt someone with it. And with the way it’s probably throwing off his equilibrium, one hasty look in another direction and – I need to save the people in there! Maybe there’s a way to slam a door on it. But what if it is a pinata?”

It was definitely NOT a pinata.

As I fantasized about destroying the “thing”, the conversation had turned to strategy. Having noticed that the doormen were intently checking bags and pockets, that strategy entailed another trip to the car.

Strike 2.

Back to the door where the chaos was mounting. The herd of bodies vying for entrance seemed to have quadrupled over the course of our short preparatory efforts and my fight or flight instincts began to take hold. Knowing that tumor guy was inside wasn’t helping. And then another revelation. We didn’t really want to have to deal with our coats in a party so evidently packed that it’s sounds and sights were rolling out like marbles from a jar the cat knocked over. They’d be much better off in the safety of the car.

Strike 3.

Churchill and Goose had struck up conversation with one of the party’s organizers, giving way to another round of cigarette babble. Finally certain that there were no remnants of reason that could possibly compel yet another trip to the car, my mind grew quiet. Just quiet enough, in fact, for my ears to actually become aware of the music…the manic, screaming, driving, throbbing, brain-stabbing music.

It was terrible.

Cue inner monologue:

“How could we have possibly not noticed by now? Is anyone else thinking what I’m thinking?!? I don’t want to go in there. I have to say something. Who is playing this? Oh no….Princess is in there! He must be rescued!”

It was too late. Churchill and Goose’s conversation with the organizer had segued into his offering to deliver us to the front of the line and we were swept into the warehouse (or as it suddenly seemed, the gates of Hell) where the music was much much louder. My eyes desperately searched Cello’s face for a reflection of my own profound panic as I tugged frantically on his sleeve. His gaze fixated on the door, and I knew our spirits were aligned. How I love that man.

Cello: Nonono. Wait a second guys. Is anyone hearing what I’m hearing?

We immediately took to telecasting our intentions. Barring Churchill, who had been visibly itching – nearly twitching, really – to consummate his relationship with the party, everyone fervently conceded, their eyebrows uplifted and foreheads crinkled in exasperated “What the fuck am I doing here?” expressions. This rendered Churchill a nearly ideal candidate for the Princess rescue mission (‘nearly’ because we risked losing him to the gargantuan disco ball’s orbit) and into the laser-pierced darkness he ventured.

Texy texted Princess that the train was leaving for good measure to a prompt response of: “Thank God! I’M COMING!”

Like a POW escaping from the Cambodian jungle, Princess all but crawled onto the sidewalk, dazed, relieved, and exhausted. But still no Churchill, and so we waited. And waited. And….

All available communication technologies came out to alert Churchill of our immanent departure. He emerged five minutes later, but with his face pursed into the forlorn expression found on children being unceremoniously dragged from a candy store. “It’s a free country”, we tell him, “You can stay. We won’t hold it against you.” Resigned and reluctant, he trailed behind our procession in a final march to the car. After all, everyone besides Cello and I planned to return in the morning when, according to speculations, the conditions were projected to improve dramatically.

Opening the door, Cello inquired into what DJ he should be sure to thank for this magical night.

“Craig Richards” Princess replied.

“Definitely not what I expected from him” Cello muttered, gruffly inserting his key into the ignition.

But I digress!

Holi-nights are distinguishable from more standard all-night fare by virtue of several pertinent factors which are underscored by still more pertinent ramifications. They are cultural rituals steeped in tradition and celebrated widely by the social body at large, owning a specific place in time and therefore embedded in our memory and sense of continuity. Well, with the exception of Burning Man’s “Burn Night”, the inclusion of which is ascribable to the event’s hyper-alignment with (really, severe exaggeration of) all of the other occasions belonging to the holi-night species. Indeed, it is something of a motley aggregation of all of the other holi-nights smashed together, its general effect not unlike a black hole that has enveloped all of the other occasions (by virtue of their essences’ proximity) into its spaceless and timeless event horizon where all of the attendant dramas, rituals, feelings, and motivators become compressed into the mind-bending stuff of grandiose astrophysical speculations. Which is why I’ll save it for last…

First up is the holi-night that most recently sent my thoughts careening down this dank alleyway: Halloween.

In fact, my most recent Halloween experience was nothing short of temperate, but without the foresight that dawned on me in the form of an alarmingly delayed “Yikes!” reflex and the malingering exhaustion from a Halloween event a few evenings before, it could have easily slipped from this tenuously sage pillar only to slither into the gorgeous muck of elaborate, labor-intensive, constumery whilst staring into the sea of saucer-wide pupils.

The sheer fact that it fell on a Saturday was foreboding. Unshackled from Puppet Master Workweek’s strings, Saturday and Sunday (and perhaps even Friday) had preemptively coalesced in the revelers minds into one long day, so that it was a given that there would be Halloween…and then there would be Monday. Brooklyn’s menu of possibilities was broad, if not wholly appetizing. In soliciting a friend’s opinion on one such item, she shudderingly recounted a tale of Halloween past where, having attended the same promoter’s event, she and her boyfriend grew mutually and increasingly convinced that the crowd verged on descending into a massive and indiscriminate orgy.

…Lamentably, they didn’t stay long enough to test the accuracy of their premonitions, but in her defense, she’s a good enough chef to smell what’s cooking before the plate makes it to the table…

There was an obvious choice, if only because it was where “everyone” was going (in fairness, the DJ lineup wasn’t entirely shabby either)…and yes, mom, if all of my friends jumped off a cliff, I just might jump off with them. We had gotten off to a late start, and, having already donned Halloween attire a few nights before, were not particularly keen on going through the motions all over again. In a half-hearted attempt to be festive, I put on shiny things and called myself a ‘Sparkle Pony’…though without a tail or hooves I’m sure I dazzled a grand total of no one. Texy followed suit, with better results overall, and Churchill rummaged through my paltry makeup collection looking for red, blue, and pasty white hues requisite for proper under-eye bags and pale-face in a final hour bid to become a ‘Party Zombie’, only to emerge from the bathroom half an hour later looking (perhaps intentionally) quite pretty – the shadow really brought out his eyes. Goose and Cello, true-to-form, paid no mind to our harried efforts, and proceeded as par usual to get stoned on the couch.

And then came the ominous text message exchange, or as I retrospectively came to understand it, a report from our destiny:

Texy: How’s it going?

Princess: I’m trying to stick it out.

A party, especially a non-obligatory one, is never really something that one should feel pressed to “stick out” – it’s not grandma’s 90th birthday soiree or a New Year’s resolution or a college course upon which your successful graduation rides. But holi-night parties are different. Somehow leaden with the pressure not to give up, to fully commit to your union with the unfolding night – however uncomfortable or unsavory (for better or for worse, richer or poorer, until death) – they do seem to come with their own equivalent of a ‘Pass/Fail’ grade scale on the report cards of our life’s accomplishments…

…because we all know that when Judgment Day comes, what God really needs to know is whether we did our very best to have a totally awesome time…

Princess’ report from the trenches gave us a bit of a rise but it would not deter us. We had our guys in there, after all, and our good consciences prohibited any nascent urges to abort the mission. Into the car we piled and toward a Bushwick warehouse we drove. Ten minutes later, the street was a river of persistent thump-thumps confirming our arrival…

…And to each species its accompanying rituals and regalia, expectations, boundaries and conventions, aspirations and intentions, and punishments for transgressions…

Preliminary in-genus forking is easily perceptible, with the convergence of high holy holidays and any other holidays (translated: Thanksgiving…sometimes) that, like by some cosmic centripetal vacuum powered by guilt, obligation, and shared genetic coding, corrals family into the confines of common walls and the (occasionally friendly) ghosts of their clans’ respective history cohering into one recognizable species.

When such events go swimmingly, we return to our safe corners of the universe as triumphant warriors, having masterfully wrangled our instincts to tell Auntie Angelica what we really think about her half-baked political philosophies (and green bean casserole, for that matter) into submission. It is possible that this was only accomplished by deploying the strategy of regressing into a caricature of our most dumbed down, generic, pleasantry-fluent selves – more often than not with the assistance of a mild sedative or distraction (hello, Wordle!) – but resorting to such maneuvers hardly negates a clear victory. Indeed, they are the glimmering, silvery, strands comprising the very fabric of our resistance.

…And perhaps it is precisely herein where the force sequestering the holiday genus into at least two disparate animals may be most readily apprehended…

In fact, I do not refer solely to the physical plane of presences – that is, the differences in the company we find ourselves stewing amongst during one species of holiday over and opposed to another – though the cast of characters is certainly something of a compass indicative of the domain on which we tread. But underlying this are the emotive and psychological traits heaving from each species’ core that influence the genre of the script that we, ever inevitably, fancy ourselves the protagonists of. “High holy” days, with all of the attendant fears and anxieties they inspire, are positively ripe with opportunity for little redemptions. When we brace for disaster, the ensuing scene often strikes us as being pleasingly anti-climatic – bearable, even – in spite of how bloodied our tongues may be from stamping down on them. But what of the Other holidays? The ones into which, quite contrariwise, we invest our hopes and dreams and wildest fantasies for elation and grandeur (preferably as captured by a series of evidential pictures wherein we positively twinkle in our most optimal photogenic glory)?

In selecting a moniker for these Other days, I find myself torn between “Mashed Potatoes” (a term poached from a dear friend’s cheeky lexicon) and “Sloppy Joes”, namely on account of the fact that they are holidays where we begin intact and (when properly seasoned) with extraordinary potential to be delicious and savory but often end pulpy and pulverized. Even our garnishes – the thoughtfully selected ornaments that these holidays compel us to adorn ourselves in – cannot save us. To the contrary, they have a habit of shifting “in flight”, and, repositioned and wilting by night’s end, make us appear as some legendary architectural monument reduced to shambles by an earthquake: tragic, undone, and somehow striking the fear of nature into all who catch a glimpse.

Generally, this species is more “holi-night” than “holiday” – particular nocturnal coordinates in space and time drenched in myth, legend, and yore – and this doubtless plays directly into the pervasive propensity toward lofty expectations. In the darkness we are emboldened. We are wild, driven by the Other captain…the one who shamelessly chases the shadow of the desires that the everyday world, with all of its structures and restraints, works so tirelessly to protect us from. The carnival bells chime and we are beautiful and grotesque, pure and contorted. The truths of the daytime become a malleable clay, and we, the mutilation-bent sculptors.

As inspired by the most recent New Year’s festivities, my first series of posts will recall and explore my experience of select “holi-nights” – New Year’s, Halloween, Burning Man “burn night”, and possibly Independence Day – in all of their unhinged, mangled, and tragi-comic splendor. Because when we expect the fabulous, we point ourselves in the direction of the calamitous.

It is the stuff fables are made of.