New York City transforms time. Sunrises mark the end, while dusk sets off commencement. Summers are languid, coffee breaks are infinite, happy hours last through the night. And everyone goes out on Thursday nights.
In the last six years of my being part of this beautiful world, I was not one for raging on the weekdays. In fact, until this week, I never used the word "raging." I had a routine--flexible, yes, but still a routine. I was healthy, I was alive, I was scheduled. But, on Fridays, on Saturdays, I would let loose, I would imbibe, I would play, I would explode.
With my imminent departure, I knew it was necessary to introduce new words into my vocabulary, and so on Monday, I endeavored to plan a serious, legitimate "ragefest" on Thursday. All I wanted to do was dance (and I needed an excuse to wear a spontaneous dress purchase that I already regretted). Manhattan, while I consider it one of the greatest loves of my life (followed closely by 24 and my mother's spinach), is evasive, pretentious, expensive. My one wish to go dancing caused a flurry of emails, texts, calls from friends about promoters, about friends of friends, about "people" to know. Every hour for three days, there was a new plan, a new venue, a new friend's cousin who owned a bar. And until the hour before I met up with everyone on Thursday, we still had no idea where we were going.
After discussing Lavo, Greenhouse, Grace Hotel, Marquee, Finale, Santos Party House, EVR, and Ten June, my friend and I met up with her people (the ones who knew people), at the Box, a surreal, almost magical place housing circus performers, beautiful, agile women hanging from ceilings, and orgies on stage. Despite the conspicuous motif of sex, it was less vulgar, less mediocre, less trite than other Manhattan nightclubs. I was mesmerized by the ballerina in the air, and did not notice that there were drinks awaiting my friend and me at the bar. I blinked, poked myself, and began my Thursday night.
A group of about seven people, mostly male, were to meet us there. Though the Box seemed to be more authentic than other venues, it was still essentially a New York City club, and so I feared that the six males in the group might be turned down, my credibility would be lost, I would have to stop watching the orgy on stage and start Yelping.
And I was right. My friends could not get in, my credibility was lost, and we all trudged over to Fat Baby.
The most frustrating and rewarding aspect of New York City is that a good night is necessarily serendipitous. The more we seek, the more we plan, the more we are disappointed; and yet, in our quests and explorations, we unearth the city's gems, those places for which New Yorkers are enchanted by their city, by their home.
Fat Baby was a little empty, but the music was loud and the drinks were strong, and there were enough of us to populate the dance space. My friend, one of the few who truly understands the pain of my departure, and my subsequent need for a bucket list, wanted for me to continue exploring that night. And, so, though it was already 2:30 in the morning, six hours before I had to be at work, we continued the party at Arlene's Grocery, the bodega-turned-into-music-hall. Everyone but the aforementioned friend decided to go to Mamoun's, effectively ending their nights, ending the raging.
And then there were two. My friend and I walked into Arlene's, and it seemed like a large, dingy living room, two men drinking beers in the far back corner. I looked quizzically at my comrade, and he grabbed my hand, and led me to the stairs. "Live music. It's downstairs. That's why I wanted to take you. I promise, it's incredible."
We walked down a narrow, graffiti splattered flight of stairs, and pushed through an inconspicuous, blue-grey door. And I was bewitched.
He was right. The music was powerful, it surged through cracked walls and the clamoring pipes and the stained counters and enslaved us with a spellbinding, mystical engagement. It was jazz and rap and blues all at the same time, genres converging, flavors emerging. After an hour, we thought we should leave, thought we should acknowledge our Friday obligations, but every time the band started playing a new set, we smiled knowingly at each other, closed our eyes again, and raised our hands to celebrate the beat.
Finally, after I used a bathroom with no toilet paper (and yet another serendipitous discovery), we decided to conduct closing ceremonies, and bought $50 worth of wraps from Wolfnights, before heading home.
I woke up three hours later, wearing the same eyeliner and same idiotic, giddy smile. The week of discussing logistics and promoters and short skirts was rendered obsolete by an accidentally glorious night of sleepless, spontaneous delirium, with the best music and the best sandwiches and the best people.
And that is how you use the word "raging" in context.
End of Day 9.
In the last six years of my being part of this beautiful world, I was not one for raging on the weekdays. In fact, until this week, I never used the word "raging." I had a routine--flexible, yes, but still a routine. I was healthy, I was alive, I was scheduled. But, on Fridays, on Saturdays, I would let loose, I would imbibe, I would play, I would explode.
With my imminent departure, I knew it was necessary to introduce new words into my vocabulary, and so on Monday, I endeavored to plan a serious, legitimate "ragefest" on Thursday. All I wanted to do was dance (and I needed an excuse to wear a spontaneous dress purchase that I already regretted). Manhattan, while I consider it one of the greatest loves of my life (followed closely by 24 and my mother's spinach), is evasive, pretentious, expensive. My one wish to go dancing caused a flurry of emails, texts, calls from friends about promoters, about friends of friends, about "people" to know. Every hour for three days, there was a new plan, a new venue, a new friend's cousin who owned a bar. And until the hour before I met up with everyone on Thursday, we still had no idea where we were going.
After discussing Lavo, Greenhouse, Grace Hotel, Marquee, Finale, Santos Party House, EVR, and Ten June, my friend and I met up with her people (the ones who knew people), at the Box, a surreal, almost magical place housing circus performers, beautiful, agile women hanging from ceilings, and orgies on stage. Despite the conspicuous motif of sex, it was less vulgar, less mediocre, less trite than other Manhattan nightclubs. I was mesmerized by the ballerina in the air, and did not notice that there were drinks awaiting my friend and me at the bar. I blinked, poked myself, and began my Thursday night.
A group of about seven people, mostly male, were to meet us there. Though the Box seemed to be more authentic than other venues, it was still essentially a New York City club, and so I feared that the six males in the group might be turned down, my credibility would be lost, I would have to stop watching the orgy on stage and start Yelping.
And I was right. My friends could not get in, my credibility was lost, and we all trudged over to Fat Baby.
The most frustrating and rewarding aspect of New York City is that a good night is necessarily serendipitous. The more we seek, the more we plan, the more we are disappointed; and yet, in our quests and explorations, we unearth the city's gems, those places for which New Yorkers are enchanted by their city, by their home.
Fat Baby was a little empty, but the music was loud and the drinks were strong, and there were enough of us to populate the dance space. My friend, one of the few who truly understands the pain of my departure, and my subsequent need for a bucket list, wanted for me to continue exploring that night. And, so, though it was already 2:30 in the morning, six hours before I had to be at work, we continued the party at Arlene's Grocery, the bodega-turned-into-music-hall. Everyone but the aforementioned friend decided to go to Mamoun's, effectively ending their nights, ending the raging.
And then there were two. My friend and I walked into Arlene's, and it seemed like a large, dingy living room, two men drinking beers in the far back corner. I looked quizzically at my comrade, and he grabbed my hand, and led me to the stairs. "Live music. It's downstairs. That's why I wanted to take you. I promise, it's incredible."
We walked down a narrow, graffiti splattered flight of stairs, and pushed through an inconspicuous, blue-grey door. And I was bewitched.
He was right. The music was powerful, it surged through cracked walls and the clamoring pipes and the stained counters and enslaved us with a spellbinding, mystical engagement. It was jazz and rap and blues all at the same time, genres converging, flavors emerging. After an hour, we thought we should leave, thought we should acknowledge our Friday obligations, but every time the band started playing a new set, we smiled knowingly at each other, closed our eyes again, and raised our hands to celebrate the beat.
Finally, after I used a bathroom with no toilet paper (and yet another serendipitous discovery), we decided to conduct closing ceremonies, and bought $50 worth of wraps from Wolfnights, before heading home.
I woke up three hours later, wearing the same eyeliner and same idiotic, giddy smile. The week of discussing logistics and promoters and short skirts was rendered obsolete by an accidentally glorious night of sleepless, spontaneous delirium, with the best music and the best sandwiches and the best people.
And that is how you use the word "raging" in context.
End of Day 9.
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