And Now I Wanna Be Your Dog, Part 1.
I had a conversation with my coworker the other day about how walking out of her office in Williamsburg is like walking into a Halloween parade every day of her life. This is the place that Kelly and I decide to go to on numerous occasion—Halloween.
Our time together is always a combustion of chaos, but this night was epic. First of all, I told her earlier in the day that my 30 something hipster friend was playing at a bar called Monkey Town. Her response via text was, “This is going to be awesome.” Later, I texted an old college friend that is well known to the Williamsburg area about my whereabouts to see if he’d like to join. He texted, “Don’t ever go there.” Kelly and I, of course, went.
We meet up and jumped and kicked our way to the venue and enter into a cubicle room located behind a restaurant? Anywhere you sat was going to awkwardly place you across from somebody else that was just as awkward as the space. Just to set the scene, there was a woman that was running after her kid in a parade of hipsters wearing matching neon flannel while gesturing to her husband to hold her cocktail.
[Why do people without children have to be subjected to other’s children? Children are not cute in bars or after hours].
I get an $8 glass of mediocre merlot, (not that I know what that means) and the show starts. Projectors started rolling scenes of people running on every wall. A beautiful blonde walks in with her tight purple jeans and strategically braided hair. She walks the square space, speaking in a low tone saying things like “My lips. Are being painted. My lips. My hair.” I immediately start laughing and questioning my existence. I mean, will this be “art” later? Nobody understood Rothko or Van Gogh during their time, but I don’t think this is where they started. I’ve come to find out that all you need these days is a nice pair of colorful jeans accompanied by a nice ass—maybe a few friends.
One by one, the other “band” members sneak up to their spotlights and go to their designated instruments. We wait for a ballad; we wait for a simple tune, some kind of melody. Instead, we are entrenched with what sounds like a baby gorilla in the midst of a pre-school playground. Just in case you didn’t know, people, this is art.
Half time. My older hipster friend walks up to us and asks how to we like it so far? Kelly and I nod as we wipe our smearing mascara from laughing so hard. 30 something year old retorts obliviously, “Oh! I’m glad you’re enjoying it. We’re trying to be minimalistic!”
I swear, I love New York.
So round two. The place starts getting more and more like a poor man’s Andy Warhol studio. My 30 something friend along with the other band-mates (that mine as well be mannequins) literally start banging their instruments. It was abusive for all.
Currently, I am undergoing post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) so it’s hard to recall how we got out of there. However, as it usually turns out, we escaped into the surreal universe we know as our life. We exited Monkey Town into the cool crisp weirdness of Brooklyn, which entailed obscure graffiti, stuffed persons on benches, and motorcycles in the midst of street gardens. I’m not sure how we missed the man (who highly resembles the old guy from Back to the Future) that always travels down Bedford screaming, “It’s the end of the world!” Oh, life.
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Anarchy and a Swing in the Basement, Part 2
We were on our way to Grand Ave. to meet Kelly’s German friend that knew of yet another music scene—a place called Wow Hoss. At this point, nothing can get worse, so we make our way into two to three oblivious and frustrating cab rides that drop us right under the Brooklyn Queens Expressway ramp in Clinton Hill.
Industrial building after Industrial building, we finally get to the place that is supposedly the music spot, but upon entry it appeared to be a private apartment charging a $20 cover. Kelly and I walk back outside to question this experience until we were faced with “the bike dancers.” Suddenly, a more intricate looking group of hipsters stampeded out of the building following girls with bikes that were in American Apparel-esque attire. For about ten minutes Kelly and I are displaced amongst the crowd watching a variety of girls halting traffic and humping their huffys to the worst 80’s music ever. Now, this is art. 
We were sold. We decide to follow the stampede back in to the deceiving apartment that surprisingly turned into a big open space for music and cheap booze. Typical story, I snuck in and Kelly paid. I pretty much do not agree to cover entries or being poor.
Kelly and I looked at each other and thought/said, “This is cool,” in a very shocked way.
Band after band comes on and we dance, dance, dance. The German friend arrives and our dance movements just get bigger and better for some reason. We are all totally different people and dancers which calls for a brilliant time.
About five hours of dancing later, the last act comes on. We are introduced to a man-boy with white contacts, a hobbit-ish figure, an under bite, grease bombed hair, and with trumpet black-finger-nail-painted hand. To his left, his buddy carries the tuba, which is as large as he is. Everyone stands still for a while until the man boy starts death metaling it up with interludes of trumpet and tuba blasts. Moreover, he sounded like the devil version of Louis Armstrong. Whatever works—we were dancing harder than we had the whole evening.
So, I get tired. I walk to the back and smoke one of my last cigs. A demented sort of Where’s Waldo boy approaches me saying in a Mickey Mouse voice,” I saw you earlier in the night, but I was too shy to say hello.”
“Oh, cool.” I say. “You want one?” Of course this stupid pick up line attracts me.
He takes a cigarette and tells me to go downstairs so we can hear each other talk. I peer over my shoulder and see Kelly and the German in their own little dancing worlds and continue onto what I will call the room with one swing. A huge room encompasses this one wooden swing. I get on it, cigarette in hand, and Waldo pushes me while MGMT is playing in the background. Shortly after, Kelly shouts while laughing hysterically, “Alisha!? Is this really happening?”
I have no idea if this is really happening. I stopped swinging and walked over to a torn out Oldsmobile car seat. Waldo’s legs are crossed towards mine as mine are to his. As a child, I heard on Oprah that that kind of body language insinuates that you like the person. I wanted to make out.
We start talking about life and what we do, you know, the normal stuff. I tell him I’m involved with social work and he says he is too, essentially. Mind you, every so often he’d throw his hands in the air and make a shriek noise. I was attracted to his dysfunction—a common flaw of mine. We stop talking and the Killers start playing. Then, we start making out like developmentally disabled people. Kelly shows up again right at my side, startling me into embarrassment. Laughing again, she says “Do you want to go somewhere else now?”
It is 4 a.m. at this point, and everyone seems amped. We all get ready to go, looking like sweaty invalids. We walk upstairs and I realize Kelly made a new friend as well— an Irish man that is probably the most normal and attractive man of the evening. Hell, most attractive man of the year; it has been a tough one. With this random hour and foursome, I knew the night was not over.
We start walking under the eerie depths of the BQE area and Waldo and I scuttle ahead, (Let’s just say scuttle is the perfect way to describe Waldo’s walk). It was my mistake to leave Kelly and Ireland behind because I began to get to know demented Waldo. He began telling me that his kind of social work is known as anarchy. I start calling for Kelly to hurry and was on a mission to get to the bar and get a stiff drink. Just to note, the bar was entitled Rope, how fitting.
So it is Kelly and I with two completely opposite strangers. We all reunite at the bar and as I’m ordering a whiskey for myself and Waldo, I whisper to Ireland and Kelly about the anarchist. They gulp their drinks and we head to the table.
Then, Ireland leans slightly over the table to Waldo and says in the cutest Irish accent, “So tell me a little more about anarchy.” Waldo gets crazy Mickey Mouse-like and shrills, “You’re Irish and you don’t know about Anarchy?” One can see that Waldo is easily offended and may throw a rage fit that includes fire rings. I get a little anxiety and enforce that I want to change the topic.
“Okay then,” demented Waldo shrills again, “Well, you want to get real then, huh? I used to have a kid. Yeah. Raised him for 6 years—did the whole peanut butter sandwich in a bag bit and everything. Then, out of nowhere it was stolen from me.”
We’re all stunned. Ireland is the only one with enough grace to calmly talk to demented Waldo and leans over the table ever so consolingly and says, “Wow, I’m sorry to hear that. Did you have a son or a daughter?” Waldo ambiguously replies with “Yes.” Sips his whiskey. Ireland asks again, “So, son or a daughter?” Waldo again says “Yes.” Okay, so this goes on for about five more times until Waldo appears to be obviously drunk and agitated. I thought he had undergone a stroke; hence he looked like he had paralysis of the face.
Again, dysfunction attracted me, and I was on the rebound. I wanted to make out. Ireland and Kelly begin to probably have a meaningful conversation while Waldo and I are trying to get in each other’s pants in a weird way. Waldo very vocally says in a mentally handicapped cartoon kind of way, “I’m going to the bathroom, so I will see you in there if you want to make out.”
I pretend he’s stupid and also pretend that nobody sees me go into the bathroom. I hear Kelly calling me out right away. “Alisha just went into the bathroom to hook up! That is so ridiculous.”
I laugh inside the stall while crying inside that I’m this desperate. We make out and Waldo asks if he can touch my boobs. I’m like, “what the hell dude, go ahead.” He touches my boobs and screams, “THANK YOU GOD!” And that was my cue to walk out.
He stumbles out of the bathroom after me and I return to the table with functional people looking horrified. It only gets worse. I start to feel someone sniffing my hair while humming. I look at Kelly and Ireland and tell them “Shhh, just listen, what is going on?” They immediately start laughing as I assume their seeing a drunken demented Waldo with paralysis of the face slobbering all over my hair.
Time to go.
We’re outside, me smoking my last cigarette, and Waldo abruptly slurs while leaning on the glass, “Ijussswannahavesesxwithyou. Thasall.” That was my cue to get a cab. So the functional people and me, (with PTSD) get in a cab and leave Waldo to find Where he lives. Believe me, this is not as bad as it seems. He claimed to live around the corner from the bar.
There we are—Ireland, Kelly, and me driving back through Brooklyn to get to bed. I’m stunned at this point and just stare out the window while Kelly and Ireland are still able to converse about interesting things like Africa and photography.
We get back to Kelly’s nook and, as usual, question if the night really happened over diet coke and lime chips. At 6 a.m., we could barely think and agreed to wait for this to settle in the next day.
There have been many of those days that I laugh to myself hysterically on subways, streets, and while at work or home thinking about the day/night prior. Basically, I’m showing all signs of schizophrenia to the social world. I am so glad to have Kelly validate these experiences that seem unreal so I can justify that I’m not that crazy.
Ultimately, I don’t think New York City will ever settle.
