If I asked a Victorian child to read that headline, they’d probably assume the words were out of order. They might think we were playing one of those games where you have to re-arrange the words to form a proper sentence with meaning. Nope—this is just how the Manhattanites I surround myself with choose to spend their nights after 10 pm and into the daylight.
On the 30th of August, I attended an event called “Pest Fest”. I asked a bunch of people I knew if they were going, and when they asked me where it was, I told them “The Shop”. One of them asked “what shop”, and I responded “The Shop”. Avery Addison Hunsberger (of Addison Pest Control) and his good friend, photographer Matt Weinberger throw events in this underground (figuratively and literally) venue. The Shop is a space in the Lower East Side that is a pest control shop by day (hence the name) and party venue by night. You can’t find it on any search engine or maps app, so the only way to be in the know about these events is by word of mouth—like the good ol’ days. They’re often promoted on social media, but the address usually isn’t provided unless you send a direct message asking for it. However, chances are if you’re in my social scene, you already know.
When you make your way to the Lower East Side location, the entrance looks like a typical entrance of a pest control shop—well, because it is. They have fake cockroaches and other bugs made of plastic lining the table in the front. There’s always someone sitting at the table checking people in and marking everyone’s wrist with a sharpie once they make sure you’re on the list and checked in.
(Ev Christensen, Matt Weinberger, and Avery Hunsberger at the entrance of The Shop by Mark “The Cobrasnake” Hunter)
Then, in order to get into the actual shop, you have to enter through a locker that’s painted blue. It has kind of a vibe of a speakeasy to it. Once you’re inside, you can buy drinks at the vending machine full of canned alcoholic beverages, socialize with friends inside, or go outside to the back—which has its brick walls and concrete floor now painted blue. There are picnic chairs outside, and every once in a while, they’ll have movie screenings there. Downstairs is where the real party is always happening, however. The basement reminds me of the type of basement I would find in the houses of my friends in the New Jersey suburbs in high school—where we would throw house parties and drink from red solo cups and pray that the cops don’t show up. Every time I’m there I feel a bit nostalgic for this reason, but it’s better because the parties are ten times cooler, the cops aren’t going to show up, and I don’t have my mother texting me to make sure I’m home before midnight. If you told high school me I’d be going to rock concerts in the basement of pest control shops, I’d probably be intrigued—at the very least. Like a typical basement, there are pipes hanging from the ceiling, poles coming from the floor, walls with some visible electrical sockets on them, a few couches to sit on, but if you’re doing it right, you won’t be sitting. It’s embellished with a disco ball, some string lights, a drum kit, and it’s painted the same royal blue as the outside upstairs.
I showed up to The Shop wearing leopard print flare pants, my heeled red cleats, and a belt as a top. The belt top is something I like to do every once in a while when I feel like I haven’t gotten enough attention that week.
(Me wearing the aforementioned belt top inside The Shop)
I saw some of my friends upon entry and immediately began conversing with them. One-by-one, people lined up in front of the vending machine—like ants, except unlike ants, they were actually permitted inside the pest control shop. Matt Weinberger and Mark “The Cobrasnake” Hunter clicked away while we socialized, capturing the beauty, artistry, and culture of downtown NYC during the darkest hours.
(Me by Matt Weinberger, as seen on his Instagram)
(Me by Mark “The Cobrasnake” Hunter)
Oftentimes, events at The Shop have bands and poetry readers—among other types of artists. This event started with a DJ who goes by the name DJ Moonbby and was followed by musical groups, One and Voyeur. I don’t believe I’d heard any of them before, and frankly, I barely got to because I didn’t stay for incredibly long before going to my next party that night.
Eventually, the DJ began spinning, and I alternated between the upstairs and the downstairs. Upstairs is where I would go for a more tranquil vibe and socialize with some of my friends on the couch inside or the chairs outside and have genuine conversations. Downstairs is where I would abandon the previously-mentioned tranquil vibe and dance until my feet nearly fell off in a room so crowded that you could smell the body odor of the person next to you. I suppose the smell of the poor B.O. is another thing that makes the basement feel like a glorified high school party. I love it.
(Taken by my friend when we were outside in the back, upstairs at The Shop)
(Taken on my iPhone in the basement of The Shop, the words “Pest Fest” made out in lights on the wall)
Needless to say, because of my frequent back-and-forth between the upstairs and downstairs, I was never in the basement for a long enough time to hear the entirety of a set, but every time I did go down there, the whole basement was bursting with so much energy that we probably would have not known if an earthquake occurred until after the party. That, coupled with the fact that The Shop always has incredible lineups, is enough substantiation to be able to confidently say the acts were a hit.
(High-spirited musicians and audience members downstairs, captured by Mark “The Cobrasnake” Hunter)
I believe I left as the second set was finishing because I had another party to attend. It was a wrap party for a short film directed by the brilliant Sam Besca. It was just a small gathering, which took place at 169 Bar, limited to anyone who had any part in the film. There was no lineup or anything—just friends enjoying each other’s company in the backyard of a bar and celebrating Sam’s directorial debut—so it’s unworthy of a full write-up. However, when the film Blitz comes out, I can say with certainty that it’s not something you’ll want to go without having seen.
Bec Lauder and The Noise at Niagara
Chances are if you hang out anywhere in the same vicinity of the crowd of people I do, you’ve already heard her name. However, just hearing about Bec Lauder isn’t enough. You must hear Bec Lauder and the Noise for yourself.
Her name alone is enough to pull a big enough of a crowd to fill any downtown venue (including headlining and filling up Bowery Ballroom earlier this year), but her unrivaled talent is enough to make them stay and come back again.
She’s a phenomenal addition to the Downtown New York scene in recent years, and she’s making rock and roll Lauder than ever before.
Every Wednesday night during the month of September, Bec Lauder is calling Niagara—a bar and dance club in the East Village—her home. Each week during their month-long residency, Bec Lauder and The Noise invite all of New York to see live rock music for free and snag some free beer between the hours of 8 and 9 pm. You know what they say—early bird gets the beer. There are also special guests and DJs every week. What’s the catch? You might ask. I’m still wondering that too—even after having attended.
(Taken by me after unexpectedly seeing this in Bushwick)
Upon entry, I greeted Bec and ran into a few friends. Bec and her band, The Noise, took over the stage at approximately 9:45. In case you’re unaware, Niagara is not a very large venue, but Bec is gaining popularity quite rapidly. She has a tendency to pack a place, so it remains a mystery to me how everybody managed to fit in that space that night and left with all of their limbs. Maybe if I hadn’t made the decision to climb on top of an elevated surface about two minutes into the show and had stayed on the floor among all the other audience members, I would be typing this from a hospital bed with one arm and a vastly different outlook on the event. However, I am drawn to an elevated surface like a moth to a flame (or like fans and friends of Bec Lauder and The Noise to Niagara on that very evening).
It wasn’t my first time seeing them perform, so I expected no less, but Bec Lauder and The Noise did not fail to put on one hell of a show, and they probably made Niagara Lauder than it's ever been before. Bec’s impressive vocal range and one-of-a-kind rasp, captivating and seductive stage presence, magnetic movements, lyrics conveying a variety of deep emotions—supplemented by her inimitable bandmates—all made for a performance that is second to none.
Bec Lauder’s artistry may be unparalleled, but this isn’t to say that she does it all on her own (but then again—who does?). I was deeply impressed by her guitarist who goes by the name “Soph Shreds”. Her skills on the guitar seem to be eponymous for a very good reason. She shreds like I’ve seen very few do it before. She appeared to be around my age (young), and I have a tendency to fall into a bit of a depression whenever I see someone my age possessing such a talent, but thankfully, this time the music was so good that my state of euphoria couldn’t be disturbed. Bec and Soph shared a hypnotizing moment on stage during one song—their faces inches apart, while their movements remained magnetic and their sound still held the same sharpness.
The audience was unremittingly captivated throughout the performance. This is also thanks to Bec’s drummer, Maggie Bishop (or Macinizby) who undoubtedly helps put the noise in Bec Lauder and The Noise. Bec’s and Maggie’s unison talents made it evident that they had appreciable understanding of each other creatively. She also looked badass and made me want to pick up a pair of drumsticks for myself. Bec had a bassist as part of her band that evening as well, and I don’t believe she is a permanent member of the band, but she most certainly wasn’t having a difficult time keeping up with the rest. If Bec went off the set list and played any other song, I have no doubt that with the snap of her finger, her band would be able to play the right tune beautifully in accordance with her request.
The performance of each song was filled with such authenticity, rawness, passion, and profound emotion that seemed to rub off on each audience member. At one point in her performance, Lauder shared a deeply vulnerable and inspiring moment with the audience—her eyes filling with tears and her voice with heaviness, mid-song. The audience quieted down and clung to every word and every mannerism of hers for this portion of the song—her lachrymose performance seemingly causing the audience to feel things similar to what she, herself, felt. After all, what is a good artist if not vulnerable?
(I’m certainly no photographer, but I enjoy how animated Bec looks in these photos)
Thanks to Bec Lauder, the audience felt many things that night—exhilaration, sorrow, rage, bliss, and likely increased libido. The performance was so steamy that many audience members most likely wondered if their free beers contained some sort of aphrodisiac. They did not. That’s just Bec Lauder for you.
If you’d like to keep up with Bec and her journey as a musician and possibly attend future shows, be sure to follow @beclauder_ on Instagram.
Whether you want to hear incredible rock music or have a sexual awakening, a Bec Lauder and The Noise show is the place to be.
Dirty Magazine x Blip World Pop-Up at Café Forgot
I’ve never been the biggest fan of New York Fashion Week, and in recent years it definitely doesn’t feel like it used to be. If you’re already active in the downtown arts and nightlife scene like I am, it just feels like parties at many of the same venues you already go to, overrun by influencers and clout-hungry socialites with longer lines and lists that are more difficult to get on than usual. I didn’t go to that many fashion week events this year, so I’m glad my first one was at least with people I know and love. Dirty Magazine was hosting a pop-up at Café Forgot, in collaboration with Blip World—a brand that sells products to help you quit nicotine.
(Me with my Blip lozenges by Mark “The Cobrasnake” Hunter)
Dirty Mag invited me to this event, and I found it hard to say no. I’m friends with the team behind the publication, as I’ve worked with them before. I was in their latest issue, which you can buy online or in-store at a few locations, including Café Forgot—the independent clothing store they held their pop-up at.
(Photos by Mark “The Cobrasnake” Hunter of my feature in the latest issue of Dirty Mag)
In addition to modeling for issue 8, I hosted a table at Le Bain for their Issue 8 Release Party, and have performed on stage with Valley Latini for a couple other events thrown by them. I think it’s safe to say I’m a proud Dirty girl by now. I arrived at Café Forgot when the beautiful Miles Raymer was DJing under the name “Donatella LeRoc”. There was an array of free wine, tequila seltzers, energy drinks, and snacks inside for all.
(Me inside Café Forgot, alongside the free drinks and snacks)
Outside, the party continued at the Blip stand. My friend Maddie was behind the stand most of the time wearing a bikini—well, barely, but what’s a Dirty Mag event without Maddie being nearly naked? She was selling the latest issue of Dirty Mag, as well as some copies of the latest issue of Petit Morg Magazine.
(Maddie inside the Blip stand, holding up her feature in the latest issue of Petit Morg Magazine, captured by Mark “The Cobrasnake” Hunter)
(Dirty Magazine editor-in-chief Ripley Soprano holding up issue 8, photographed by Mark “The Cobrasnake” Hunter)
They gave me a goody bag full of protein toaster pastries, toothpicks and gum from Blip World, harm reduction necessities, eyeshadow, emergency contraceptives, and more.
The Cobrasnake showed up and started taking photos of us all. There were more DJ sets by Dirty Magazine editor-in-chief, Ripley Soprano, Princess Gollum, and Nebula. Icon after icon showed up.
(Photos by Mark “The Cobrasnake” Hunter)
Rumor has it that this was the place to be from 4-7 pm on September 6th. Actually—no, it’s not a rumor because I’m declaring that it was, and I’m many things, but a liar is not one of them.
The next day, I went to a Vogue afterparty at Two Fifteen—an upscale lounge inside the Public Hotel in the Lower East Side. The music was popping, the lights were dim, and it was more crowded than I’d ever seen it in there.
(The only photo that exists on my phone from inside Two Fifteen that night)
Although there were so many people that I didn’t even get to grab a drink from my friend Isa’s table before her first bottle was gone, I found it extremely difficult to differentiate the people that were there in association with Vogue from the people that were there because they wanted to attend a Vogue afterparty during New York Fashion Week. After all, everybody in that room was dressed to impress. I didn’t stay for long at all because some of my friends texted me that they weren’t let in, so we decided to travel together elsewhere. We heard that Grailed was throwing a party at Nublu, so agreed to make the Herculean trek over there—fully anticipating not to get in because we weren’t on the list (as this was our plan B) and it was NYFW. Like Jesus—a martyr—led his disciples to Bethany, my friend—a martyr—led us all to Nublu. We eventually made it to the club, and my ankles were begging me to sit down somewhere before they caved in, but I’ve never been especially obedient, so I continued to stand. When we got there, the line was nearly wrapping around the block, and I assumed all those people in the line were on the list, so I figured there was no way we were getting in.
(Photo by Mark “The Cobrasnake” Hunter from outside Nublu)
That’s when we ran into photographers Matt Weinberger and Mark “The Cobrasnake” Hunter. We chatted with them, let them snap a few flicks of us, watched as the two of them got interviewed by some documentarian, and then followed Matt inside when the doors opened for him. We made it in against all odds.
Once I was inside, I was overwhelmed by both the size of the venue and the amount of people inside. Vibrant lights flashed above us, and the word “Grailed” was projected on the walls surrounding us. This party was no match for an epileptic. I, however, was thriving.
Photographers made their way around capturing many of the niche internet microcelebrities in New York. I saw Eartheater and Miss Madeline (among others).
(Photos by Mark “The Cobrasnake” Hunter)
I danced on the platform right next to the DJ—of course. One of my friends had to leave after getting overwhelmed by the chaos of the event. For me, there’s no such thing as too much chaos. I might even be the epitome of the word “chaos” itself, so this was my equivalent of Heaven on Earth. My favorite part of the whole party was the open bar. My phone died mid-event, and while I knew I needed to find a way to charge it (so I could navigate my way home in the middle of the night), I was unwilling to abandon my fort on my elevated surface next to the DJ and disturb my state of rapture.
(Me on an elevated surface, next to the DJ booth by Mark “The Cobrasnake” Hunter)
Eventually, I conceded defeat and charged my phone just barely enough to make it home safely, and when I checked my texts, I found several panicked messages asking where I had gone. These were sent hours earlier—when I was busy dancing on my elevated surface. When the friends you showed up with lose you somewhere on the dance floor, that’s how you know you’re filled with an unparalleled joie de vivre.
Puzzled Panther at Two Fifteen
I’d been to Two Fifteen at Public Hotel many times before—including a few nights earlier for the Vogue afterparty—but never had I seen a live performance there, so I wasn’t sure what to expect. In fact, I barely noticed a stage there before, and as an enthusiast of climbing elevated surfaces, I have a tendency to see them all. However, when the members of the band Puzzled Panther took over the stage, it was surely hard to miss.
Puzzled Panther is a post punk/indie rock band with an idiosyncratic style and a look just as distinctive. The band is made up of 5 members—some of who have gained recognition as virtuosos preceding this musical group—including Brian Chase, of Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and Eugene Hütz, of Gogol Bordello. The quintet took over the stage, dressed in outfits that made them resemble court jesters embracing their sexy side.
(Puzzled Panther by Mark “The Cobrasnake” Hunter)
They had a captivating stage presence to supplement their unique sound, which had the room dancing along with them—including myself, who ended up breaking a sweat from dancing in the front row. All band members complimented each other’s talents beautifully, incontestably understanding each other as artists who altogether formed an extraordinary sound. Even while playing bass and guitar and singing, the musicians were dynamic, managing to effectively play their instruments while bouncing up and down, kicking their feet, and dancing energetically—which sometimes appeared choreographed and sometimes playfully improvised.
(Photos by Mark “The Cobrasnake” Hunter)
The spellbound audience seemed to follow their lead on occasion with their unique mannerisms and dance moves which sometimes occurred in unison and sometimes not.
(Me playing air guitar on the ground by Mark “The Cobrasnake” Hunter)
(An enthusiastic audience member by Mark “The Cobrasnake” Hunter)
I enjoyed this, as I’ve seen so many musical groups with perfect choreography and every move in complete unison, and I get bored when everything is so pretty and perfect and well put-together. In my opinion, art shouldn’t always be so easy on the eye. It shouldn’t always be pretty, perfect, and organized. Good art sometimes leaves you confused, disgusted, mad, and pushes boundaries. Whatever it does—it’s supposed to make you feel things strongly. Perfect in-line choreography is not trailblazing. It may be performance, but it’s not always art. Puzzled Panther did it differently. Their avant-garde artistry left me confused about some things. I wasn’t sure what a lot of their songs were about, why they chose to wear what they did, what genre they were technically performing, what decade we were in, why some of them moved the way they did, why they made some of the stylistic/musical choices that they did. That’s art.
I made a new friend in the audience named Rachael. Like me, she had a black bob and a red outfit and was bursting with energy. It was those things that drew us to each other, and I truly think she’s one of the only people I’ve ever met that can match the level of energy and dance moves that I bring to the audience of every show or party. While we were dancing in the front row until we broke a sweat and the band continued with a chaos of their own on stage, Mark “The Cobrasnake” Hunter captured it all (yet again), and strangers recorded us dancing with their iPhone cameras—in addition to them recording the actual band, of course.
(Photos of Rachael and me dancing by Mark “The Cobrasnake” Hunter)
You could say there were two shows being put on in that room that night.
P.S. while browsing thecobrasnake.com for the photos from that night, I noticed a familiar face that I somehow went the entire event without seeing.
(Anna Delvey by Mark “The Cobrasnake” Hunter)
Once a month, my friend Catie puts together a poetry reading at Old Flings entitled “Words at Flings”. I may be biased because I always read at them, but it’s one of the highlights of my month every month. This month I was the last reader again (same as last month). I always love reading last because I get to pretend like I’m the headliner or something—even though there never is one. I showed up to the venue at around 8:30, making sure to wear something see-through and sexy, along with my typical red lip and dark eye makeup—just so that in case my reading didn’t go well, I’d still be hot enough to claim the bimbo card.
(I typically don’t like to take many photos during readings—in an effort to be considerate and give the readers my full-attention and stay off my phone. I also did not receive any professional photos, so my camera roll is kind of lacking from this night. Here’s the one low-quality selfie I have from inside the Old Flings bathroom.)
This extensive lineup of readers included Page Garcia, Cassidy Angel Grady, and Juliette Jeffers—among others.
(The official lineup, as written by Catie)
As soon as I got my drink ticket, I headed straight to the bar because the reading I’d prepared was probably the most depressing thing I’d ever read. At every reading, I seem to alternate between reading something funny and light-hearted and something more vulnerable, raw, and emotional. This one was most certainly the latter—not to say I didn’t still sneak a few jokes in there.
While the other readers were going, I had my friend buy me another drink because he owed me money and I still needed some more liquid courage. Catie read her apology letter from stealing from a Walmart in Colorado, followed by a more moving piece that I loved. Page showed the entire audience his work phone. Juliette read about a bad date she had. I was a fan of my friend Carly’s pieces about some of the many crushes she has at the moment.
(A photo I quickly snapped of my friend Carly reading her beautiful poems)
One reader’s phone died, so she went off-book and improvised a breakup between her and her boyfriend that happened the day before. Emily (also known as Cherubs) read an incredibly raw and moving piece that had me hanging onto every word.
Eventually, it was my turn. I stepped up to the microphone and proceeded to read a lengthy piece about basically everything that’s ever been wrong with me. It was like a continuous trauma dump but made poetic. It was also more cathartic than trauma-dumping to your therapist or your mother because you don’t have to filter the things you say or worry about facing any sort of repercussion or unwarranted feedback or even inimical criticism as a result of your honesty. I’d like to clarify that my mother always gives wonderful feedback, and I mean this as a mere hypothetical.
After I finished, I was overwhelmed with positive feedback. I am hypercritical of my own work and never feel satisfied or like any piece is ever complete, so I wasn’t sure how the audience was going to react. An artist should never base their level of satisfaction with their work solely based on the reaction of others, but having such a positive response to something I was nervous to read is indisputably validating. One person came up to me and asked, “how do you seriously keep getting better and better with every reading?” I blushed. Catie then showed me a piece of paper from her journal. She complimented my reading and told me these were her extensive notes for my piece. However, instead of her notes consisting of criticisms and things of that nature, it was just a compilation of all of her favorite lines from my piece, messily jotted down in a formation that would probably only make sense to me or anyone else in attendance.
(Catie’s journal after my reading…don’t even try to read what it says; It will make zero sense to you unless you were there)
I was flattered to have her listening so closely that she could barely keep up with me, due to restlessly jotting down every line she wanted to remember. She could have just asked me to send her a copy of it after the reading instead of putting herself at risk for Carpal Tunnel Syndrome. Poor girl.
I moved outside to chat with some of the people that were in attendance—some of whom I knew and some of whom I did not.
“So you’re a writer?” One of them asked.
“Only when I’m writing,” I responded.
“Well, what are you the rest of the time?”
“A performer of what kind?” He inquired.
Uninterested, I lit a cigarette and responded “human…because I’m only my true, authentic self when I’m creating art, and the rest of the time I’m merely putting on a performance.” I walked away and reflected on the fact that this interaction did not, in fact, occur, but it would be cool if it did because it would make me seem really enigmatic, elusive, and introspective.
After I said goodbye to some people, I convinced two friends to come with me to my friend’s table at Paul’s Casablanca. What we did not account for is that the venues were nearly a mile-and-a-half apart, we refused to spend money on transportation, and I was in heels. At least I was in good company—that of two of my friends and the moonlight. When we made it to Casa, my toes felt like they were minutes away from falling off, but I overcame my inhibitions and danced for hours on my elevated surface behind the DJ booth, as Orson and Jackson Walker Lewis spun.
(Photo I quickly snapped while on my elevated surface behind the DJ booth)
I’ve been through a lot in my life, so sore feet were not about to prevent me from indulging my long-awaited (nearly 1.5 miles) pursuit of hedonism. I had to, of course, enjoy the fruits of my labor.
(My friend Alyssa and I outside of Paul’s Casablanca…remember—smoking kills, but so do our face cards)
Sam’s Birthday at Shinsen
My friend Sam Besca—whom I mentioned earlier for her work as a filmmaker/actor—turned 25 on the eleventh. 25 calls for a big party (and a quarter-life crisis), but it felt inappropriate to throw a huge party on September 11th. She asked me for help to throw the party because—well, I know a thing or two about parties, and we settled on the 13th. We booked Shinsen as the venue, and if you’re unfamiliar, Shinsen is a Japanese restaurant, sushi bar, and sake lounge in Chinatown with a space in the back for events. At first, Sam and I were going to be the only hosts, but then when we found out we needed to make $5k in bar sales, we added a bunch more hosts to try to pull as many heads as possible. After we settled on hosts, we booked DJs Sofia D’Angelo, Young Warhol, Tongue Touchers, and Danny Cole. Once the booking manager of Shinsen was made aware of the lineup, he told Sam not to worry about the $5k bar requirement anymore and faith was restored. We didn’t need all these hosts after all, but it sure didn’t hurt. I showed up to Sam’s apartment to pregame and help style her. We settled on a white t-shirt that simply said the word “birthday” and hung off one shoulder, a gold belt over the shirt, plaid mini-shorts, and gold knee-high boots. Sam also brought a black mesh dress for a mid-party outfit change. We arrived at the venue, and Sam’s friend Raj set up his laptop and projector so that he could project visuals on the back wall. The first one just said “Sam Besca” inside a huge star (because she is one).
(The birthday girl in front of the projection of her name)
When Serge Neborak (Young Warhol) began his set, the room began to fill up, and his DJ name was projected on the back wall while people danced to the club classics he spun.
Danny Cole was next. By the time Danny was DJing, both the event space in the back and the actual restaurant were filled up with partygoers. It got so full that I was having to suck in and hold my breath in order to scoot past people. At 12:19, just as Sofia D’Angelo was starting to spin, I received a notification on my phone from the app Partiful that we had hit capacity (325 people). F*ck yeah.
(The one and only Sofia D’Angelo during her set)
Sofia’s set seemed to have made the energy of the room double what it already was, which I didn’t think was even possible, but anybody who knows Sofia or has ever heard a set of hers knows that she is undeniably capable of that. Her set was interrupted to bring out Sam’s birthday cake. Sam’s best friends, Kate and Spencer, brought out a cake with a picture of her on it, and everybody sang to her before she blew out the candles. You know the drill.
After we sang to Sam, Sofia’s set resumed. While Sofia was on the decks, Raj was projecting Sam’s own films on the back wall in the room (without sound—of course). I thought it was iconic—to say the least.
There was something avant-garde about black and white silent films playing in the back of a sushi restaurant, while hundreds of partygoers crowded the place and danced to club classics. After Sofia, Sam’s good friend Spencer took over the decks under the alias “Tongue Touchers”. I’d like to offer my apologies to Spencer for not being present long enough to provide my opinion on his set because I was sitting outside socializing for the majority of it. I sat at a table outside with new friends I made that night, smoking foreign cigarettes and talking about life with them. They told me they could tell I was some sort of performer just based on my personality. I mean, every day is a performance—even when I’m not on a stage. I ran into friends I hadn’t seen in months, climbed on some elevated surface outdoors because there were not enough for me indoors, and stayed out much later than I promised myself I would—but what’s new? Eventually, I hopped on the nearest 6 train, buttoned my shirt up to protect myself from the gaze of lustful men whose propensity to stare seems to triple in the moonlight, and stumbled home at an ungodly hour—all just to do it again the next day at a different location.
Having this column is causing me to reflect on how much socializing I truly do. I attended over a dozen events in the city in two weeks (some not written about), and I wasn’t even in NYC for the entirety of the two weeks. Can we reclaim the word “socialite”? We have to. Why? Because I am one, but I wince every time someone refers to me as one—almost like it’s a slur—because I feel like it’s loaded with a negative connotation—like there’s an insinuation that I’m vapid or superficial—neither of which I am. I just cannot go without constant human connection, and I absolutely love my friends, the dance floor, art, and the moonlight.
Some days I wonder if my ancestors would be proud of me. They struggled through The Great Depression, and I spend most nights surrounded by people who go into a great depression when they don’t get drink tickets or guest list.
I wonder if Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton would be proud of me. They relentlessly fought so that women could use their minds, and I am using mine to inform the people which DJs in the LES are hot right now, and which clubs I would recommend staying out of because the bouncers rejected my friends who were on the list. Anthony and Stanton led the Women’s Suffrage Movement, so I could be surrounded by women who suffer when their Louboutins break because the walk from Casablanca to The Box was too long and their sugar daddy didn’t send them enough money to take an Uber.
Some days I wonder if my mother is proud of me. I feel we are very similar as people, but she is an incredible lawyer, using her mind every day to fight for people’s rights. Then, of course, I remember what they say in that song by the Beastie Boys—“you gotta fight for your right to party."
Written by Lucy Geldziler (Leg5)
