Live it up with Leg5: Penthouse Party and Paul’s Casablanca

If you told 12-year-old me that I would be co-hosting and promoting a penthouse party in Manhattan during the summertime, she would think I was extremely cool. If you told her that I would get kicked out for bringing too many people, she would think I was even cooler.

My friend Lauren had been staying in the penthouse for a few weeks while she was in between apartments. It wasn’t hers, but she knew the man who owned it, and he was letting her stay in it while he was out of town. I’d been in the penthouse a few times prior to the party because that’s where we’d been working on our screenplay together. Every time the elevator doors opened at the top floor and I stepped out into the penthouse, I was in utter awe of the place. The shock never wore off. In fact, somehow I seemed to be in greater shock each time. I tried to imagine living a life like this. This amount of wealth was unfathomable to me. I came to the conclusion that it was so disgustingly large, modern, well put-together and perfectly-maintained, that I would actually feel lonely living there alone. Lauren told me the owner was in the butter business. Is that some sort of euphemism for some illegal sexual business? Or does he use this butter business as a money laundering front? I wondered because I found it hard to believe that working in the buttery industry could lead you to afford a $6 million penthouse. Then again, everything I know about finance I learned from watching Ozark—which, I suppose, could be why my mind wandered to those possible illegal explanations. “No, he literally just owns butter factories”, Lauren told me. It’s safe to say that if all else fails, I’ll be investing in a dairy cow or a thousand (just kidding—I’m vegan).

Lauren told me she was thinking about throwing a party, since she only had a few days left in the penthouse and asked if I’d be down to promote it. Of course, I said yes.

After I did my fair share of promoting and Lauren did her fair share of purchasing alcohol, food, and setting up, we were ready to kiki.

I showed up to the party wearing my typical amount of clothes—or lack thereof. I was wearing a denim bra top and a black mini skirt. I showed up early (when nobody other than Lauren was there), so I could be there when my friends started showing up. Slowly but surely did they start showing up.

(Lauren setting up…calm before the storm. Please note that this one photo of this one part of the penthouse doesn’t nearly do it justice.)

My friend Abby was one of the first to show up. She showed up with some sort of top shelf liquor—-I believe it was Absolut. My friend Jade showed up with his camera and began taking photos of everyone. My long-time internet friend Dani even showed up because she was visiting from California and wanted a Leg5 going out experience. Safe to say she wanted to move to New York after that night. People brought food and more drinks, adding to Lauren’s pre-existing array. Some people showed up, claiming they knew me and that I invited them. I had never met them before. We were about to go all Gatsby in that [redacted]—with a different ending, of course (although it would still be tragic in many ways). Soon enough, the penthouse was full of partygoers, and I brought some of them up to the roof. As a writer, it’s my job to find the words, but I am still searching for the right ones to properly capture the sensation I felt standing on that penthouse rooftop, overlooking the Manhattan skyline in the summer, surrounded by my friends, holding champagne in my hand with music playing in the background. Imagine a painter running out of colors for the image they want to paint or a filmmaker running out of film when they still have part of the story to tell. Imagine a musician running out of chords or lyrics while trying to describe a heartbreak they just went through. That’s how I feel, grasping for the right words to encapsulate the sensation I felt in that moment, standing on that rooftop. I can still see the skyline—Manhattan’s dotted complexion during hours where only sinners were still awake, reminded of if midnight had acne. When I was on the roof, I occasionally looked down through the skylight and could get a glimpse of what was going on inside the penthouse where many of the people still were.

The rooftop is where I spent most of my time at the party. I danced to music with my friends, posed while Jade took photos, drank champagne, laughed and chatted and whatnot, and took in the view. It was one of those moments so amazing you almost weren’t fully able to enjoy it because you could already anticipate the feeling of missing it the next day. 

(Photos by Jade Greene—@byjadegreene on Instagram)

Eventually we went back inside and reconvened with the rest of the people who were still in the penthouse. That’s when Lauren informed me that the contractor had just told her she needed to evacuate everybody because the contractor told her we brought too many people. Life’s not easy being so popular and having so many friends. Since I brought these people, I decided it was my responsibility to find us somewhere else to go. My friend Isabel was hosting at Paul’s Casablanca and it was a short walk, so that’s where I brought everyone. I felt like a duck with all her little ducklings walking behind her, leading them to the gates of hedonism (like any good mother would). We got to Casa and said Isabel’s name at the door and the bounce let us in. Jackson Walker Lewis and Orson were DJing, which is how you know it was popping. I ran into a bunch of my good friends at Isabel’s table that I was happy I unexpectedly got to see.

(I really love this photo I took of my friends Julia, Jeanie, and Page after running into them)

Many helped themselves to alcohol from Isabel’s table, and I, of course, continued to dance. I didn’t really get many pictures from inside, which is how you know it was fun.

(Dani and me dancing inside of Paul’s Casablanca)

I will spare some of the details for what happened the rest of the night for two reasons—in case my mother is reading this and because I can’t say I remember them all.

Live it up with Leg5: Ed Banger Party at Le Bain

I always know it was a good party when I wake up to nude photos of myself on thecobrasnake.com, half my outfit missing, and I have a gut-wrenching instinct to google “can you get a staph infection from a pool”.

“Don’t go in the Le Bain pool! You can get an STD from going in there”, half of the socialites and artists who frequent the same Lower Manhattan venues as I do, took to Instagram to say. My friends, if you believe you can get a sexually-transmitted disease from a communal pool, you were most likely too busy drawing eyes on your notebook and writing the word “Chlamydia” in cursive too many times during Sex Ed to actually absorb the lesson. Also, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but if you believe this myth because your significant other told you they got an STD from the Le Bain pool, you have much bigger things to worry about. 

Just getting into the club can be a tricky experience alone. The line on the right—where people not on any promoter’s list wait (God knows how long) often wraps around the corner of the street and is not the ideal way to go. That’s why I was thankful to have a friend hosting that night—whose name I said at the door, so I did not have to wait. After IDs are checked, they’ll bring you to the elevator that takes you up to the fun. It has kind of an eerie vibe—one that reminds me of the elevator from Tower of Terror at Disney World. However, of course, if all goes well, this one brings you straight up and lets you off right there (as opposed to the other one).

For those who have never been, the club is at The Standard (in The Meatpacking District), several stories high, and is home to one of my favorite views of Manhattan at nighttime. It’s one of those views of the skyline that you picture as a child in your hometown, begging your parents to take you on a trip to NYC—the skyline’s complexion dotted with flickering lights from apartments of thousands of Manhattanites you know you’ll never get to meet. However, if you’re like me—you can still try to imagine what’s going on inside each apartment. It’s one of those views that really brings the word “sonder” to life. Yes, you get this view from inside the actual club, but it only gets better once you go up the stairs onto the roof of the club. 

(Me on the roof of the club)

I showed up to the club in a tiny metal bikini top (that was good while it lasted but failed to last the duration of the party), a black mini-skirt (with bikini bottoms underneath, of course), red tights, and high heels that were reminiscent of soccer cleats (if you added a 3-inch pump to them, of course). 

When I got there, everybody was dancing a regular amount as the DJs spun their decks, drinking as promoters filled their cups with vodka, tequila, and chasers, but nobody was in the pool yet. That seemed like the perfect challenge for me to amp up the via and get things lively. I took off my skirt, tights, and shoes, and headed right in the pool—which, in my opinion, is always concerningly warm. Soon enough, the pool—4-feet-deep —was filled with dozens of feet of people who had decided to join me. You can call me a trend-setter if you please.

Photo by Michelle Paradis (@_himynameismichelle on Instagram)

Shortly thereafter, Fcukers—a New-York-Based band rapidly gaining prominence for their 1990s-esque dance music—began their set in front of the pool. They performed some of their most well-known tracks like “Bon Bon”, “Mothers”, and their newly-released single “Homie Don’t Shake”…which made the Le Bain pool feel like it did, in fact, shake from the amount of people dancing to the beat of it. While the club got down to the sound of the beautiful Shanny’s angelic voice, Mark “The Cobrasnake” Hunter, Matt Weinberger, and countless other nightlife photographers clicked away, making sure the energy of the club was accurately-documented. People got on each other’s shoulders like we were youthful, sinless middle-schoolers in the summertime again—except this time we were inebriated, lustful adults baring as much skin as possible without getting ticketed for public indecency and making sure to capture it all so it could end up on social media the next day.

(Photos by Mark “The Cobrasnake” Hunter—as seen on Thecobrasnake.com)

I may as well have gotten ticketed when soon enough my top broke and I had no choice but to free the nip. At this point, the Fcukers set had ended and the pool had cleared out, but my friend still decided to join me in my toplessness—which of course, ended up on thecobrasnake.com the next day.

(Photo by Mark “The Cobrasnake” Hunter)

Shortly thereafter, nearly everybody that was left in the pool was topless and embracing their natural form as they danced and swam. What can I say? I can almost liken the moonlight to a drug—the way it possesses people and makes them come out of their shells, filling them with an overwhelming amount of confidence and lust. I also will not confirm or deny whether there were other substances being consumed there.

Needless to say, I know it was a good night when I can’t remember exactly how I got home (but thankfully woke up safely in my own bed) with dozens of photos and videos of me on social media the next day that would probably make my grandparents roll over in their graves.