No Sleep Till (After) Brooklyn

I gave up on my digital footprint long ago, and there’s an immense amount of freedom that comes with that—to have the capacity to acknowledge that your internet presence is already beyond salvation and you were probably never going to run for office anyway, so you might as well lean into the chaos.

(Photo by Jenna Murray)

I remember once, I started to get all introspective, considering the possibility that there might come a time in the future when I might actually finally want a “normal” job. I leaned over to my aunt at the dinner table on Thanksgiving—

“Do you think my digital footprint is too bad to be a high school English teacher?” 

“No” she assuaged my apprehension, “and I can help you erase some of it if you want.” I didn’t realize it worked like that.

I was under the impression that your digital footprint was set in concrete—not memory foam—at least that’s what I’d always been preached.

My friend Merel said to think back to when we were in school—“weren’t your favorite teachers always the ones with the most lore anyway?”

We were always googling all our teachers—looking them up on social media—but then again, the ones with the “lore” I’m thinking about were posting emo hair tutorials and covers of Christian renditions of famous pop songs on Youtube—not hanging upside down from aerial hoops in Brooklyn lofts while in so little clothing that they had to intentionally place text in a specific area of their instagram story, just to ensure that they weren’t accidentally showing hole.

I can now recall a time I hacked my old English teacher’s private Instagram out of increased frustration with her, and sent my classmates the scantily clad photos I found of her with her boyfriend. It was hilarious being on my end of it, but if the roles were reversed, it wouldn’t be so funny.

In my defense, if she was dumb enough to make her password her cat’s name (no capital letters, no numbers, no special characters—just “Oliver”), she wasn’t smart enough to be teaching us English anyway. This—I already knew, though.

That being said, I can either be her one day (with a stronger, more intentional password) or I can lean into my concrete digital footprint, now and forever, hold my peace.

Friday, May 8th

Rare aesthetic: showing up to your sister’s medical school graduation in Connecticut with a piercing headache, smudged eyeliner, blotchy concealer, blistered ankles, and a tote bag full of micro-bikinis, mini skirts, and zero regret. You haven’t been home in about a day-and-a-half, you also haven’t slept anywhere, but you've been to all three states in the tri-state area.

I have a lot of strong opinions; I don’t think cherry tomatoes belong in salads, I don’t think “Friends” is funny, I don’t think Epstein killed himself, and I think it’s important to always show up for those you love.

So, despite my self-inflicted sleep deprivation—thanks to last night’s endeavors (most of which I remember), I sat in that auditorium seat in Connecticut on no sleep and watched my sister become a doctor. 

It’s been just weeks since her wedding. She became a Mrs. & a Dr. all in the span of a couple of weeks. I don’t know what she’s doing with her life. She should be at the club.

Last night was Valley Latini’s album release party. This is where you should have been if you have your finger on the pulse of anything remotely cool in nightlife. The album is called “Puta Princesa.” It translates to “whore princess,” but what does it really mean?

Thursday, May 7th

As Valley read from her artist manifesto, “Puta Princesa is liberation from shame. Puta Princesa is being unapologetically sexy and deeply in love with yourself. It’s owning your body, your choices, your image, and your ambition without explanation." Puta Princesa rejects the binary. You can be soft and dangerous. You can be devout to pleasure and still move with grace. You can want luxury and still live with heart. Puta Princesa is a rebellion against the "norm."

This is exactly what I had to remind myself when picking out my outfit (or lack thereof) and asking myself, “Is this too much?”

When it comes to Valley’s World, no one and nothing is too much. Therefore, the only outfit that would be “too much” would be referring to the amount of fabric on one’s body.

During our dress rehearsal for the event, I humbly debuted the outfit I planned on wearing—prefacing it with the notion that I had other backup ideas in mind and in my bag with me in case it “wasn’t the vibe.” I stepped out of the bathroom with my purple micro-kini top and my mini-skirt so short you’d be able to see my tampon string hanging out if I had one in. 

“Do you want to see my oth—”

“Oh my god. You look so hot,” Valley affirmed.

Behind it all, was visionary Nasa Hadizadeh, self-described “maker of moments.” Nasa is also the visionary behind publication Alt Citizen and event production group “Party Girls Never Die.” Call her what you want—producer, creative director, editor-in-chief, but simply put, Nasa just makes shit happen, and Nasa did just that.

Wednesday, May 6th

It was the eve of the big day, but it was another big day for Valley: her birthday party.

Nasa was the brains behind planning and producing this event as well, but she kept this one more lowkey and advertised it only to close friends of Valley—so as not to divert attention from the album release party the next day.

It was at Selva, in Brooklyn,

It started at 8; I arrived shortly before 9, and Maia Raymer of Dirty Magazine was on the decks. Nasa immediately brought me to the back room to show me the Valley shrine she had created. Actually it was more than a shrine; It was like a museum—“Valley’s World” plastered across the back wall in purple letters, surrounded by, paintings of Valley’s, photo booth photos of her and friends and lovers (both ex and current), pages from old journals filled with manifestations, prayers, and affirmations, receipts, and other artifacts taken straight from her room.

The floor was covered with Agent Provocateur bags, photo albums, more journals from the manifold eras of Valley’s life, pairs of Pleasers, a DJ deck, and Valley’s acoustic guitar—embellished with rhinestones that spelled out “proud slut” across the front.

It was like a replica of Valley’s room but on steroids.

The whole room—or dare I say exhibition—was made complete with dreamlike purple fluorescents and fog. It was a beautifully curated slice of life that could have been a production design straight out of a movie, almost as if the world of Sean Baker merged with the aesthetics of David Lynch, but Nasa was the aesthete behind it all. 

I grabbed a martini from the bar, and Valley arrived shortly thereafter, wearing the floor-length purple gown of her dreams and sporting the most glamorous updo (that she’d claimed took her so long to execute that it was the sole reason for her lack of punctuality), and a tiara to complete the look.

We danced for a little while, then Valley took over the decks, and we danced some more.

A birthday cake came out for Valley and was eaten with hands and shot glasses rather than plates (subtle foreshadowing for what would come the next night with her Puta Princesa cake).

We eventually evacuated the venue once it cleared out, and Valley tagged a nearby sidewalk with her signature in purple spray paint and called a handful of us a car to the William Vale hotel.

Once at the hotel, we were reunited with her chihuahua, Teenie, and drank champagne and tequila from the hotel minibar—all while admiring the picturesque skyline from the balcony and watching Bad Gyal music videos. 

After this, a few of us headed to an event a couple of blocks down at Gabriela.

Gabriela was immediately overwhelming in the worst way possible—fog so prominent I would’ve assumed somebody had tear-gassed the place and run out if I didn’t know any better, but that’s just Gabriela for you.

Still, I was enthused to see my friend Torture there—or hear her, rather. We stayed and danced for a little while, and despite having told myself earlier that at this hour I’d already be home, Torture convinced me to make one last stop of the night—a Williamsburg loft party.

The loft was a millennial Brooklyn hipster’s wet dream.

It was probably one of those apartments that shouldn’t really be an apartment, but was still the coolest thing ever. It was more of an aerial gym than an apartment—lyra hoops and silks hanging from the high ceilings, and no real bedrooms or kitchen, but makeshift designated areas that served the purpose of the aforementioned.

Someone handed out glasses of red wine in something other than wine glasses, and within minutes, I was in nothing but a bra and underwear, hanging upside down from an aerial hoop in front of a bunch of people I had just met.

I made it home at 4-something—despite having told myself I’d be responsible and home by 1, and I might wake up less than well-rested the next morning, but when the sun came up, it was a beautiful day to reap what I sowed.

Thursday, May 7th (Cont’d) 

It was the day of the album release, and I had the pleasure of seeing the process leading up to the event because I was on the Puta Princesa team.

I was one of the hosts of the event—in addition to delivering a live roast of Valley Latini and being one of the “Valley Girls” (AKA—professional hypewomen that stayed on stage during the performance and brought the energy and dance moves).

Nasa delivered not just a successful event but an alternate world—Valley’s World.

Everyone who attended the party was catapulted into a world of purple, chaos, and freedom. 

Everything was intentional—every light, every word, every movement, every moment. Nasa workshopped the roast with me over and over — like parrots squawking on repeat until I had every word down and the script was as concise as possible — no word left without purpose.

I kind of wanted to kill her by the end, but that’s the beauty of Nasa’s work—that’s how much she cares.

Valley changed into her first outfit—a custom-made pink and purple corset with the letters spelling out “PUTA” both in rhinestones in the center of the piece and hanging from the bottom of the corset—draped over her puta square.

Doors opened for the public at 9, and people started to trickle in shortly thereafter.

I’d been there since 4 pm, but Nasa had been there since noon.

The night was nothing short of expected. I ran into countless people I hadn’t seen in months—some of whom I was pleased to encounter and others not so much.

At 11 pm, Jean-Luc takes over the stage and the microphone. He goes about his little emcee introduction and cracks a few jokes (as he often does—on or off stage), and then introduces me. I walk on stage—wearing my long black coat over my scantily-clad outfit. A long black coat, kitten heels, and a mini-skirt and bikini top underneath—now that’s what I call “business casual.”

I run through the script as rehearsed—“Valley Latini needs way too much attention. She has a new assistant and team every other week. My grandfather didn’t even need that much attention and pampering when he was in hospice,” and so on.

After the roast was complete, Valley read from her Puta Princesa artist manifesto while the other Valley Girls on stage (Soft and Daddy Doll) took my coat off, waved a wand and some lipstick in my face, and “putified” me to become the baddest version of myself on stage. Imagine Glinda signing “Popular” and giving Elphaba her makeover, but sluttier, Latin pop instead of theater music, and a world of fluorescent purple, not pink.

Like Wicked, but if the cast took aphrodisiacs before shooting.

(Photo by Jenna Murray)

(Photo by Jade Greene)

This was all followed by a performance of the entire album. 3 outfits, 9 songs, and what felt like hundreds of people in the audience—no square inch of Maison Nur left vacant. Every move was choreographed, and Valley’s choreographer cheered and sang all the words to the song from the front row with beaming eyes. I was on stage for it all with the other 2 Valley Girls.

After the performance, the album dropped at midnight, and everyone was encouraged to save it right then and there. Nasa brought out the purple Puta Princesa cake, which—of course—was eaten messily by those who chose to partake—no silverware, no napkins, no plates—just hands and determination.

The energy in the room was unwavering, but I had a train to catch, so after the festivities, I changed into a pair of black pants and a more modest shirt backstage, made my way to Grand Central, and headed North.

Friday, May 8th (cont’d)

After the graduation, still running on nothing but caffeine, mental fortitude, and last night’s smudged eye makeup, I have a brief lunch and a few glasses of sangria with my father at a Portuguese restaurant in New Jersey before hopping on the NJ Transit back to New York.

Once I’m there, I quickly stop back at my apartment to freshen up and get ready for the night’s upcoming endeavors.

Once in the shower, I wash off all the glory from the last day-and-a-half. I wash off the scent of Portuguese food, tequila, sangria, black coffee from the Marriott Hotel in New Haven, the auditorium where my sister became a doctor that morning, the Amtrak seats, Grand Central Station, sweat from dancing, the sweat and body odor of all the people dancing next to me, cinnamon Orbit gum, my dad’s french bulldogs, the Canal St subway station, and the Chex Mix I ate for dinner on the Amtrak on the way to Connecticut at 3 am.

Jean-Luc texts me to meet him at Time Again at 8 pm.

We’re shooting a music video for him tonight. I know this is a last-minute production—partially because he texted me last minute, but partially because every other project of his that I’ve worked with him on has had a distinct mood board, flip deck, and call time schedule—all emailed from a PA.

This time—however—he just told me to meet him Downtown, wear going out clothes, and a “classic Lucy red lip.” 

When I meet him there, the director is already busy at work filming shots of another girl. She’s flipping her hair in a messy but controlled way, smoking a cigarette in a performatively chic way, and wearing an outfit that looks effortlessly stylish but intentionally put-together.

Jean-Luc introduces her as Blue. She’s the epitome of the “cool girl” trope—like if Amy Dunne lived in the Lower East Side and was not evil. 

After they finished with Blue’s shots, the director, Zach, introduced himself to me, positioned me where he wanted me, and began filming. There was little direction from either of them—just “have you seen the Easter Pink music video?” and “wear these wired headphones” and their trust in me to move as intentionally chaotically as possible. 

After that, we switch locations, and Jean-Luc tells us that two other girls are joining us for the music video. This is when I ran into my friends Dani and Lucinda. I was pleasantly surprised to see them, as I had no idea they even knew Jean-Luc. Apparently, Lucinda had met him the night prior at Valley’s party after I had left for Connecticut. Zach gets some shots of them before heading to the next location. 

The final scene was the most fun.

We got to let out all of our feminine rage and repeatedly kick and pretend to beat up Jean-Luc. By the end of all the takes, my left arm was sore—not from actually punching him—but from repeatedly slamming my kitten heel into my arm which held him down—in an effort to shield him from the actual rageful blows of my heel.

After we wrapped up those shots, Zach and Jean-Luc told us they had to finish shooting some solo shots and that they’d meet up with us later in the night.

Blue and I walked to Treasure Club, and Lucinda and Dani followed, but we lost them shortly after arriving there—presumably because they were overwhelmed with how congested it was inside.

Treasure Club was more packed than I’d ever seen it, so I ordered a glass of wine at the bar, and once the two of us were done with our drinks, Blue and I agreed to escape the chaos and find a different spot—one where we’d be less suffocated and preferably have a place to sit.

We leave, walk past almost every known bar in D*mes Square—Clandestino, Le Dive, and all the other obnoxiously trendy spots, and each had a line out the door like we’d never seen it.

We settled on 169 Bar because at least there we could find a couple of seats.

If you’ve ever been to 169, you know how dive-y it is. It’s the trashiest bar in the Lower East Side, but because it’s in the Lower East Side, it’s still an artfully & intentionally-curated type of trashy—which is almost oxymoronic in itself, but I suppose the bohemians and trust fund kids of Lower Manhattan have to find a way to masquerade as struggling artists somehow.

They still have a martini on their menu, but it’s a pickle martini.

The bathroom doors and walls are covered with graffiti and stickers, but I would be unsurprised if the owners of the bar did so themselves. The signatures on the wall are neat enough to be legible but messy enough to look deceitfully unlawful and sleazy, and most of the stickers are either one of two things—musicians’, photographers’, and other artists’ self-promotion and QR codes—or left-wing sentiments like “defund the police,” “ceasefire in Gaza,” and “Hot Girls for Zohran.”

A “BEWARE—pickpockets and loose women” sign hangs above the bathrooms, but in reality, you’re probably only going to encounter the latter—if that (you know what they’re saying about Gen Z).

If you walk through Canal and Division Street at 3 pm on any given weekday when the weather is warm enough, you’ll somehow see the streets filled up with people sitting outside each wine bar and restaurant—miraculously all unemployed—or at least under-employed.

It’s simultaneously disgustingly and beautifully beyond comprehension.

Jean-Luc then lets us know that he and Zach are headed to Funny Bar, so we make our way there and sit at a table inside—a considerable contrast to the previous vibe of 169 Bar.

Funny Bar is chic, sleek, dimly-lit and despite the misleading name, also a restaurant. It’s home of the steak frites and martini. You probably don’t need a menu. They probably don’t have a menu.

We sit down at a table at Funny Bar—waiting for Jean-Luc when I run into redacted—a well-known East Village bouncer—and two of his friends whom I’d never met. I hug redacted. He sits down at the table across from me, and his two friends—decades my senior—sit next to me, one on each side.

The two introduce themselves—one—a French artist that did not stray even the tiniest bit away from the stereotype of exactly that. I compliment his accent, and he tells me, “The French suck.” I ask why. “They’re entitled, elitist, and annoying.” 

I counter with, “Are you entitled, elitist, and annoying?” “Yes.”

At first, I thought he was funny—later in the night, I realized he was truthful.

 The other was an American-born Russian venture capitalist who mumbled “venture capitalist” under his breath—hanging his head with shame when asked what he did for a living. He seemingly didn’t claim being a venture capitalist in the same way he didn’t claim being Russian—it’s not sexy.

In this culture — the Downtown world of semi-employed bohemians with more partners than bedframes, it’s more taboo to be a C.E.O. and a property owner than a couch-hopping “creative director.”

There’s powder on his nose, ice on his wrist, MacCallan in his rocks glass, and he claims he doesn’t go above 14th Street because “what’s even there to do up there?” My shirt is thrifted, my pants aren’t, but they’re covering the bruise on my inner thigh from hopping the turnstile at the 59th Street station the other day.

He compliments the Vivienne Westwood on my neck and the Manolo Blahniks on my feet. 

“Thanks. The shoes were my dead aunt’s, and a man bought me this necklace,” I say with intent to be contrarian, but instead, I think he thinks that’s hot.  He leans into me and asks me who I’m wearing. 

Plebeians will tell you you smell good. Rich people will ask you who you’re wearing.

I pull my Daisy by Marc Jacobs out of my bag, and he asks me if a man bought me this too. I say no, roll my eyes, and let him buy me another drink.

He never asks me my age, and I never ask him because I think we both think that’s for the best. He did—however—appear to be asking questions for context clues—like if my sister who graduated today is older or younger, and how long I've been on my own in the city.

“We do love age-inappropriate relationships,” the rich American laughs and looks at me.

“Yes, we do,” the French artist nods in agreement and discreetly grabs my hand underneath the table and starts caressing it so that the American won’t see. I let it go on for a moment, and then I move my hand away. 

They’re competing. Ha. 

If you were to shut them both up, strip them down, and lower my BAC to 0, I would probably put them both at a solid 7/10. However, in this state, the French probably gained a point for his accent, the American for his style and wit, and my foggy alcohol goggles probably added another half-point onto both of them

I like attention, and I like free drinks, but I had already decided I wasn’t going home with either of these guys, so I was only willing to let it go on for so long.

“Where’s Jean-Luc? I have to text him to meet us here.”

If the American weren’t glancing at my screen, I would have texted him “Come to Funny Bar ASAP, and please save us from these guys.” Sure, I could’ve left, but I almost didn’t want to (and Blue and I had agreed to look out for each other). The Met Gala was a few days ago. “I got to FIT, so the Met Gala is like my Super Bowl,” I heard a girl next to me say. I roll my eyes.

Eventually, Jean-Luc and Zach rescue us from the company of the French and the rich American — or partially—now one big group. Someone suggests we go to Two Doors Down, so we walk over, get a few drinks, and head to the basement to dance—which is where I successfully lose them in the crowd.

After that, Blue, redacted, and I head to Silver Lining Lounge—where we realize the event we were attempting to attend had already ended, so we walked to Maison Nur.

I had been at Maison Nur the night before for Valley’s album release party and was not at all ashamed to be there back for the second time within 24 hours. When we arrived, I heard a familiar voice outside, but it wasn’t until I saw his familiar mannerisms that I was able to confirm it was my dear friend Larry.

I was shocked, as Larry doesn’t go out much since having a 7 am-3 pm job.

Larry has been the best friend of my roommate, Kate, since she was 11, so not only was I surprised to see Larry at the club, I was even more shocked to see him not with Kate. “Larry?!” He turned around, equally stunned.

“Oh my god, Lucy! Kate’s inside.” Oh, that makes sense.

Redacted, Blue, and I entered Maison Nur, and the first person I was greeted by, was Nur himself. 

“Lucy! Did you take down my Instagram story of you last night shaking ass because you were worried your mother was going to see it?” I laugh. “She already did, and then I sat next to her at my sister’s graduation this morning.”

Kate is one of the first people I see upon entrance. She’s hard to miss—partially because she’s at the table closest to the door and I was looking for her, but partially because she’s beautiful, well-dressed, and charismatic.

“Lucy! Oh my god! I’m at Ella’s table.” I turn to the right, and a girl I’d met a few times, Ella, is there with a bottle in hand.

Ella greets me and says hello and introduces me to her husband—yes, husband.

I think there’s something so chic about being married so young in a non-traditional way—in a young-and-in-love-and-spontaneous-and-living-life type of way—— not in an oppressed type of trad-wife-finding-her-purpose-and-preparing-for-motherhood-in-the-suburbs type of way.

Ella is a beautiful English girl who carries herself with poise. I’d met her on a film set about a year and a half ago as an actress. I have a couple of drinks at her table, and then I move closer to the DJ booth, where I spot my friend Sofia dee-jaying. Sofia [D’Angelo] is an incredible singer-songwriter—formerly in the girl group Michelle—now making solo music.

She’s also one of the best disc jockeys you’ll encounter in Downtown Manhattan.

Maison Nur appeared to have been somewhat of a Downtown NYC reunion on this night. I greeted Sofia with enthusiasm, and then I danced until I broke a sweat and looked like a wet dog.

We were there for what felt like a while, but we leave when Kate decides it’s time to go because Kate is the one with the car.

We embark on a serene drive home—reflecting on the night out while singing along to Lorde, Chappell Roan, and Hole, savoring the skyline, smoking cigarettes out her car window—full of joie de vivre that would probably fade in the morning.

It was one of those drives home that has you feeling straight out of a movie (starring as “Girl who is going to be okay”) and reminds you what young adulthood in New York is all about. 

Whenever I’m not with Kate and decide to take the train home from the afters, I’m often on the train with people who either have a Celsius in their hand and running sneakers, scrubs, or a hard hat on.

It’s awfully humbling—looking down and seeing my bloody kitten heels amidst a sea of combat boots, Nikes, and the bottoms of scrubs.

Some people might deem this a wake-up call, but me—I’m just getting to bed.

I’ve waited my whole life to be this type of twenty-two.