Quite a weekend was had, I must say, even in the midst of my recovery from teeth extraction. Looking back, it all seems like a big blur, as it usually does when the concept of time is irrelevant. (Is this what getting old is like!?)
Friday, Rixa flew in from Germany. She'll be staying with me for seven weeks and helping me brush up on my guttural sounds. Together, we joined Ryan, Phil, Tory, Agathe, and Sam on a trek to the Dan Deacon concert through the cold, blustery night. Only, as we finally reached our destination, we found that the concert warehouse was empty, save for one little Scottish girl. Our Chloe. Apparently the location had changed without anyone knowing, and so we descended back into the depths of the L train subway.
We finally did reach the concert warehouse, which had line that wrapped around the corner. Once inside, our hands were stamped about twelve times (....in case our bodies needed to be identified...?), and ventured into the dark recesses of a ginormous warehouse, the Vivian Girls' pulsing annoyingly through the empty space. I stepped forcefully on my frostbitten toes and we all huddled into a corner to await the lineup:
Vivian Girls
[A Really Crappy D.J.]
Woods
USA is a Monster
[+ another band]
[+ another D.J.]
Double Dagger
We Are Powers
Dan Deacon
(case in point, there were a lot of freakin' bands to go....)
Agathe got some vodka, cheery as always; Tory and Sam cuddled their beers; the three of us, meanwhile danced a sort of body-warming groove in one-place, envious of them all. Ryan was sick with a cough, Rixa was jet-lagged, and I was hungry and nursing the holes in my mouth. But we were there, nonetheless.
It was actually all worth it. We braved about 7 hours at the concert, where eventually the crowd thickened, and thus so did the air, not only with warmth but also the penetrating stench of cigarettes.
There were a lot of silly pictures and an occasional drunken person that fell over at least one of us. It was impossible not to get checked by one of the many wandering hipsters, so drunk that they couldn't even see straight off to where their feet were taking them. Every once and awhile, there'd be some "harsh," alcohol-tinged words exchanged by two scragggly men who were probably very ugly and wearing thick glasses and a plaid shirt.
The two girls next to us; one with a bowler hat and a nose ring, the other one's loose-fitting tee-shirt falling off her bra-less chest (isn't it winter???), chatted about their "tight vaginas" as they sipped $3 beers from a can. The "make-out wall" (as we liked to call it) directly behind us was lined with couples shoving their tongues down eachother's throats and getting a little too close all up in each other's bis-natch.
The line to the bathrooms was from one side of the room to the other, and was driving people to absolute insanity; so much so, that when one of our companions blacked out and we tried to get her outside, they almost bit off our faces. Apparently those lavish Port-O-Potties were a big hit.
However, what we have to remember is that this was an infamous Todd P show; his concerts are an experience to say the very least, and this one took the cake. By the time Dan Deacon came on, the crowd had thinned. The Deacon led us into a strange yoga-like exercise that had us spinning in circles without our arms in the air, eyes closed, and bumping into random strangers. Ryan, Agathe and I stayed closed, fearing that we'd lost eachother in the crowd as this was entirely in the dark. I think that's when we lost Sam and Tory.
We were then herded into the eaves of the room to make a large cirlce in the center, where an old-fashioned dance-off was held for about 5 minutes, until the circle broke and people started pouring back in to fill the void with flailing limbs. We stayed for two songs, then skipped out, leaving a [mostly] giddy and happy crowd of young people dancing in sync with the vibrating speakers and colored lights. It was a nice sight to see, as if everyone were finally getting along. Luckily we left before we could find out whether it would last.
7 hours of glorious sleep later, I was off to New Jersey (but not before I had my first real food in a week....Wendy's!) The next morning, a trip to the tax-man (like the Beatles song, only this guy's nicer) with Grandma, Mom and Lili. And thanks to god, there shall be a stimulus check in my hands very soon.
Then BACK to New York on the express bus to get to Brian's Super Bowl Sunday Party at his swanky 36th street apartment. A lovely evening of RockBand, Dominos Pizza and Bruce Springsteen's crotch followed. Rixa and I tried to take the E home, but when we found ourselves hurdling towards 125th street, we said screw it and took a cab. The view of twinkling Mahattan was well worth the ride.
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