Saturday morning I headed out to NYC and hung around with my partner-in-crime Gonzo for a bit, before heading out to participate in an Improv Everywhere stunt that went rather well.
After that I had some time to kill, so I hopped over to Chelsea and saw Snakes on a Plane. It really was much more awesome than I expected, and I expected a lot! Hooray for the best modern-day B-movie ever made!
That night I hopped over to a party I had somehow been invited to via some mailing list or other. It was put on by an outfit called "Rubulad," at a place called 3rd Ward.
It was not really a bad party. The Extra Action Marching Band performance was amazingly unbelievably awesome. Picture a marching band, wearing costume-quality fetish gear, playing heavy marching music and ragtime that somehow had threads of industrial, jazz, goth, rock, tribal, and about a million other things braided into it, and all while threading their way through the raving crowds. Awesome stuff, and they gained a fan. So did Bradford Reed, and his awesome mutated electrical zither which he calls a "pencilina."
Apart from that, though, ithe night was generally a reminder of why I don't normally do the NYC party "scene." It was uncomfortably hot enough that I ended up throwing away an undershirt I was wearing. Most of the people were all about drinking, drugging, and trying to out-fabulous each other, and I spent most of the evening retreating from thickening clouds of pot smoke. All of my attempts at conversation were met by either chemical-soaked ramblings unfit for a Hole album, the nasal tones of a pretentious NYC art snob being deeply offended by all attempts at human contact, or just general vapidity.
Don't get me wrong, there were some genuinely nice people there, but they were mostly the bartenders and other staff. The girl who sold me my dinner off the grill outside was especially sweet.
I did get to dance a lot, which I normally love to do, but it's not half as fun when I'm sweating away half my body weight in fluids, and the only relief is either getting on the long line to the bathroom just to wash up in the sink yet again, or a $2 can of hot - not warm, but hot - cola.
Remind me never to go solo to one of these things again. It'd have been so much more fun to be able to talk to someone.
I eventually ditched that scene sometime after 2AM, and made the trek over to the subway, feeling completely drained. I did have a little bit of fun changing trains at 14th st, as an older lady noticed the drumsticks in my boot. She asked me if I was a drummer. I'm not a drummer and I told her so, I wouldn't have much of a clue of what to do if you sat me in front of a regulation drum kit, though I do like to use drumsticks to tap out rhythms on random objects, "Stomp"-style.
(This is why I had the sticks on me - I had planned to hang out in a park that morning and just do some random public noisemaking on stuff. Call it a hobby. And no, I don't put a hat out or anything - I'm not comfortable enough with it yet to consider that sort of thing. Still, in this case the best practice is public practice in front of strangers who don't feel like you owe them anything.)
The lady thought this was really cool and wanted a demonstration, so despite it being Stupid O'Clock in the morning after an utterly draining day and a half in a subway station full of people who seemed just as disappointed at their own awake status as I, I did a soft solo for her on the sides and sole of one of my boots. Anything louder and the rest of the zombies in that station might have murdered me.
After a semi-conscious hour at Penn Station it was the same old ride home on the LIRR's early-morning drunk train, which I slept through.
Today (Sunday) was a wash, as I spent the whole day fighting off a migraine which has just been getting slowly worse, which doesn't bode well for when I have to get up for work in the morning.
Which is about five hours from now.