Just An Online Minute... Most Chilled Out Event Of The Year, Pants Optional
Cool Party In The East Village, New York
January 26 - 27, 2011
Special little note: Last night's event was cancelled due to the snow, so I partied down with the East Village this morning, just for you.
Today's party was insane. White stuff EVERYWHERE, guests without pants (some without any clothing at all!), sharp weapons hurled angrily, and the venue was constantly changing. It was like an around the world party, only it was centered in a lovely pocket of Manhattan where every step was at your own risk, the soundtrack was provided by strange wet squeals, and everyone's moods were elevated - even the children! It must have been the white stuff. It HAD to be the white stuff.
That's right, my loyal, and extraordinarily attractive (you're welcome), successful, readers - I rolled out of bed early this morning to cover the biggest, grandest, hottest (so hot it was cold) party in Manhattan: the "yes it's another snowstorm" snow storm after-party.
The first people I met were Johnny Snowblower and Ralphie Icechopper. I heard them before I met them, as they were positioned on opposite sides of 12th Street, trashtalking each other about their snow removal skills. "Hey lady!" Ralphie yelled from across the street, waving his iron implement wildly in the air, "Take a picture of me!" he laughed and danced to his internal Ke$ha album, "I'm going to be in the New York Post!" he howled. Johnny Snowblower jabbed Ralphie, saying, "Yeah, take a picture of a man who hasn't done @#$% all morning!" I continued down the street with their laughter from hurling smile-crusted insults bouncing around the snowdrifts after me.
The sun was trying to squeak through the grey cloud puffs, but the wind was still the rudest guest, thumping the trees and dumping perfectly squared hunks of snow off of awnings and onto bleary eyed foot commuters. One little commuter was packed into his snowsuit, arms boinged out stiffly to the side a la "A Christmas Story." His mom or much older girlfriend was a chatterbox, pointing out the beautiful landscape, "What about the dog park? Do you want to go to the dog park?" I chimed in, "I'll probably see you there!" and we laughed about the silence a heavy snow creates. The twosome slipped and slid off to Tompkins Square Dog Park while I hung back to eavesdrop on a young woman with her Boston terrier and a mailman (at least, that's what his color scheme told me).
"You know what I love about the snow?" asked potential mailman, "It's quiet. I was out at 6:30 a.m., and you couldn't hear sh*t."
It's funny because it's true. It's almost like we've all been rendered temporarily deaf after a huge snow explosion.
Of course Twitter was all aflutter about what a pain in the ass another snowstorm is, but every single cluster of shovelers (one dude was wearing shorts. Shorts!) was so, well, jovial. I found myself along Avenue B, squinting into the sun. Every community garden looked like a fantasy world with round humps lolling on birdfeeders and fence holes nearly filled with the fluffy stuff. Tree branches created Swiss cheese canopies that the sun filtered through like a dream.
The Tompkins Square Dog Park was where the rowdy crew was hanging out. The large dog area played host to a rambunctious boxer who can only be described as losing his mind. Hound dogs perked up and a huge mastiff got very friendly with another very large dog. I had to turn away when a third gargantuan four-legger joined the party. The small dog park was as you would expect: a bunch of hairy little weirdos running around... after their dogs. Heehaw, I kid. But it is the East Village, there are hairy weirdos everywhere.
While the sun came out, there was slush. It only took 15 minutes for the trees to audibly drip, the slush puddles to expand to the size of New Mexico, and for the once-beautiful pristine snow to turn into brown-grey blobs of blech. I made my trek home behind the last dwindling guest of this snowy after party, and it wasn't ending on a happy note for him.
"What little things?" he pressed, "so tell me the little things!"
Pause, as he listens. "Well this doesn't make sense. I'm just supposed to say 'Ok, fine, great we're broken up?'" he continued, obviously a budding investigative journalist of the heart. "I need you to explain all the little things."
Poor guy, don't you know it's in your best interest not to know all the little things? Phone to his ear, he entered the NYU dorm on the corner of 12th and 3rd and I put my lens cap on, now on the hunt for coffee.
Great party, East Village, I look forward to your next, warmer, event.