As Saturday night began Rich and I were standing in the ice cold trying to squeeze into a Williamsburg art opening my homegirl had invited me too (though it turned out that she ironicially didn't even go). There was more pretense in the air than polluted O2. So with the mile long-line of square-smoking hipsters pontificating God, their therapists and the lofts they're paying ten grand a month on even though there are holes in the ceiling, we decided to throw the towel in. There was, after all, another party to go to. Brett Johnson, a colleague, associate and author of the this month's cover story on The Wire for Giant, was turning 37. And Maseo from De La Soul was spinning. It was so on.
I've met Maseo a few times before but kicking it while sipping on something next to anybody from De La Soul took me back to being 13. And when my man hit the tables, the hours flew by like seconds. Next thing I knew I was staggering home while Rich was hoping for a bus so he wouldn't have to hoof six blocks. I don't know how it turned out for him. I was asleep by the time my keys hit the desk.
I hadn't been to a social event that big for months. I have to admit that it was good seeing some of my peoples after such a long time. I drank. I flirted. I flirted again. I met the gloriously tatted front woman for an all-girl rock band called Sweetie. I think I found a home for a very gifted writer. I got an unsolicited verbal apology. I danced with the very delectable Kissa, Ife, Krystal and a host of others. It was a good night.
Just when I feared that my age group was getting too old to rock the house I most definitely learned otherwise. It was good seeing Moira and Claudine and Steph. Hell even Negarra and her crew came through. If only Wood and Benita had been there. But such is life. Now it's time to get back to work. Out.
No comments:
Post a Comment