The Decline of East Coast Civilization

September 9, 2007

While riding aimlessly on my motorcycle, I stumbled upon a block party outside Monster Island, an art space on Metropolitan Avenue near the East River. I pulled over to call Deborah and ask if she wanted to take a break from working on her jewelry to come check it out.

"Okay," she said. "But I'm filthy. I need to change my clothes. Will you come pick me up?"

"I'll be there in five minutes."

"I'll be ready."

When I arrived at our apartment, I called from the street. "I'm downstairs."

"I'm not ready yet," said Deborah. “Come up.”

I went upstairs and waited on the couch while Deborah tried on a couple of outfits.

"I hope the party isn't over by the time we get back to it," I said.

"Don't be mad."

"Mad?"

"Mad that I'm not ready, and you had to come upstairs."

"True, I didn't feel like coming upstairs. But I'm not mad. I just said I hope we don't miss the party. I have no idea when it started or how long it's supposed to last. It doesn't matter, though. If we miss it, we miss it. We'll go get dinner instead."

When Deborah was finally ready to go, she said goodbye to the cats. "Goodbye, Rory," she sneered in a deep, dark voice. "Bye, Miss V," she squealed in a high, squeaky one.

She suddenly stopped on the landing, stood against the brick wall, and pulled up her dress, revealing pink panties trimmed with black lace decorated with tiny black bows. I tried to snap a picture, but I was too slow and only got a dark, grainy blur of nothing. Sensing my disappointment, once we were seated in the car, she briefly rolled down another window of opportunity.

"Last chance," she said.

The party was still going strong. A band named Golden Triangle was causing a ruckus on stage — or on the curb, rather — while two barefoot spasmodic dancers went hairy-mental-apeshit on the street in front of them. Of course, being New York City, the crowd simply watched from a suitably distant distance, motionless and expressionless, as if the band were having enough conniptions for everyone.

Deborah and I walked around the scene, snapping photos. The sun was beginning to set, and most came out blurry, dark, and grainy.

While the bank continued its set, Deborah and I poked around to see what else we could find. At the entrance to the Live With Animals gallery was a makeshift bar selling fundraising drinks for reasonable prices to a long line of sweaty beards and stringy hair. We crossed the line and squeezed into the gallery. Bright, cartoonish paintings and sculptures littered the walls and floor. A door in the back led to a maze-like installation that looked like the aftermath of an explosion in a kindergarten's art department. Dayglo spray paint, tempera paint, magic marker, felt, construction paper, and cardboard. Everything hanging cockeyed. Random words and phrases were written in a variety of colors all over the place. Scrawled in magic marker on a piece of plain white paper cut in the shape of a cloud and suspended from a wooden one painted white and hanging from the ceiling, were the words: Watch your head.

I thought it was just another random phrase adding to the art noise, until I smacked my head into a plywood cloud.

It was crowded and hard to make way through the maze. We took a couple of pictures, then turned around and went outside. Golden Triangle had finished their set, and a DJ was now playing a remix of Ice Cube's "It Was a Good Day." Every bass note ripped through the maxed-out sound system like a mastodon fart. We followed some paper arrows to the back of the building, past the vegetarian-friendly barbecue, and climbed some spray-painted cinder block steps to the entrance of Williamsburg's very own surf shop. A surprisingly clean and orderly store lined with surfboards, wetsuits, wax, books, and videos. We soaked in the air-conditioning for a minute, then headed back to the art explosion.

We didn't wait for the next band to play and, instead, walked a block to Relish for dinner. Neither of us had been there in a long time, and we were caught short by the prices.

"Looks like appetizers for entrees, I guess."

As we waited for our food, we watched the street through the Venetian blinds. A girl was sitting on the diner's steps while a sinewy young guy stood on the sidewalk in front of her, pulling up his shirt, exposing the chiseled little muscles and his twenty-inch waist. He glanced in our direction, and I thought he caught us watching, but he was just admiring his reflection.

The food was excellent, and the appetizer portions were generous, so we forgot about the prices and enjoyed the meal.

"Now what?" I said, checking the time. It was eight o'clock on a Saturday night. The party around the corner was still rocking. The usual Saturday night scenesters were emerging to crawl the streets along with a few baby strollers and toddlers.

"I don't know," Deborah said with a shrug. "Home, I guess."