If you can’t beat them…hit them with something…
…first thing you get your hands on. Throw a pit-bull at the son-of-a-bitch. 

The atmosphere on Houston and Ave A on a Friday night is electric. See it, Smell it, Hear it, and if you get a chance, taste it. Young, perfumed, scantily, classily, sloppily dressed people all looking to drink, dance, drug and fuck. Loud yelps, hushed tones, thick accents, foreign languages – all saying something pertaining to drinking, dancing, drugging, and fucking.

Was I supposed to leave this behind because the city got a makeover?

Because I felt odd that I no longer had to walk around like a coiled spring ready to pop a homie in the mouth who mistook me for a middle-class suburbanite or because I no longer expected that in any bar I was in, at any moment, a fight would erupt and that someone I knew would doubtlessly be involved?

On some level, at an early age, this vibe felt appropriate. I never liked it. I just got used to it. My communion with hostility would come to the foreground when I went out with “normal” people: all smiles and positivity, eager to have a good time and willing to avoid fights, walking into rooms full of people with similar temperaments. Here the aggressive were the minority, maybe one or two sour grapes that could potentially spoil the night, except that hooking-up took priority and fighting ensured that you were leaving the club alone.

So if you can’t beat the trendy, beautiful people, join them – on your terms. No need to change wardrobes. There is nothing that hipsters love more than the simulation of danger, of the New York that no longer exists. With all the real dregs dead, incarcerated, and priced out, there is a high demand for character actors willing to shuffle on alongside them to authenticate their “downtown” experience.

And that’s just what I’ve been doing (with some intrepid friends), playing up a role that we never claimed as our own. I’ve entered spots that I thought would boot me out cause of their dress codes or would never care to go into. The discrepancy between us and everybody else is noticeable from down the block while waiting to be carded, but bouncers don’t bat an eye. We’re unapologetic and simply act like we belong there. It’s a Jedi mind trick of sorts.

Rushing onto the dance floor of bars and clubs like gangbusters and jumping right into the crowd, drinks and all, we’re greeted with looks of confusion and apprehension before they remember that, “oh, this is the NYC that I’ve heard about,” and maybe some guys wrap their arms around their girlfriends a little tighter before faking a smile. Standing around outside smoking, we take no offense to bubbly girls asking us if we can get them drugs. The answer is always “sure,” and usually the night ends, sans drugs, with all of us at one of their apartments. Opportunistic? Yup. Predatory? Maybe. Fun? Absolutely. But that’s what it’s all about. They get their New York experience and we get back New York.

 

 

                                                                                    Chino