The Danger planned "The Promised Land," a 24-hour adventure of "myth, mischief and masquerade" this past Halloween Friday. Part I began after the parade, in the Meatpacking District (I skipped this), involving a renegade train party to Brooklyn. Part II was in Bushwick, billed as "A classic deep-Brooklyn party in a massive 112-year-old warehouse of towering steal and brick," in a never-before-seen space. "Expect the epic," the not-secret RSVP email invite read. "We've taken over the expansive remnants of a lost industrial age; a building steeped in urban history with towering ceilings and impossible broken beauty." Sounds pretty much like the best thing ever, right? Needless to say I was excited. Very, very excited. Apparently so were fifty bazillion other people. Um, oops? Part III was some secret after-after-party that included brunch and a sauna. The location would only be divulged to the properly adorned. "You must earn your way."
After a pre-festivities viewing of Beetlejuice, I headed to Bushwick with a bloody Van Gogh, a Wasilla resident, a Mexican wrestler, a Glow-worm, a cracked-out ballerina, and a peacock. Not surprisingly, we were greeted by a massive line that stretched around the block. Ten minutes into our wait, the po-po arrive and tell us the venue was way over capacity and that we have to leave. Nobody did! Because it must have been a lie, right? Then the bouncers come out and inform us we need to get the fuck outta there, like, now, because the party is dunzo. The warehouse will be evacuated and the event shut down. "I'm very sorry but you're standing here for absolutely no reason," one of them said, and there was a note of hah-hah in his voice, like "Did you jerks actually think this would work?" Well! At least we weren't out $20, but the music was still pumping inside when we trudged back to the subway. (Sidenote: was anyone in, and, if so, were the circus freaks amazing? Did you actually have to leave? Do tell.) Outside, I saw a Sarah Palin and a First Dude making-out/bickering. I told them they were mega-adorable. And they looked at me like I was John McCain. Which is to say, old and nutty and getting in the way of their misguided attempt at world domination.
Back on the L, then run to catch the G, then come to a shuddering stop
in the heart of Williamsburg when three teenage boys come plowing
through my packed subway car. More cops suddenly descend onto the
platform. They are in an even more foul mood than the ones in Bushwick. A girl's wallet had been stolen! And her iPod! Oh noes. The
train doesn't move for some time as one by one people are asked
to leave the train car that we are on and remove their masks/costume
accoutrements so the Robbed One can get a good look at each of us
maybe-criminals. Finally, the women are all told to mass-exit leaving
just the men. One of my friends had a panic attack in the crowd! Both
exits are blocked off, and we're just supposed to stand there, stuck. Possibly forever. But while the cops
were busy yelling at another merry-making freak whose night is infinitely
going down the crapper, someone busts open a non-exit and a big group of us climb into an abandoned part of the subway
festooned with interesting old adverts, rats, and something that resembled
asbestos. We climb out of the ground. This is weird.
We stand on the corner of Union and Metropolitan calling cars upon cars, which young girls in Slut-o-Ween costumes keep stealing from us before we can jump in. It's cold. I see a costumed Woody Allen. This is the only good part of the night so far.
Cut to our arrival at some random house party in Fort Greene, which is where we should have gone first thing. (Recommended: not being overly ambitious on Halloween.) The actual party is over, but there's a gigantic cauldron of candy in the trashed kitchen, a deer head on the wall, and a gigantic rocking horse. A Sid and Nancy are tickling each other on a couch. I eat some candy and quickly drink a disgusting beer flavored with raspberries. Nearly everyone is gone. Someone asks me if I'm supposed to be Harry Potter. (FAIL.) We go to the backyard where a mini-bonfire is burning. A drunk person, who I may or may not know, smashes a chair and throws it into the fire. I'm scared about what our host might do. He's dressed in an orange convict uniform and wearing Converse, so it must be okay. He tells me he likes my hat. It is 5 am. It is time to go home.