WELCOME TO THE MILD PARTY!
CLICK HERE TO HEAR THE DJ, STEFANIA PIA!
CLICK ON SAM FARHI'S "THE MILD PARTY" TO OPEN IT IN ANOTHER WINDOW AND EXAMINE CLOSER.
DON'T FORGET
TO LISTEN TO THE DJ!
CLICK HERE TO HEAR THE DJ, STEFANIA PIA!
CLICK ON SAM FARHI'S "THE MILD PARTY" TO OPEN IT IN ANOTHER WINDOW AND EXAMINE CLOSER.
DON'T FORGET
TO LISTEN TO THE DJ!
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And then the Beat Dropped
by Malik Crumpler |
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We had to dance through the aggressively grooving crowd just to get to the bar. I couldn’t dance, though, I was too sad & claustrophobic. It was 2001, Bush Jr. just stole the election, I’d just moved to Harlem from Oakland & this was my first time in a Manhattan nightclub. I felt more anxious, out of place & uncomfortable than I even did during rush hour on Fifth Avenue.
On account of all the herb & cigarette smoke in the air, I could barely breathe. Everything was foggy. No one noticed each other, but we sure felt one another’s clammy body heat. Every now and then someone appeared through the fog seductively grinding on an obscured partner. Other times, ambiguous bodies bumped into me. No one said excuse me. Sweet sweat & pungent perfumes unlocked some primal urge in me to holler out in disapproval of the entire humid scene. Instead, I tried to play it cool & lit my cigarette. There were way more than a hundred people crammed on the dance floor. The bar was packed with people shouting drink orders at the busy bartenders, but you could barely hear them over the pounding music. I was dead broke, so I hit my flask & tried forcing my ears to adjust to the blasting music. My dude, O’ (who I came with) noticed my flask & checked me, “Yo, sun, put that joint away. I’ll get us some drinks in a minute, but first you gotta see DJ Moni.” We bopped through the undulating sea of dancers until we reached the infamous DJ Moni’s booth. About six feet above the dance floor was her deck. Behind the turntables, focused as a surgeon with a needle but smiling, brow pinched, one earphone to the side of one ear, stood the legendary DJ Moni switching records. Her booth was lit in a dull emerald & crimson light like an airplane cockpit. O’ shouted in my ear, “Wait here, sun. I’ll be right back-” then disappeared into the fog. Just footsteps from DJ Moni, I watched in awe of this remarkably muscular, petite bronze lady, in a slightly torn Fela Kuti tank top & army fatigue pants with her hair up in a Monk’s bun. She did not sweat. I was spellbound by her emerald vibe. She didn’t even notice me. I’d never heard the song she played, couldn’t even tell what country it was from. All I knew for certain was that that song made me want to dance like I did when I was a kid. After a couple minutes of trying to play cool, and failing at it, I figured I’d concentrate on the music. I watched the dancer’s dances for insight & concluded it must be Brazilian Funk on account of all the ladies in the audience doing Brazilian carnival dances, like they used to do in the Mission in San Francisco during Carnival parades. & then the beat dropped. For a heartbeat it was dead silent. The lights turned on. Someone from every ethnicity, from every continent was on the dance floor drenched in sweat and panting. Countless fashions, the entire spectrum of skin tones, ages, genders, hair-dos, weights and heights. Everyone seemed to take what sounded like a deep breath in unison. When they all exhaled, Moni’s sultry voice filled the club & asked, “Anybody in here vote for Bush?” Everyone booed. “So, if I didn’t vote for him and you didn’t vote for him, who did?” She didn’t give the crowd a chance to answer, instead an acapella of Fela’s voice split the fog “Zombie O, Zombies…” followed by a booming cheer & chant that everyone in the crowd sang along to, “Zombie O, Zombies…” then a fugue of funk guitars set the air on fire. The lights went out. A rose hue surrounded us. We all clapped in a simple rhythm for a while until a bassline rumbled through our stomachs along with a popping conga. Then the drums hit and a Manhattan bembe was in full effect, until Fela’s sax solo ignited the amethyst air. We all sang along with the horn lines. In the density, all of us danced in celebration of not being zombies. It was like an initiation into New York City’s resistance culture. I pumped my fist and spun around, earnestly grooving. DJ Moni noticed me, nodded and gave me a thumbs up. Her acknowledgement encouraged me to hypnotically groove on out & get down to an empty spot on the dance floor beside the stairs & let all this new positive energy possess me. In ways, I didn’t know I could, I moved. Inhaled all the syrupy, pungent mugginess. Maybe I caught some contact high. Can’t be sure, but the music & vibe DJ Moni unleashed on us all had me so lifted I could care less about analyzing it. All my claustrophobia and anxiety over the stolen election and moving to New York suddenly seemed like less of a problem. Everyone in that crowd radiated confidence in our collective ability to overcome any obstacle the world would present us with. Abruptly, I had an epiphany: unity will come from the people—regardless of the corrupt global government’s ceaseless attempts to generate more inequality, conflict and terror amongst us… Tried to hang on to that idea but the emotions of finally feeling one with New York City overrode my thoughts. I felt connected; some people noticed me through the fog, laughed and sang with me, somebody shared a blunt with me, I even danced with a couple random folks. My body and spirit were aligned with my dancing comrades. Everything was like a hazy trance until I glanced up at DJ Moni’s cockpit where she stood looking out at all of us, bathed in an emerald glow, smiling while singing along with Fela, “Fall In. Fall Out. Fall Down. Get Ready...” |
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The Apartment Downstairs
by Jake Matkov |
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IN THE APARTMENT DOWNSTAIRS and a small throb echoes in the tender tip of my thumb wrapped in gauze. I’m here out of politeness. Could someone please turn up the volume of my body? Hours earlier I accidentally slice the tip of my thumb chopping vegetables and barely feel the cut do not yelp even though the wound bleeds an hour and half before the party gets loud and I finally go downstairs because I figure I won’t be too early. Sometimes I wish touch would mean something tangible on my body. Not a vague idea a muted pleasure my five senses barely alive. It makes me a quiet person. A group of hipsters stand around with jungle juice in hand, debating the merits of cinematic remakes and I think what boring bullshit not even ashamed of my intensity. This girl she looks like a Betsy thinks her joke was funny like me trying to tape gauze over my thumb singlehandedly. Jungle juice dribbles down her chin dotting her white paisley blouse. The same way melted ice cream drips down my roommate’s face. He shovels it into his gaping maw alone upstairs in a dark kitchen. Alone in midst of another blackout sugar rage that cannot wait the block-long walk down to the corner store to buy his own ice cream sandwich. His hunger is visceral and all encompassing and damn if I’m not jealous of the ability to feel such compulsions that made him eat 18 chocolate chip cookies I baked for an eight-year-old child’s birthday. Or ever feel so horny I fuck a stranger in the bathroom at a hipster party. I am waiting to use the toilet leaning against the doorframe like an abandoned spouse at a 10-year high school reunion. How do you feed a craving for social interaction when you can no longer tolerate most human behaviors? (Especially your own.) When I remove the various instruments from my head like eyeglasses and hearing aids I disconnect myself from the world around me. Low volume blurred vision along with a nose that doesn’t smell the burning potatoes. I dance with another man who aggressively shoves his tongue into my mouth abruptly shoves his hand down my trousers and gropes my uninspired dick. My gaze falls on the pinprick dot of dried red through the gauze. The physical sensation divorced from my body. The man regards me with disdain and turns away. I press a finger hard into the tender tip of my thumb and think of all the people who my body disappoints. I press harder in search of clarifying the convoluted mix of sad happy and irritation my body exists within on a daily basis. I press the hardest in attempt to shake my body out of its nonchalance. Wake each dull taste bud to a new flavor. End this silence. The host of the party keeps walking past me not once does he stop and say hello. He just follows the blunt being passed around and Betsy she is dancing like a fool giggling I dance like such a white person again I feel like you’re not funny Betsy. Or maybe I just don’t feel like fun. I don’t feel much of anything at all.
The Unique and Undercutting Manner
by Genna Rivieccio Women have a gift. They’re all born with it naturally. It’s just a matter of whether or not they choose to use it. Some allow it to come out when they’ve been “loosened” by alcohol. Others simply feel no abashment whatsoever in displaying their cuntery at all hours and for all occasions. It was often for this reason that Nicola Fellman, a 34-year-old with a pear shape and an A-line haircut that generally didn’t go over very well on blind dates, did not get along with the female gender. Not that she got along that well with the male gender, either. But they were more prone to get over things as a result of a congenital sort of sociopathy that made them fail to acknowledge that they had been slighted in the first place.
Nicola was one of those women that stayed and stayed in New York until suddenly she woke up one day and realized how anachronistic she was in a city she once thought she “ran.” It was possibly for this reason that she began to start hating other women more than usual. And in these hippie-dippy, female solidarity times, a sentiment like this was particularly controversial. It was Nicola’s fault though, really. Had she made herself a shut-in like most other sensible thirty-something New Yorkers who now know better than to seek comfort in their fellow man, she might not have found herself in the frame of mind that would lead her to make a very grave life decision one Friday evening at an acquaintance’s “casual” dinner party. First of all, dinner parties are never casual, no matter how much the host in question insists they are. He or she always expects, if not at least a little flash of jewelry, at least a little flash of some expensive ass shit from some bourgeois establishment like Agata & Valentina. But if you’re naive enough to believe your host is sincere in telling you it’s all très décontractée, be prepared for the occasional stare of death all night long as you dip into their wine and hors d’oeuvre supply. You also won’t be half as likely to be introduced to any of the available men there (of which most will be gay anyway) as a result of the unperceived affront you caused your host. Accordingly, you might find yourself relegated to a corner or alone on a couch with a glass of wine you’re trying desperately to parse out into sips at a rate of four per hour so that you won’t be seen too frequently by the bar cart. At least, this was how it used to be in the prime of Nicola’s dinner party-going days. But apparently, Blake, a 29-year-old she knew from one of her old graphic design jobs, seemed to be actively making a fool of her when he laughed as he opened the door at the sight of her in a ghetto-gold necklace, a black bodycon dress, black stilettos and a black blazer. “What’s funny?” Nicola demanded. Blake motioned for her to come inside. “You’ll see.” Upon entering, she could instantly apprehend what he was talking about as she did a quick once-over of the room to see most of its attendees in the sort of jeans and tee look plucked from a 90s Calvin Klein ad. When would the 80s catch on again? she wondered. She had failed to instill herself with the preordained fear that everyone at this party would be younger and more attractive than she. Worst of all, thin and blonde–the talisman that had besot her with physical inadequacy ever since high school. Thin, blonde girls really don’t know anything about life. And bully for them. You needn’t pity them for being so unaware of their general good fortune, and the way in which every door both literal and figurative tends to open for them–they have no idea how much easier it is for their kind. But they do feel that being judged solely based upon their beauty is highly unjust–which just goes to show they couldn’t last a day in a plain woman’s shoes. In any event, there were quite a few waif archetypes at this little soirée, giggling here and doing a line off the table there. Nicola hadn’t the foggiest notion she would be made to spend most of her night pretending to secret away on the fire escape for a cigarette when, in actuality, she was just scrolling through Instagram like the epitome of the antisocial lunkhead she was embodying for the night. The only person who made it all worthwhile was, surprisingly, a dashing sort with curly brown hair, a stubbly beard and the type of fashion sense that toed the perfect line between unisex and masculine. His name was Lyndon, as in Barry, and he immediately knew the reference of which she spoke. Nicola had a tendency to get wet over the simple gesture of a man actually knowing what pop culture allusion she made to him. If he didn’t, it was even less likely to last. As the two continued discussing the highs and lows of Stanley Kubrick’s career (the only low Lyndon could grasp at was his producer credit on A.I.: Artificial Intelligence), they were interrupted by one of the cokehead blondes from inside–naturally, her name was Gracelynn–who clearly had designs on Lyndon as she “accidentally” pushed Nicola to the side to insert herself at the center of the perch, where she proceeded to light a Gauloise like the pretentious motherfucker she was. And yeah, Nicola loved a Gauloise like any sophisticate should, but she had the modesty to only smoke them in France, for fuck’s sake. “Can I touch your jacket?” Gracelynn said after a few more bumps from her cross necklace (she had only seconds before declared Kathryn Merteuil to be her personal hero). Bristling, knowing in her heart that some form of demeanment was about to come next, Nicola slowly nodded her head and said, “Sure.” Gracelynn tittered. “I thought it was leather.” “No, no. It’s just pleather,” Nicola said in that self-shaming way that’s supposed to indicate that you’re in on the joke too when, really, your face is burning from the shame of it all. “It’s from Necessary Clothing, what do you expect?” Nicola added, trying her best to self-deprecate so that Gracelynn couldn’t further debase her in front of Lyndon. “Hahaha, I love how they call it Necessary Clothing. It’s like they’re being totally ironic and they don’t even know it, which of course makes it more ironic.” She offered her coke to Lyndon, who snorted it nonchalantly, as though it was the same sort of rote action as dipping a chip in some guacamole. Nicola wanted nothing more than to jump off the fire escape at that moment. Here she had been the most well-dressed at the party and now this little bitchface had the gall to somehow call into question her sartorial choices. It truly all went back to the innate snideness women have inside of them, just waiting to burst forth at any moment whenever their vanity is threatened. The next day, Nicola went to a surgeon to ascertain the costs of a gender reassignment. In Almodóvarian style, she would seduce Gracelynn at the next party. After all, if she was going to be petty, she wasn’t going to half ass it. parties in fragments, the glass remix
by Jacklyn Janeksela like a cave into which i scream, sexing another key bump
boyfriend, stall-worthy at most. like a cave into which i shriek, lines of poetry and coke, lines to get in, to the bathroom, to my heart, the removal of it. it was a hand reaching out from the dark, it was a hand- ful of pills. i blink to swallow them all, i blink like my life depends on it, as if conjuring from wax versions of selph. it was a hand reaching out from a trench coat, i swear. what of his eyes, like two urns beckoning me towards a deathless selph, draped like ghost labia, manicured fucking fingernails. i want to bite each one all the way down. i am left in the middle of the crowd, spinning on the tips of my shoes. they say, witch and black magic and brujería, the mirth rising from me is of synthetic force. i am lucifer’s club baby drooling on yet another pillow or penis head. partied to death. crouching like slouching, it is a velvety curtain that builds boundaries, one that draws me, whispers like spider webs at the bottom of a bag, another toilet rendezvous. we are moon-hungry, devouring whatever the moon highlights. i cast my fist- ful of party tricks into a ray, daring her, wishing she would. delight the hollow of a nostril like a cave i so desperately crave. before the next song, i get fixed, i must get a fix. another bag licked. walls so black i mistake them for tunnels. there’s blood on my shoe. it’s not my shoe. someone holds my hand. circled. moving. a snake or pit. a scar. rolled up bills. boys breastfeeding beats, my breast pucker mouths dry, brittle. lifting my face, grin a blood tooth. will this sacrifice bring rain. fuck, i’m so thirsty. i have an imaginary cuckold. his urges are mine. we spot prey like heads shaking in laughter, like a tree mid-falling. i clutch his imaginary hand inside my purse, i clutch it for want of drawing veves on the fucking dancefloor. the finger points, ring-gloried and just dead red. the fingers finds. it’s already digging a hole into which i can crawl home, inside cellophanes full of powder from a body just mummified. if i could dissolve it all into a glass, swig. if i could crunch glass, not bleed. if i could pull shards from a body dissolved, a body pristine with dusting of a luna moth’s wing mating. but the music rumbles the drugs in my belly, so i push pill after pill down a throat not mine, dancing. Mike’s Party
by Bruce Sherfield It’s been years, Mike
So many things have happened since I last saw you It was at our graduation party, you passed out in my lap This is Sarah Kensington, remember? No, that was my cousin Julia Yeah, we got married Of course you were invited We didn’t know where to send it The Northwest? That’s far from here Sorry about your dad, the service was beautiful He asked for you near the end So you’re never going to go back After the party, we looked for you Nobody forced you on that stuff I tried to be there as hard as you’ve tried not to be He doesn’t hate you, but flowers would’ve been a nice touch Yes, Mike Even if it’s raining Prison? How? I didn’t mean anything by that It’s raining, honey, go wait in the taxi Leave her out of this, that was another lifetime ago I never realized how much blame you put on this place Forgiving goes both ways, Mike Me? I think I’m pretty much the same Actually Sarah and I are moving In Brooklyn somewhere, the day before your birthday Of course I remember A party? But we’ll be in Brooklyn The Afterparty
by Kimarlee Nguyen They never tell you who cleans up after the parties, those hedonist affairs where the hours bleed long and hard into the humid summer night. In the name of pleasure, I seen women empty themselves of food, drink, blood and bone so they can float aimlessly around the parameters of pools, bending over the edge to look, lovingly, at their reflections in the turquoise water. I seen men arm themselves in suits of crushed velvet, veiling their faces behind clouds of cigar smoke as thick as the puddles of alcohol they leave in their wake.
I worked for the Bluebeards all my life; my mother said that coming to this country is going from one type of war to another. I wear whatever uniform they give me; black pants and a shirt, an apron hemmed through with silver thread, a jumpsuit that makes me feel both old and useless. I sleep in a room off the main entrance, too hot in the summer, ice-cold in the winter, I eat well, servant meals in the back room with the gardener and the supers, the cook and his many helpers. I never tell them about the cellar downstairs, the smell so thick that it lives inside my ears and nostrils for days after. I never tell them either how I watch the master and his wife walking the grounds, barely touching and the overwhelming joy that makes it hard for me to breathe. It is that joy that keeps me walking throughout these halls, the same joy that keeps my mouth quiet and my head nodding, yes, sir, right away sir. The Record Skips as We Take Turns
by Jake Matkov I’m tired of tasting my own blood.
At the table with you. Cups of tea. Are we never? Going to speak again? Your words slide down my throat. One moment remains. Under scab-etched skin. We take turns. Silence entire cities. Outside a pigeon pecks. Stale bagel bits. I’m tired of tasting my own blood. Your words slide down my throat. Speaking. Towards a conscious state. My thoughts. Imprisoned in a mailed letter. Where my voice settles. Its low register. I’m tired of tasting my own blood. Sweep sugar into a mountain. I move uphill. I’m tired of tasting my own blood. Your words slide down my throat. The tea is cold water. Absent of flavor. A thunderstorm is just a moment. Repeating itself. Sugar grains scatter. Aimless from torn packets. Are we ever going? To speak again? I’m tired of tasting my own blood. Your words slide down my throat. Speaking moves us. Towards a conscious state. Outside a child. Eagerly licks ice cream. Sugar packets. Neatly ordered in small bins. Sit across from one another. With tea. Cups warm. The palms of our hands. We take turns. Speak of entire cities. Your words slide down my throat. WELL THAT'S ALL FOLKS!
YOU DON'T HAVE TO GO HOME BUT YOU CAN'T STAY HERE. Y'ALL COME BACK NOW! -S.F. 
"The Farhi Brothers" by Alexis Matias |
