Okay, okay, I know it's not a restaurant. In fact, it's not even really a food and beverage operation, unless of course you count The Goods which I'm not counting. What I'm talking about is the free-for-all multi-level super parties hosted by 3rd Ward (who also by no coincidence opened The Goods on Metropolitan). My friends that are still single and looking for some easy trim convinced me I should check it out once again. My wife isn't stupid, she let me off the leash to realize that a quiet night at home is better than this.
Firstly, for those eight reading this that don't know what 3rd Ward is, it's actually an art community. Check out their website. It's a pretty cool collaborative program that is locally based. I appreciate what they're going for, considering the type of art produced and applaud them for their efforts. It's not easy keeping something like that going day in and day out and without serious corporate or personal backing, it's a pretty strenuous hustle. At the end of the day though, what I experienced a few Saturdays ago was not a commitment to the art community at large, but rather two thousand people jammed into various where-houses in Bushwick. Kind of a rave but not too ravy, and kind of a club but more gritty, urban, and underground.
One thing is for sure, I'm too old to be doing this sort of thing. Not to say there is an age limit but rather there
should be an age limit. I consider age to loosely equate to cynicism, and this cynicism defeats the sense of wonder created by flame-throwers and tin foil. The burning man culture certainly has something to offer, but at the end of the day it's centered around drug and alcohol abuse. And after a decade or two of poisoning my body every-which-way but loose, it gets a little tiring. I started to view a lot of these people as just plain and simple losers. Most are faking it to get laid. And if you're not faking it ,but happen to be a genuinely authentic un-shaven, chanting, dread-locked, tarot card reading tribal spaz, and you're convinced that dancing until seven am and twirling fire around is going to save the world, then you're an even bigger loser.
Here's the bitch and why I felt compelled to report on this: someone is making shit tons of money on this party! Cans of Paps for $6!? Bottled water for $2? It also must be noted the children of mother earth did not seem to be recylcing though I'm sure they were; I'm sure at 9:00 am the next day after being up on coke, adirol, and ecstasy there's a ruddy team chomping at the bit to clean up the thousands upon thousands of plastic cups and bottles and then cart them off to the local recycling center.
Here's another beef: The place is run stupidly. There's a separate entrance just to get carded and wrist banded. Yet, anyone who knows where the where houses are simply go there directly. And then they made everyone listen to some drum circle while waiting to be let into the largest room. The rules include (abridged): respect the neighborhood, don't get too fucked up, and "kiss a stranger. Make it count." Juvenile, feel good nonsense!
Like I said, I'm too old for this stuff. And I can't really blame the brain-trust of artists for figuring out a way to exploit the thousands upon thousands of drug hobbyists in the greater north Brooklyn area. I suppose then my actual complaint is this veneer of feel-good mystical bullshit inevitably tied to these sort of things excuses the half hazard operation. Look, get your shit together and exploit me properly. With no lines, ample space, and legitimate world changing initiatives. For instance: perhaps a cool science exhibition, instead of chainsaw ice sculptures. If you're going to go through the trouble to waste all of these resources, just don't waste my time. And perhaps I'm the one being inauthentic, or perhaps I was not out of my head enough to not care.
