I didn’t know buildings like this still existed. They do: at the end
of avenues, tucked into trees, long-outdated industrial structures
with old angles and two-story roofs—ample space now used for
civilian, artistic means. There must be a few hundred people at this
party. Several are dressed as different incarnations of David Bowie.
Ascending the rustic stairs I am passed by a sleeping girl, carried
down by two friends. At the top is a long rectangular room with no
walls or floor, only bodies. It is tedious trying to sift through the
dancing crowd.
On the other side of the room there is a ledge and a large window to
crawl out of. The roof is covered with a thick moss and feels
old and wise. The drop to the bushes below must be 25 or 30 feet. I
am told before I can ask, “Someone fell off earlier tonight.” A hell of
a fall. There is a ladder to a higher section of roof; the view of
downtown and the water is unparalleled. The wind chill is
unbearable.
Back inside, the party is collapsing on itself. It’s late, and as
soon as the music stops, people start yelling. Swimming toward the
exit, a pile of bodies crashes to the floor in front of me. There is no
room to move. The mood is anxious and exhilarated, volatile. After
escaping, we all agree this is one of the wildest parties any of us
have ever beheld.
The Stranger wants to come inside your house. Chitchat, maybe
have some drinks, hold hands for a bit. Spend some quality time with
the kids. E-mail the date, place, time, and party details to partycrasher@thestranger.com.
It can feel great.