Hail no! We won’t go!

18 Jun

I’ve always wanted to be in a riot. Not like a serious, people-get-killed riot… more like a “Hell no, we won’t go” riot, with yelling and authority-defying and the like. If you ask me, that’s one of the biggest problems with this country these days. No one cares about anything enough to riot anymore. They just have rallies and call people Nazis in the comments section of Rebecca Black’s Friday on Youtube.

Anyway, I kind of got my chance to be in a riot yesterday, or, if not a riot, at least a critical mass, medium social anarchy situation. And it was the best part of a day that included free drinks at Beauty and Essex (bring people there, you will feel like James Bond) and weird Swedish movies on the rooftop of a high school. So, what I’m saying is it was pretty cool.

It started because the Bad Idea Bear and I both had off from work, so we decided to go see the new section of the Highline. Because God hates when I go to the Highline for unknown reasons, the minute we set foot on the old train tracks with our ‘wichcraft sandwiches, he unleashed the fury of a thousand clouds on our poor asses, beating out “Go fuck yourself, city park lover” in Morse code with his thunder hammer. He does this every time I go to the Highline, so I’m used to it by now.

(But I’m gonna keep going, God. You can’t stop me. I can’t hear you lalalalalaLALALA.)

The Bad Idea Bear and I hauled ass off the Highline and planned to walk the length of it underneath the old tracks until we found somewhere to go.

That’s when we found it. Paradise. An open air bar under the tracks that had food trucks and rosé on tap and was next to THIS.

I am 100% not kidding

We started waiting out the storm, talking about the death of Steig Larsson and the ensuing rise of Norwegian crime fiction. But then god got angry that we had thwarted him (also, he hates Norwegian crime fiction). He started with the lightning, and then with the table-umbrella destroying wind, and then, seriously, it started hailing.

At this point, the staff of this magical bar, which is called The Lot by Tom Colicchio, tried to kick everyone out. This was a terrible idea, because it was raining so hard that water was coming across the bar in sheets, even where it was covered by the tracks. Strangers were huddled together under umbrellas and towels. Grandparents kissed babies. Children were screaming. You could barely hear anything over the *plink, plink* of hail. There was absolutely no way anyone was going to walk right out into Armageddon because some burly dude in a blue T-shirt told them to.

And that’s when the anarchy started.

“Just WHERE are we ‘sposed to go?” slurred one drunk lady.

“I ain’t goin nowhere,” said a bigger lady, interlocking arms with her friends.

“YOU CALL TOM COLICCHIO AND TELL HIM TO COME MAKE US LEAVE!”

“YEAH!” we said.

By the end, we were a roiling, murmuring hive of people huddled on the only dry island in Chelsea. And the blue shirts gave up and let us stay.

    ForEVA!

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