Thursday night, and where dreams could be wagered and snow fell white, pure and delirious. All the tall and languid had retired to the Tribeca Grand Hotel for the evening. Dossier’s most recent magazine launch party was slowly assembling.
The tall swayed softly, as if still and romantic, fanning themselves in beauty and meaninglessness, the most decadent kind. They were languid and fanciful, full of a gleeful moroseness.
And their big old giraffe legs, these tall people, vegetable eaters, tree-top purveyors, would not hold for such sprightly activity. The gazelles could nibble and buck around, dancing in the moon’s jealous mystery, but not pry a giraffe to come off his postured stance.
Legs flailing, neck akimbo, knees demanding. You could poke an eye out like that!
These true, tall New Yorkers. Wrap a bandage around your missing orb and ahoy matey. It was a night of pirate giraffes. There were the Johny Ramone giraffes grazing near the Sid and Nancys. UFO giraffes, prep-school gazelles, and post-ironic, fourth generation estate giraffes mingled. They speak through smiles. Little half ones, with the eyes closed for dramatic effect. Swaying, in that still way of theirs.
A herd of old school hip-hop giraffe pirates were emotionally break-dancing.
All were in oversized accessories, bounties of decadence. A mink head-wrap here, a gargantuan Seymour of a flower there. It was most certainly plucked from the fairest maiden in a land far away. A land that still has virgins maybe. Perhaps she cries still. Probably not, we all know it is better this way.
One serious short man guarded the stage set for a band. He watched. Contemplating, he bounced up and down on one knee. He was ready for the dancing party, yes?
While 2 Mandy DJs played an auto erotic set of 80s New Wave and Glam-Punk, so many giraffes asphyxiated themselves in feral fellatio. Fluid, wanting, self-awareness ruled the dance-floor. Somewhere, Morrissey was weeping.
Tears of joy, of course. Moments are painful. It has been ages since I met such a glorious crowd.
Craig Dershowitz is either a fucking idiot or a genius! This post is insane. All the hyperbolic poetry juxtaposed with run of the mill event snaps, it’s hilarious. All the descriptive language describing decadence, in particular tallness, paling in comparison to the astounding banality of the actual event documents, the snapshots! None of the people pictured are tall, none particularly beautiful, no giraffes, gazelles, snow or blowjobs! The pictures feature the nerdy fashion day-laborers who make our culture’s myths on a quasi-volunteer basis. I know first hand these party goers are not very tall, not fucking too much, usually not on drugs, and the drinks only last an hour, if you can even get to the bar. But, fuck, man, I wish I’d gone to this party. At the first Dossier launch party, some Euro-trash Brit chased everyone from room to room, doing everything he could to foil the event. Invited guests were left out while those who got in were rudely ejected. It’s hard to do coke and fuck, much less be tall, while an asshole club owner is showing you the door. I’ve been to a couple of parties in NYC, only a couple, where the room was actually populated by glam tall people, where I was the troll spectator seduced by beauty. Despite the photographic evidence to the contrary–has Dershowitz managed to cherry pick only the snaps featuring somewhat chubby guys as a joke–I still kind of believe it when he says beauty was on display this night. I kick myself for having not been invited! The joke’s on me.