Rubulad had entered me about ten years ago,  I was underage and there were signs for absinthe. There was also art: the attic refuse material grouped in cramped rooms. I appreciated a large man dressed as a rabbit scaring off my conservative partner. This was a defining moment for a young imbecile looking for a life. Don’t take your partners straight and never go to a simple party.

Rubulad has been in existence for over ten years now, moving locations slightly, from then “divorced from reality” Williamsburg to now divorced from reality Flushing Ave. This used to be the barometer of a certain folksy DIY, a punk-edged theater scene, the breeding ground for the folks who get naked and call it a burlesque.

Rubulad Perfomance: “I Die a Shepherd” from Sentimentalist Magazine on Vimeo.

Today, Rubulad is not worth the time. The “art” still looks like an assortment of late night papier-maché fights finked with astringent ideas. There are bars on every floor, the bunny kept telling me. As much as I like bars, two floors of average East Village bars, and their patrons, are a downer. There was a dress theme, it looked like it was hoodies for the boys and slinky dresses for the girls. I dressed as the Little Prince, but apparently it didn’t look like any fairy tale the door guy had heard of (the theme was fairy tales), so after paying fifteen bucks I got to hear the cackle of the frat party. You would have been bitter too if you dressed in something other than your street clothes and felt like the last person; otherwise you’ve never read the book.

Downstairs I met up with my friends and we all had absinthe. In shot glasses. If you’ve ever tried absinthe straight, hey, salut to your brains, you stopped reading a long time ago. Our friend Arthur was DJing, the good oldies, he is one of  the originators of the re-60′s dance theme that (at least I hope) will give us a huge disco push (shut up, I know you don’t like disco, but an energy that is *like* disco is a welcome wash over the canvas of rock-pop). I ran into my favorite queens… no I actually didn’t. Again, no-one stood out, except for my friends, but, I won’t really write about them and their idiosyncrasies here.

Rubulad Perfomance: “I Die a Shepherd” from Sentimentalist Magazine on Vimeo.

While wandering around the shanty town style party, we saw a band, a performance (a Little Bo Peep kind of scene happening on a stage in the rain), and a lot of puking people.

Shepherdess and lamb

I hate to clean up after a bad set, but  worse than that is trying to get people focused. Every long term party crosses the threshold to become a repetitive event that is put on by older people for the coming youth. “Rubulad” is an old landlord over a great property who is using all he has without much understanding of the now. The same acts get cast as much as the same sinks get fixed. I can understand how a club gets stale, I am forewarned to not go inside them, but I am still puzzled how a collective makes the entire idea of art, performance and night seem tiring.

This episode of this Rubulad venture seemed directionless, and here I should downshift and say that, perhaps, this is just a loft party. A loft party that everyone pays to get into. A loft party now known about by countless out-of-towners. A loft party where you pay for your drinks.