Disco Dust

Escort, a 17 piece disco band, plays at the Williamsburg Music Hall.


For the first time at a bar/club/concert/ANYevent, the women's bathroom line had absolutely no line. The men's line, however, swiveled and twisted snake-style around the bar. The atmosphere was one of pure motivation. As if folks around were implying a goofy high-five with their eyes, as opposed to the "up-down" classic of many female-packed venues. Inside the stall was the same, for as I sat down the stall writing was not graffiti, silly plus signs and initials, but rather, versions of the phrase, "love yourself!" I peeked under my stall to see if there was a hidden camera. The situation seemed pleasantly bizarre. As I threw on some red lipstick, the girl next to me and i laughed about the lack of line, admitting that we lingered in the bathroom mirror because we had the ridiculous chance to do so.


In the world of disco dust, the lines between old friend and new friend are faint.


Here at the escort show, it is rather impossible to roll your eyes at certain pings of--and yes I am going to say the word--hipster culture. I may have seen three or four blonde afro wigs surrounding thick black glasses. But somehow, even with the tundra hat and silken robes, the more shine, bling, flash, or furr... the better.