We all decided several days in advance that we were going to attend Starr Space‘s “Cinema 16,” a showing of Dadaist and Surrealist films from 1920s France with live musical accompaniment. I was actually a bit excited about it — I’m fascinated with the era. The prospect of free (with $5 admission) Newcastle Ale heightened the attraction.

As the films began, our group also began… to lose members. Within one minute, Ellen slipped out. After another 3 or 4, Shari was gone. The rest of us held together for another 20 minutes or so, each of us slipping in an out of our own personal lala lands as the impossibly boring films straggled on in patternless repetition.

After the third seemingly interminable film, I turned to look at Anna and Luis, both sporting pained faces. I smiled and exclaimed, “c’est l’art!” Kevin turned around and said “should we go?” Pained faces became visages of relief. “We’re such fucking philistines,” I told Anna. “I know!” she shamefully acceded.

We slipped out of the building and headed across the street, where Shari had been warming the blueberry pie she had made. We ended the night drinking, smoking, and stuffing our faces in a loft high above Knickerbocker Avenue. The Dadaists would salute our bon vivance.