I’m back in Brooklyn, bitches, and this time, I’m seeking rave redemption. After pit stops in Washington DC for an epic protest-party, and Minneapolis to visit the (extremely underreported) George Floyd memorial autonomous zone, the final stop of my 2020 protest tour brings me back to New York, the city that nearly suffocated me in its toxic fumes the last time I swooped in—yet I always come crawling back, because New York nightlife might be my most fatal addiction.
Raving in a pandemic is a thorny problematic fraught with both political and moralistic considerations. When large social gatherings become synonymous with public health disasters, the risks of raving can be difficult to justify—especially as masks come off and social distancing is thrown out the window as the night falls into boozy stupors. Parties have become hotbeds for the community spread of this disease, and recent indoor raves in Berlin have resulted in dozens of infections. At a time when personal risk is also community risk, one person’s party antics could end up jeopardizing many more people who did not consent to their act.