I spent last Friday night gawking at a party for a book on subway paint, hunting down a likely AI-generated singles mixer, getting recruited for a 3D-printing AI startup, and carousing at a Downtown Brooklyn hookah lounge (regrettably, while wearing clogs). Strictly speaking, I had not been invited to any of these events.
I had found all of these parties on Eventbrite (yes, it still exists), the website where New Yorkers post event listings for everything: offbeat plays, middling clubs, Mars simulation trainings, and occasionally, even job openings. Every few months, I spend a Friday night attending as many free, oddball events as is physically possible in one evening—sourced from Eventbrite's distinctly weirder crowd than competitor apps Luma, Partiful, or the evil-coded Posh—and I think you should too.
Eventbrite Night, as I call it, is a way to stretch time, to cold-plunge into unknown corners of the city that you will never fully know and will probably never return to. It has introduced me to experimental podcast producers, artificial intelligence zealots, and highly flirtatious personal trainers. In my view, Eventbrite Night is the best way to escape the rut of your social routine, leave your apartment, and meet some New Yorkers doing incredibly strange and incredibly cool shit. And you can do it without spending more than the cost of a subway fare (as long as you force Eventbrite to show you only free events).
Want to know where a typical Eventbrite Night might take you? Here's everything that happened to me last Friday night: the good, the bad, and the AI-generated.
Launching a Sick-as-Hell Book Dedicated to Subway Paint
When I walked into the back room of "One Star"—yes, the quotes are part of the name—I found a subway fan's paradise. Inside the red-lit bar, a woman in electric-blue eyeliner posed with a painted cardboard MetroCard half my height; two very tall, very beautiful artists sold portraits of subway cars overtaken by trees (à la Studio Ghibli); and a bearded man in the corner offered free copies of Public Transport Magazine, a zine you can usually only find in the City's train cars.
At the center of the room was a model of a station column—the subject of host Mari Kroin's year-long book project, the "Subway Color Archive." Kroin, an architect and New York native, worked with graphic designer Mike Tully to track what colors the subway station columns were painted along the A and C lines, between 207th Street and Jay Street–MetroTech.
Kroin said she spent a year collecting husks of paint and archival images to uncover how the columns have been painted and repainted since the 1930s.
"I grew up in this neighborhood, so I have this memory of all the column colors," she told me. "I was trying to think of where color changed in New York. So I did one study and then it turned into 31."
Kroin handed out copies of her book, flyers, photos of different stations, and miniature subway-themed key chains (including a tiny MetroCard vending machine). Almost everyone at the party already knew each other, connected by a shared love of architecture, the subway, or by Kroin herself—except for me and an older man in glasses, who had also found the event on Eventbrite. He told me he'd been a fan of the subway for a "long, long time," at least since he worked as an intern at the MTA 40 years ago. (A true subway connoisseur, he called the MTA's removal of decorative tiles a "crime against humanity.")
I left my fellow Eventbrite attendee to check out a table covered in stickers, T-shirts, and black-and-white copies of Public Transport Magazine. A bearded man guarding the merch told me his name was Al Mullen, handed me four copies of Public Transport (which I've now read cover to cover), and said he met Kroin through "a little community of crazy subway people," which must be different from the group of crazy subway people I hang out with.
(Hell Gate)
Mullen, a comedian who founded Public Transport in 2024, has hosted jokes and doodles from contributors like the celebrated New Yorker cartoonist Roz Chast and "Alvin and the Chipmunks" star David Cross. As we spoke, his friend jumped in to do what a friend does best: brag about their buddy.
"When Al told me he was thinking of doing this," the friend waved generally in the direction of the stacks of zines, "I didn't say 'that's crazy.' I said one day, you'll be at a table," he quipped. And Al was, indeed, sitting at a table.
I spent a few more minutes talking to other partygoers—an architect with a long white mullet and another fellow train-head—and feeling just generally pretty overjoyed that I could show up at this random, L-shaped bar and get to experience a total stranger's passion project. The party was the best of what Eventbrite Night has to offer; it brought me into a new world full of wonderful people making weird art, and I left with a ton of free keychains and magazines. I wanted to stay, but it was 7 p.m. and it was time for me to hunt down some New Yorkers who "peaked after high school" and are "proud of it."
Seeking a Singles Mixer With 'No 10s Allowed'
I hopped on a downtown C train to the cavernous basement that is the Irish American Pub in the Financial District, sweaty and a little scared of who I'd find at what was advertised as a "NYC No 10s Allowed Singles Social."
The bar itself has three spaces: a drinking and dining lounge, a karaoke bar, and a back area, all of which were fairly empty by the time I arrived around 7:30 p.m., half an hour after the mixer was set to start. After circling the pub twice, I still could not find the gathering's promised "6s and 7s."
I sat at the bar and ordered an $18 BLT, wondering how I would ask the bartender (definitely a 10) where I could find the party for middle-hot folks. My sandwich arrived—topped with exactly one slice each of lettuce, tomato, and bacon, alongside a painfully small basket of fries. I ate it as quickly as I could, staring at the TV behind the bar, which was playing a seemingly AI-generated video of Noah on his Ark, hocking Trump-coded, disaster-prepping food kits from 4Patriots.com.
I double-checked the event listing; right time, right address. But on second glance, the "No 10s Allowed Singles Social" reeked of ChatGPT. The description was riddled with gratuitous emojis and SEO-bait bullets, cut by lines that a human could have written, had they been whacked in the head by a ceiling fan a few times. It was paired with an image of four smiling faces that looked AI-generated; their expressions were both too similar and too vacant to feel real.
Staring into my fries, I realized my night out had been poisoned by AI-generated slop. I had wasted $18 on a BLT when I could have been riding a "midnight majestic princess" cruise or hitting moth night on Staten Island. (It's where you identify interesting moths.)
But why? Was this event just a gimmick to get more people into the Irish American Pub? (Maybe, but why use this strategy of trying to attract "mid-tier," "ironic tote bag"-carrying New Yorkers?) Who benefits in this scheme?
I turned to the beautiful bartender for answers. She told me that yes, there was an event at this bar tonight, and it was in the very back room. As I left to find it, she called after me: "Enjoy networking!"
Finding My Match…in Cybersecurity?
Inside the pub's back room, I spotted the group immediately: not a crew of average-looking singles, but instead a collection of cybersecurity students and coders looking to network with fellow young professionals—plus one guy who was trying to find a video game mixer. (That mixer was also scheduled for the same time and same place as the "No 10s" social, with eerily similar copy.) I put my suspicions of a Chat-GPT-aided conspiracy aside, and focused on making friends and influencing people.
Two of the attendees were students who had just moved from Zimbabwe to attend Yeshiva University. (They were, understandably, a little nervous about moving to the U.S. right now, even if it was just to an apartment in New Jersey). Another, the event organizer Charles, told me he worked as a software engineer, and was close to landing a new job after getting laid off earlier this year. (Is it a recession indicator that most of these folks were in school or unemployed?)
Charles, decked out in a Guy Fieri-esque shirt-and-shorts combo, led us outside for dollar(-ish) pizza. As we were waiting for our slices under some rusted scaffolding, I started chatting with a quieter woman named Jessie. Dressed in a tan cardigan, Jessie almost immediately tried to sell me on working for her boyfriend's 3D printing AI company, though her pitch didn't include what a company like that actually does.
Yet without breaking eye contact for five full minutes, she told me that the firm was offering "intense incentives," possibly including some crypto-coins, for those interested in working as "regional representatives."
I told her that sounded very interesting, and tried to distract her with questions about her business and travel, because I'm bad at saying no to people and feared what would happen if she asked for my help in furthering her beau's AI goals.
As we strolled to the World Trade Center, Jessie asked for my LinkedIn, but I offered up my Instagram account instead. I had a wonderful time networking with everyone, but I was pretty sure I would be of absolutely no use to any of their careers.
Clubbing... at the Downtown Brooklyn Sheraton
By 10 p.m., I was drained from the highs of subway archiving and the lows of being sold on a vague AI startup when I arrived at my final stop of the night: the Kimoto Rooftop Restaurant & Garden Lounge, a hookah bar and club on top of the Sheraton & Aloft Hotels near Jay Street–MetroTech.
I walked up to the glass tower and around a red velvet rope to give the bouncer my ID. No one was in line. When I headed inside to the elevator, I was joined by a woman in a mini dress and gold body glitter. I looked down nervously at my clogs and black slacks.
The elevator doors opened and I quickly realized that I was violently and severely underdressed. The rooftop club was dotted with gorgeous women in miniskirts, jewel tones, florals, and sparkles all the way down to the end of the bar. The music was blaring and the hookah was flowing on an outdoor patio attached to the dance floor.
It was a scene for real club kids, and regardless of how much eyeliner I had furtively applied in a nearby Walgreens, I was not going to shake the feeling that I was killing the vibe. I spent a few minutes chatting with a man wearing a T-shirt with the word "millionaire" embossed on it before I decided it was time for me to hit the train, crack open my new subway book, and go home. Next time I decide to hit the Downtown Brooklyn club circuit, I'll remember to pack a better outfit.
Back at my apartment and smelling of cigarette smoke (not mine), I propped my copy of "The Subway Color Archive" up on my desk and took a peek at what Eventbrite had in store for me next week: a "Brain Rot Comedy Show," a birding and painting tour of the East River, something called "The Mommy Archives," and another chance to train for a Mars mission. They all sounded funny, sweet, and just a little bit scammy. In other words, they were perfect for a new Friday night adventure of rolling up to a party, knowing nothing and no one, and seeing what happens.