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The weather is warming up in the Inwood Heights. Besides the midriffs and sidewalk bastions for dominoes that blossom like May flowers, one thing to look forward to are the Saturday night wild west automobile parties at the abandoned Marina on Dyckman street. C-mixto & I have unwittingly strolled into these before, during hot summer nights when we’re looking for a breeze on the pier overlooking Englewood Cliffs, the distant GW bridge, and the Hudson curving up into that vast distant territory called upstate. We know what’s up. We’re not playing the innocent. We hear the thumping base of reggaetón, the snarls of exhaust-less motorcycles. Walking into Dyckman Marina past dusk requires a comfort that you are one with your neighborhood and that you’re actually there to be a part of the party.

First you pass under the highway bridge and abandoned Amtrack station (from which recently was retrieved a body). If you’re deaf (either because you were born that way or from continuous exposure to the Dyckman beats), and you can’t feel the music because the thumps are in synch with your heart, then what’ll capture your attention first are the gigantic bon-fire barbeques with flames of startling heights. That’s how you know the cops don’t care about this place or the people that live there, because with all the helicopter flood lights they like to rain down on our neighborhood, there is no chance in hell they can’t see the inferno.

The cool shit are the cars. It’s the Height’s version of the Jacob Javit’s Center Autoshow. You’ll see cars that are nothing but four wheels, a driver’s seat and mammoth-like subwoofers and speakers straight out of “Pimp My Ride”. You’ll see cars from “Back to the Future” with doors that open up like wings of a spaceship, waxed flamboyantly in neon green and Barney purple. Their owners hang on their sides like peacocks displaying their feathers, ready to give you a tour. Then there are the shiny steel engines peaking out from open hoods, with men hovering over them like a young woman has just spread her legs and they’re inspecting the parts.

The dinky vans and abuelitas are hustling Presidentes and Coronas, because what would a party be without a bar? The pier becomes a massive dance floor.

I know some residents hate the noise. ‘Fraid to know the origins of some of that automobile wealth. But the troublemaker rebel in me takes pride that there may be one last stand of anarchy in New York, where the rules are blurred and people are celebrating freedom. I suppose the Dyckman Revolution reminds me of the Burning Man Festival, hence the image.

Strolling in the proper, regimented Central Park on Saturday, with its trimmed lawns, landscaped meadows and statues celebrating Europe’s conquers, I caught sight of what might very well be my own contribution to the motorcycle gang that migrates south to Dyckman every summer. I don’t have a driver’s license. I’m too much of a chicken to ride a motorcycle. But how hard-ass would I look at La Marina on this bike?

The motor on the one I saw in the park, I believe, was fake.

Know of any other ruleless spots?

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