I thought I'd drop my two centsworth on last night. Given, everyone reading this was probably there, but I was--in all likelihood--'the most drunk', and this might well act as a ketchup for myself on details that I've not been so graced to recall.
For those unaware, Saturday Oct. 3rd (fact-check me on this) marked three important occurrences in Carolina party history: the Town House Middle School-THEMED party (and not "the middle school party" as my friend on Twitter so delicately pointed out), the Church St. Recession-Proof Party, and the ritualistic slugging back of Sparks like they're going out of business. Which, it turns out, they are.
Not in that order.
I must preface by adding that Emma Goldman decided to honor us with her presence and drove all the long way from Asheville to party like a Bolshevik. She owed me quote "all the liquor you can hold" after I recently completed a bit of dirty-work for her. Emma does not disappoint.
When you start a night with Sparks, you prepare for the worst. Or the best, depending on how you view that half-glass of liquid. I prepared for the best night, and the worst morning.
Come 9:30, I'm drunk. DRUNK. But we weren't going to the middle school-themed party til eleven, so I had no choice but to keep drinking. I adopted the general philosophy that if someone asked me to do a shot with them, I couldn't say no. It fosters good camaraderie and it correlated well with the common theme of the events: who cares about the costs? Certainly I didn't in middle school, and I'll be damned if this 'economic downturn' cuts my buzz off.
So I'm staggering around like a Gonzo portrait, decked in my 7th grade attire: the dyed-blue pocket tee over the striped, collared Aeropostale long-sleeve...bottomed off with flip-flops. I look like I'm going to a Simple Plan concert. The crowd at my place was jamming to our favorite 2003 dance staples ("Hey Ya", "Ignition (Remix)", "In The End", Ride Wit Me") with Battlefield Earth on mute in the background. It was a beautiful thing. The smell of ripe opportunity was in the air...as well as the smell of "Autumn Spice & Crisp" because at several points, I emerged from the lavatory spraying Febreeze to a chant of "FALL! FALL!"
I'm gonna fess up and admit I don't remember a lot of the middle school-themed party. But I DO remember being CUT OFF from the party juice (only one). I also recall an extended moment on the balcony, where I believe an altercation happened. Back inside, after Emma Goldman scooped up some booze in a hollowed lemon and explained that's how they do it in Asheville, someone promptly cut her off with a look and told her that it's indeed not. Which leads me to a point: no one is qualified to say how a town does or does not 'do it'. Except Greenville. Generalize ay-way. That place is more myth than meat, anyways. So after being made to feel like that alcoholic uncle at the family reunion, I was told it was time. Time to go dance off the recession.
Previously, we had planned to return to base camp and change out of the middle school gear, but when push came to shove, and drink came to drunk, I was on my way to Church St. in my flippy floppies. We roll up to a house familiarly littered with hipsters and PBR: I have been here before. And not in the déjà vu sense or the pretentious 'been there, done that' sense. I've actually been here before, slightly less drunk but slightly more glittered up. This time I a) looked equally ridiculous and b) was not in a state of mind to question or check any of my behavior. Nights like these are coming to be collectively known as 'Saturdays'.
The first thing we do is strut through the house, on a mission to reach the backyard. Spoiler: we made it. And as Emma Goldman and The Party Castro began to occupy themselves with a couple indigenous, I spot my Holy Grail. Ten yards away from me stands a scenester engrossed in conversation, with a personal case of Pabst at his feet. Fight-or-flight; no time to think. I stroll by, casually stick my hand in, grab two, crack one in front of him, and keep walking. That's how we do it in Chapel Hill.
We took the party inside to where DJ Prometheus was killing it. We posted up in the living room and became gyrating mannequins for the multi-colored flash lights to harbor their radiance on. This continued for a debatable amount of time until suddenly the crowds froze. Two new lights were introduced from the open front door: blue and white. Okay, whatever, pass judgment, but here I was remarking to the Bolshevik next to me that "they've got a sick light show in this bitch" and next thing I know Emma Goldman is pulling me out the back door.
We made it out via hopping the fence and stumbling through a darkened maze of greater-area Chapel Hill residence. Emma Goldman asks me if I know how to get back to my apartment, to which I feign an overconfident "PLEASE. OF COURSE." and return to humming Spoon's "The Ghost Of You Lingers".
After the river and through the woods, we did indeed make it back to Town House. I was then faced with the tough choice of calling to make sure people were alright or peeing. Priorities are priorities, and I do believe that pee was 80 proof. And subsequently, yes, they were alright. Bolsheviks don't get cited, Bolsheviks get sighted.
It's kind of hazy what transpired next, but it involved an open laptop and a movie where Ricky Gervais was playing a dentist. What was this, I wondered, quite aloud. "Ricky Gervais is in this?! OH MY GOD DO YOU WANT A BREAKFAST CEREAL BAR??"
Just then, my friend from Appalachian State--Ambrosia Bierce--texted me in great peril, outlining that she'd drank too much and needed help calming down. I guarantee I was objectively triple her level, but a friend in need is a friend in need. The textorsation went like this:
Her: "I'm pretty miserable"
Me: "Okee I'm drank!?! Mechjuk"
Her: "I drank too much b.c i'm an idiot"
Me: "Noeo ong. Jesus?"
Her: "Can you call me or are you too busy?"
For reasons still unknown to me, I walked down the corridor past my room and chose instead to lie down on my roommate's bed for this chat. He came back and I kicked myself out. There was a mutual confusion. I moved over to my bed, where I think I finished the conversation to the best of my ability, and then blacked out.
8:30 am: I wake up, in my jeans and Aeropostale with a headache the size of Montana. The lights are still on, as is my iTunes. My pristine Top 25 is fucked. Fleet Foxes - "Mykonos" is playing. Could've been a lot worse. It got there. Rick Astley came on next.
These were the events of Saturday, October 3rd. A raging proletariat success.
KEEP THE BEAT ALIVE. I am the walrus.
- Caesar
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