HOW MY NEW ACRONYM WILL CHANGE YOUR LIFE

On Christmas Day, the only cafe that’s open is Asia Cafe.

Now I want to talk about my theory of PJ distribution. In any model, the first step is to figure out what it is we want to optimize; in this case, fun. But that’s too nebulous a concept, and not entirely dependent on PJ distribution, so let’s be more specific: I want to maximize the total amount of drunk-time experienced by people I like while they are at the party. Note that drunk-time by people who are there but I don’t actually like is exogenous to this model, as is, more subtly, passed-out time by anyone: by drunk-time, then, I actually mean functional drunk-time.

As such, the solution is not to emphasize fast, indiscriminate consumption—that leads to passing out, and also to the There’s No Alcohol Left Let’s Leave effect, which is especially problematic as it most often affects the coolest people (those who show up the latest). And if you’re in the mood for completely fictitious proper nouns, boy howdy.

This graph is taken from research I did for a related piece in The New Yorker. In this model, PJ consumption goes through four distinct stages, which I’ll outline here:

· Stage A “First Cup”: Everybody needs to get their first cup, and until they do, there’s gonna be a line for that PJ, keeping consumption at a steady rate—the maximum we’ll see.

· Stage B “Party Proper”: As people finish their first cup, they come back for more. This reaches a head at some point, the maximum of Stage B, which is important for my analysis; let’s call this the point of Optimal Natural Consumption (ONC).

· Stage C “Last Grab”: When people realize that the PJ is almost gone, they tend to try and make sure they get a last cup. Ever take an Environmental Science course? This is the Tragedy of the Commons in action.

· Stage D “There’s None Left...unless you’re super drunk”: Assuming, as is often the case, that the PJ container has hard sides, and is being ladled out with, well, a ladle, then it is very difficult to get the last bit out. No one wants to be seen digging around the PJ jug for two minutes just for that last half cup—that’s pathetic! But, inevitably, someone will stumble along who understands that dignity is totally fucking bougie, and who will gladly take the last of the PJ.

As its name might suggest, the ONC is where total drunk-time is optimized. For you math nerds out there who want proof, just take the derivative—you’ll find I know what I’m talking about. But so how do we keep consumption at or near the ONC? One major pitfall is stage C, which we’ll try to eliminate altogether. Stage A is a necessity, but we don’t want to artificially prolong it.

My first solution, the one I used during my birthday party (thanks for coming out guys! Shout outs to Party Caesar +1—or more accurately, +9.5—and Party Ethel Rosenberg!), was simply to make two batches of PJ sequentially. This did lead to two visits to the land of ONC, but if anything, made the Last Cup phenomenon even more prominent. Clearly, this is not a perfect solution.

My final answer requires a bit of micromanaging, but then, what truly Bolshevik activity doesn’t? Make two batches, but only make the first one available. Then, just when the first batch passes ONC, ADD MORE. Do it subtly. This behavior can help eliminate the mercuriality of PJ consumption. And people might even begin to think that there’s something magical about the PJ!

That, my friends, can make any party into a Truly Bolshevik Hanukkah Party.

--OLD MAJOR

Saturday, December 5th, 2009 - You Want Me To Be Real? I'll Be Fuckin' Real, Man.

Since Caesar delivered his blog-as-screenplay entry for Friday’s escapades, it seems that we’re officially starting to get experimental up in this bitch. So I’ll throw my two conceptual cents into the mix by attempting to marry the monumental hijinks of Saturday night with the most noble of ancient storytelling traditions – the epic poem.

Since I’ve never tried this bullshit before, I looked it up on Wikipedia. I found out that there are some rules that YOU HAVE TO FOLLOW OR IT’S NOT AN EPIC POEM. They are as follows:

1. You have to start the epic poem EN MEDIA RES.
2. Your epic poem has to take place in SEVERAL DIFFERENT NATIONS, or at least two different ends of Chapel Hill.
3. Your epic poem must begin with the INVOCATION OF A MUSE.
4. You must begin with a STATEMENT OF THEME.
5. Use EPITHETS. In this case, ours shall be WOO-HA.
6. Include LONG LISTS (This one counts, right?)
7. Feature LONG and FORMAL SPEECHES.
8. DIVINE INTERVENTION or it didn’t happen.
9. Your heroes must EMBODY THE VALUES OF CIVILIZATION. I think we’ve got this one covered.
10. WEREWOLVES CAN SMELL VAMPIRES.

K YA’LL, WE READY???

Prologue:

In the name of Indie Hipster Dreamgirl (step 3: check!),
Why the fuck am I dancing the Wavy Robot? Oh that’s right,
Because it’s 1:30 am and I’m at The Mansion on Franklin
Street and I just drank a bunch of free beer. I am not 21.
It’s a party in the USA if I’ve ever seen one.

But first

We start

Our tale

With singing.

I.

Well, let’s back up even further. Trotsky and I began
The night by drinking Cream Sodas in order
To pre-game for the Tar Heel Voices concert that
Night. What is a Cream Soda, you ask? I’ll show you,
Via math. Admiral Nelson + Diet Coke =
Cream Soda. Trust me. This fucking works.

(Explicatory Stanza: Admiral Nelson is basically
Captain Morgan if you’re on a budget, except
It’s way better. For some reason, Diet Coke
And Captain tastes like a completely different
Beast than the Admiral and D.C. I have

No idea why this is, it’s just what happens.
As a freshman I felt so strongly about the Admiral’s
Superiority that I made a poster espousing
The numerous benefits of the Admiral. I just looked
It over again for possible inclusion in this post and
Decided against that, because it’s not very funny.)

Anyhoo, we realized that this concert experience
Would be improved greatly by the presence of
Alcohol, so we packed more bastardized bottles
Of Diet Coke surreptitiously into our coats,
Hopped into my Lezmobile (Brezhnev was driving;
Does that make it the Brezlezmobile?)
And went to watch some fucking a capella music.
Woo-ha!

About halfway through the THV concert, we had
Finished imbibing and were faced with empty
Diet Coke bottles. Know what goes nicely with
An empty bottle? That’s right, dip! Trotsky
And I went to the bathroom and packed chaws

In order to preserve our buzz. This
Worked like gangbusters in the buzz
Department, except as soon as we were back
In our sets and spitting happily away into
Our bottles, the lights went up for intermission.

Fuck.

So at this point we were spitting into bottles like
Raving lunatics in very plain view in a very large room.
See, with a chaw you have to spit out your tobacco-ey
Saliva because if you swallow it
You will get stomach cancer no questions asked;
That’s just how it works. After a few minutes of
Public humiliation at the hands of Big Tobacco,
I couldn’t take it (Notice how like half of the stories
On the blog involve me being a total pussy?) and spat my
Dip out. Turns out I shouldn’t have bothered, because

The intermission soon ended
And we continued to drunkenly spectate.
At this point, allow me the indulgence of an aside
In order to say that certain members of THV sing so well
That to hear them is to question whether the heavens
Opened up and dumped an angel down in front of a bunch
Of drunk college kids.

II.

After the concert, Trotsky suddenly became extremely
Concerned about his teeth. He needed to brush them.
Now, I’m not one to mock a man’s odd proclivities,
But come on, dude. It’s not like he was wreaking
Potential havoc upon his lower jaw or anything like that.
Also, our friend wanted to change clothes since she
Felt like she was dressed like a little girl.

From there, we picked up Caesar and went to Ivana
Trump’s apartment where we, to paraphrase Grand
Funk Railroad, proceeded to tear that Townhouse
Apartment down.

(Ooh, let’s do that magical Epic Poem thing
Where we jump back in time! So at lunch earlier
That day, Caesar made the unfortunate choice of
Ordering a dish that tore his stomach to
Pieces, which led to his insistence that he was,

“Totally not going to drink tonight. Stomach can’t handle it.”

Remember that oath, friends.)

Okay, back to reality (though for the moment,
Gravity shall remain). Caesar had kindly brought
Gallon of Riot Punch for the road, though he
Planned on drinking not.

This didn’t stop the rest of us for indulging in our
Second-favorite blue substance. With the Riot
Punch flowing like wine, dancing was sure to
Follow. However, at this point a select few

Of us weren’t nearly drunk enough to dance, so
We sidelined it, talking about bullshit. At this point,
Caesar grabbed himself a wine glass and
Made a declaration [cue LONG(ish), FORMAL SPEECH]:

“Verily, I hath tonight elected to eschew drinking
On account of my ailing stomach; tis feeling
Like I swallowed a bunch of dip and is now shrinking.
A solitary drop of alcohol might send it reeling.

But fuck it, pour some Riot Punch in this wine glass.
I shall affect the pretense of having some class.

Protest me not, friends, for concerns regarding my health
Should reside solely in the realm of mine own.
If that last sentence didn’t make sense, sorry. I’ve a wealth
Of skills, but my Olde English I have not yet honed.”

We all looked at Caesar like he was crazy
Because he had just spoken in rhyme.
But you know, if I weren’t so goddamn lazy
And were willing to put in a bit more time
I probably could have written this entire
Post that way. But I’ve got other shit to do, so fuck that.

III.

At this point, we had imbibed the necessary
Amounts to be persuaded to dance. If only
There were the seductive sounds of “She Wolf”
Blasting from Ivana’s speakers. Fortunately,
We made that happen and dancing commenced
In short order. The music then segued, in a move
That I consider a signature of the Bolsheviks,

Into “Party In The U.S. Goddamn Fucking A.”
We danced so hard that I was momentarily worried
That Ivana’s floor might cave in. Fortunately (or
Unfortunately, depending on whether you’re
More worried about having a good story or Ivana maintaining
The structural integrity of her apartment), it didn’t,
And Ivana’s iTunes then played what will hopefully
Go Down as the anthem of 2009, “Bad Romance.”

I don’t think that I can fully state the importance of this song
To the Bolsheviks. Though “PitUSA” may be our ideological
Rallying cry, “Bad Romance” and its accompanying music video
Embody the kind of Batshit-Goddamn-Woo-Ha insanity
That we try to project when we go out.

(Emphasis on try.)

IV.

Just as we must move on in the epic poem, we must move on
In the timeline of the night. A group of maybe seven of us
Went to the other side of Ivana’s apartment complex,
Where we were to attend the surprise birthday party of a friend.
Being too late to actually show up for the surprise
Element of the party, we instead lugged a bunch of booze
Over as contrition. By this point in the night, I was drinking

(You might be tempted to say, “No shit, Sherlock.”
But don’t worry, the sentence gets finished
In the next stanza. It’s called a line break, people!)

Straight from the Riot Punch container, which happened to be
A repurposed gallon jug. I was the picture of propriety. Woo-ha.
I wasn’t so drunk that I couldn’t stand, but I was so drunk that
I didn’t want to stand. So instead, I splayed out on the couch
And carried on socializing as if nothing was out of the ordinary.
I can’t tell you if I got any funny looks, because my eyes were
Closed at this point. To reiterate: Woo-ha.

The party was going strong, and we contributed just a couple
Of key (stone – word to Old Major.) elements. And by that,
I mean that we played the exact same songs that we had
Played at Ivana’s apartment, in that order. People were
Less into it as they had been at Ivana’s, probably because
Some people don’t have good taste.

Speaking of good taste, at this point Trotsky, Caesar and myself
Decided that it was a good idea to put another dip in. We
Periodically made covert trips to expectorate into our
Spittoons (I had abandoned my Diet Coke bottle in favor of a
Repurposed San Pelligrino bottle, which I favor as a dip receptacle
Due to its inherent comic effect). I should mention that Caesar

Was on perhaps his third wineglass of Riot Punch, despite
The fact that he had pledged to be as sober as a nun
That night. Some call that being a problem drinker,
I call it being a trooper.

V.

If you were wondering when Old Major was going to show
Up in this epic poem, fret no more. Having been tending to
Prior commitments, he wasn’t able to make it until this point in the narrative.
He joined us for a bullshit/dipping session outside of the party,
Where we debated the merits of smoking crack. Cue rhyming dialogue!

Caesar:
“I think I want to smoke crack as a joke.
It’d be funny, see, since I’m not dead, homeless and broke.”

Old Major:
“Smoking crack is completely retarded.
Everybody knows it’s impossible to quit
Once you’ve already started.”

Caesar:
“But I would do it in a way that would be legit,
Because I wouldn’t be able to repeat the process
Rendering the probability of addiction a lot less.”

The pair continued their debate in this vein
For quite some time, though I don’t have
A rhyming dictionary handy so I won’t transcribe
The entire conversation.

But basically we tried to convince Caesar that smoking
Crack was a terrible idea, but he was having nothing
Of it. Perhaps he was having difficulty taking us seriously
Because Trotsky was wearing yellow-lensed, tortoise-shell
Wayfarers, or maybe because our rhetoric was punctuated
By all of us having to spit out tobacco juice.

Just when we were to begin another round of spirited debate,
The always-lovely Ethel Rosenberg came outside to talk to us
About something (probably clothes, because c’mon, she’s a girl).
If I recall correctly, she said,

“You guys, the possibilities
Of only doing crack once are, like, zero.
Now, who wants to go to Wendy’s?”

“Shut the fuck up, Ethel, stop being a queer-o,”
Caesar exclaimed, as we all looked on in shock
At his candor and foul language uncharacteristic
Of a Bolshevik, and then broke into hearty laughter.
I’m pretty sure that Ethel told us all to do something
Grossly anatomical to ourselves and then went
Back into the party. “Sorry guys, that was just my Mr. Hyde
Coming out by way of both Riot Punch and dip being inside
My system,” Caesar offered conciliatorily.

VI.

Upon unloading of chaw and subsequent re-entry
Into the party proper, we joined the birthday girl in the
Drinking of some Mad Dog 20/20, the choice spirit
Of bums and hobos worldwide. I think it goes
Without saying we still had our collective lean on.

As the hour of one in the morning rolled around,
The party began to clear out. Bolsheviks we are,
We were not ready to quit partying. That’s when
Divine Intervention struck for the first time in the form
Of Ivana Trump giving me a little ringy-ding (not to be
Confused with a friendy-friend) on the phone.

“I’m at Mansion for the THV after-party! Come here!”

Brezhnev, Trotsky and myself prepared ourselves to
Load into the sober Old Major’s taxicab-yellow Mustang and
Head to the Mansion, when we ran into a drunken, spritely
Friend of ours who, for the purposes of this poem, I shall dub
Noam Chomsky (mainly because he’s an anarchist). He was stumbling
Up a storm, but that didn’t stop us from inviting him along.

“Hell yeah dudes,” he may have responded, for it was hard to tell
Exactly what he was saying through the sublime oral mish-mash
That he was experiencing due to his elevated blood-alcohol level.
By the time we had managed to find a parking spot on Rosemary
(UNC lot, we weren’t supposed to park there; stop snitchin'),
Noam had completely given up on coherence. His speech retreated

To the realm of cyclical. He kept issuing and re-issuing the
Proclamation, “You want me to be real? I’ll be fuckin’
Real, man.” He finally dropped the issue of asserting
His reality after we made it the block and a half to the
Bar and got our hands X’d out by the bouncer, signaling
That we were permitted to be in the club but not drink.

VII.

Looks like your heroes’ collective buzz had come
To an end, correct? Well, that’s what we thought.
Ivana met us as the door and took us through the
Suspiciously empty-looking bar. This was an
After-party, right? So where the fuck was the
Party?

“Upstairs, dumbasses,” Ivana said to us, continuing,
“Plus there’s a surprise up there, too. Oh and Trotsky,
Those are stupid glasses.” Evidently, she didn’t enjoy
Trotsky’s tortoise-shells. Turns out the surprise
Upstairs was the best surprise:

FREE

MOTHERFUCKING

BEER.

That’s right, you read those three stanzas correctly.
For some reason (that even in a state of sobriety I still
Don’t fully comprehend), the Mansion made some sort
Of egregious error that resulted in Tar Heel Voices
Receiving a hundred and fifty dollars of Coors Light.
(Cue DIVINE INTERVENTION)

After downing a couple of the coldest in the Rockies,
It was time for us to hit the dancefloor, and that
Meant we had to unleash the Wavy Robot upon
An unsuspecting room.

(TANGENTIAL STANZAS: What is the Wavy
Robot, you ask? Well, not too long ago, some
Bolsheviks were indulging in the smoking
Of some of the ol’ Jesus Broccoli, when Ivana
Asked Trotsky a question. Because he was

Too busy being high to respond in the Queen’s
English, he instead danced a motion similar
To the Robot, except for that his motions
Retained a fluidity uncommon to the dancer
Of the conventional Robot. Hence, the Wavy
Robot was born.)

Oh, I forgot about Noam. Here’s his story:
When we got upstairs, he tried to DJ by
Messing with the laptop that he assumed
Was playing the music, but he was unable

To do so due to the fact that the laptop
Essentially functioned as a red herring
And the music was being pumped in by
The bar’s computer downstairs. Noam

Was so pissed off about this development that he
Proceeded to pass out in a chair next to our dancing
Mass. We then drew upon him, because we were
Drunk. Sorry, Noam.

The free beer soon ran out, due to the Tragedy
Of the Commons (AKA duh it was free beer, though
I believe that Old Major might have some more
Complex thoughts to offer upon the matter if he
Were prodded), and with it, our interest in remaining
In the bar, as well as the bar management’s interest
In keeping us there since it was like two a.m. and that’s
When bars close. Which is stupid but whatever.

The question then became that of how the fuck
Were we supposed to get Noam out of the bar?
Trotsky and Old Major provided the answer by
Way of carrying his drunk ass. About ten feet
Out of the Mansion’s doorway, Noam vommed.
It was pink. Woo-ha.

Ivana, Trotsky, Brezhnev and myself walked the two blocks
To mine and the Brez’s place with hopes of smoking a little
Sweet Leaf and then passing out. This plan was complicated
When our friend (and Ivana’s neighbor) Professor Jonathan
Ringlewater called us up and asked if we wanted to smoke
At his place instead, to which we naturally responded to the
Affirmative. Just about the time that Professor Ringlewater

Arrived to scoop us all up and begin our route
To Townhouse, Old Major and some of his harem
Showed up. I elected to hang back to chill with
Major and friends for a bit, and after it was all
Said and done, we had hung out for like forty-five
Minutes and eaten an entire tin of brownies.

I was clearly not in my most forward-thinking
Headspace at the time, because when my guests
Left I had no way to get to Townhouse to meet up
With the rest of the crew. I was too drunk to drive,

(While Old Major’s utopian vision of the entire
Being a party and thus eliminating the need for
Designated drivers is certainly a comforting one,
It is in no way, shape or form a reality)

And my bike happened to be chained to like three
Other bikes, so I said to myself: Fuck it. I’ll just walk.
Your intrepid hero packed a dip into his lower lip
And got to hoofin’.

VIII.

Before I continue with my narrative, there are two
Logistical issues that I must discuss with you. One,
Townhouse is about a mile and a half from Castrohouse.
Two, it was thirty degrees outside. With those pieces
Of information in mind, we may now continue. Woo-ha.

I was cold. I was unhappy. I was only a third of the way to
Townhouse. This was not going well. That’s when brilliance
Hit. I decided that the quickest and most delicious way for me
To reach my destination would be to go into Jimmy John’s,
Order a sandwich for delivery at Townhouse, and then ride
Along with the delivery driver to my destination. I’m pretty
Sure I adapted this idea from a beer commercial. It’s whatever.

The main monkey wrench in my scheme was that Jimmy
John’s was closed when I showed up there. That’s when
Divine Intervention Three happened: a cab drove by me.
I hailed that motherfucker.

Three minutes and ten dollars later, I was knocking on
The door of the Professor’s apartment, and (surprise!)
Everybody was higher than the audience at a Phish
Reunion concert. My arrival startled poor Ivana
Something terrible, as she proceeded to not speak
For the rest of the night, communicating only in
Tweets. I’m not kidding. Trotsky loaded up

Another bowl, and we proceeded to smoke,
Like, three or four in very rapid succession.
Ivana just couldn’t take it any more, and
Elected to head back to her place and pass
Out. The Brez soon followed suit, making
Himself comfortable on Ivana’s couch, and
Then the Professor’s roommate also decided
To hit the sack.

This left the Professor, Trotsky, and me sitting
In the living room. We exchanged looks.
In our souls, we knew. It was time to make some noise
Music. I snagged my laptop and set up GarageBand

On Professor Ringlewater’s floor. As for instruments,
We had Ringlewater’s djembe and that was it. As any
Noise musicians worth their dissonance know, we
Would have to improvise. I dug around my pockets
And found a clicker I’d stolen from Ivana’s (sorry).
Trotsky dug around his pockets and found nothing.

We could make this work.

Trotsky opened with the best noise ever. It was one
Of those things you do with your mouth where you
Blow air through it and make a vibrating sound. I
Can’t really describe it; you’ve just got to hear it for
Yourself. The Professor then laid down a wobbling,
Syncopated beat with his djembe and I started harmonizing
By clicking along as well as squawking and beat-boxing.

What resulted was truly magical. At one point,
Trotsky and I began chanting, from, “Karma…
Chameleon!” to the ingredients on the side of
A beer bottle to, “Team Jacob!” Just like Trotsky’s
Buzzing noise, it’s just something you have to
Hear. We are palpably high; just re-listening to it
Makes my eyes a little red. Anyway, after we
Laid our magic fairy dust down into GarageBand,
It was time for this party in this USA to end.

And they all lived happily ever after. Woo-ha.

So that’s it! I think I covered all of the rules of the epic poem, right? So I kind of copped out on the inclusion of the long list, and throwing “Woo-Ha” at the end of a stanza every once and a while is a little lame as far as epithets go, but cut me some slack, man. We’re the Party Bolsheviks – it’s not like we’ve got a bunch of iron-clad laws about partying, like some party, uh, “czar” or anything like that.

- Castro

REQUIEM FOR A MEME

Before this goes any further, I need to address something that’s largely been uncommunicated. And that is…our lack of communication. A whopping three entries for the entirety of November? You might be thinking, did the Bolsheviks stale out already? Usually the half life of a blog spans at least five or six months, a benchmark we are still approaching. Surely our flame has not extinguished so prematurely. Surely our shenanigans are just now coming into their adult form. And don’t call me Shirley.

But reeling from the stopgaps of Noshember and thanksgiving Break—as we sat in our respective home communities and replenished ourselves like iPods wired to computers—we re-emerged with the creative tour de farce that was Friday, December 4^th.

Let me open this a la Memento. And by that I don’t mean a polaroid of some guy’s brains splattered on the wall, but rather presenting a point later in the story and then rewinding to see how we got there. And for the memory loss part, cuz…uh huh.

“This idea is so bad, it may be the best we’ve ever had.”

In the words of David Byrne and the Talking Heads, “well, how did I get here?” Let’s rewind the clock three days, shall we?

INT. CARIBOU COFFEE – 9 pm.

CAESAR and CASTRO, two cash young writers, sit across from one another, laptops out, calibrating what they will do Friday night.

Castro: “How about this: we get inebriated?”

Caesar: “I’m speaking your language. But I don’t wanna get too plastered, especially considering how important Saturday’s plans are…”

Castro: “I just wish there was a way to heighten the effects of Alcohol and make a little go a long way…”

Caesar: “Wait, dude, I’ve got it. Do you have any adderall?”

Castro: “Are you proposing we—”

Caesar: “Yes.”

Castro: “Right on, right on.”

CUT TO:

INT. CASTRO’S LIVING ROOM – Friday, 8:30 pm.

[Caesar enters from the front door, giving the room a salutatory chin-up. OLD MAJOR, TROTSKY, BREHZNEV, and Castro pace around the premises. A STRANGE BLUE POWDER is cut into rails on top of the resident player organ.]

VOICE-OVER :

“Now I’ve encountered my share of strange blue substances before, but this would be the first time I’d encountered one in my nasal cavity. I was just glad I took my Zyrtec earlier and that the racetracks were clear.

The night happened to be the annual WXYC 80’s-dance, or as it should be titled: Excuse to Look Like An Asshole night, at the Cradle. Castro may or may not have affiliations with the station and was thusly forced to peddle tees in the back nook for a minimum of one hour, no reprieve. We decided the only way to stomach this idiocy was to drown it out with a drug casserole.

Old Major stood—well let me describe to you what Old Major was wearing: suspenders. Purple suspenders and baggy 2001 JNCO jeans, with a black-and-white printout of 2pac scotched on the knee. Was this decade neutral? Perhaps a sophisticated commentary on what it means to ‘go 80s’, or perhaps just a jones to don a redneck tuxedo. Either way, no Biggie.”

[EDIT 12/15: And by JNCO I meant these.]

[Trotsky and Brehznev descend out the back door with a small crystal pipe.]

Enthymematically, they are on their way to view a sci-fi movie in the union. The remaining three of us gathered round the track lines and fabricated a straw out of a twenty dollar bill. Apparently it’s bad grace to snort drugs out of a smaller bill because, as it was so delicately put, “them shits’ for hookers”.

I am a little apprehensive about my first line. The only other time I’ve putted on this green was when my friends and I snorted Splenda ironically in our 8^th grade forensics elective. In my defense, the lab was titled, “What’s That White Powder?” Old Miss Helms was asking for it.

[Caesar takes a line.]

WOO HA. That shit hits you like a drunk driver. They warn you about what’s referred to as ‘the drip’: more or less, the slow-burning sensation you experience as your mucus membrane melts down like a wax candle. This is how you know it’s working. Two lines, two nostrils.

The clock reads 8:45 and we don’t have to be there til ten. Beers are served and more homemade riot punch is mixed. We are now a happy blend of smiles and buzz. How do we use this time the good lord hath granted?

CUT TO:

Flashback: Caribou Coffee. Tuesday.

Castro: “We should start a band.”

Caesar: “Do you play any instruments?”

Castro: “Technically, no.”

Caesar: “Do you have a dream and a cardigan?”

Castro: “I have a cardigan.”

Caesar: “We’re starting a noise rock band.”

CUT TO:

Present: Castro’s House. Friday. High.

We gathered into the bathroom empty-handed. Our music would be made solely off its native sounds: plungers, sinks, some economy-sized jar of fish oil pills, showers, electric razors, and towels. If we don’t pay for our Alcohol, what makes you think we pay for our instruments? A laptop was set on the counter and the ruckus began. First, the shower curtain was opened and the faucet was turned on for atmosphere. Unfortunately, that atmosphere got a little too thick and soon we were cooking like an oven in there. Thus was the maiden track christened “Stupidly Hot Shower”. Mastered in two takes, “Shower” saw itself to an abrupt end when Old Major’s razor exploded with hair, giving Castro’s computer a stupid shower of its own. Then the economy-sized pill jar I was using as a maraca burst and the grounds were at once polluted with oil spillage. We should have called this song “Exxon”.

Old Major peaced after we didn’t clean up. Time check: 9:15. We got all kinds of time and brain cells to kill. Q) What next? A) Another song.

[Caesar and Castro reconvene in Castro’s room. In what some have called a stroke of genius, they implement vocals into the sequel, but not just any kind of vocals. Computer vocals. But not just any computer vocals. Pipe organ computer vocals. Take that “Fitter, Happier”.]

The computer was passed back and forth, as each Bolshevik typed a word or two per shift. Sort of like a collaborative stream of consciousness, but indie as fuck. What became of this has been described as both avant garde and feverish. For transparency’s sake, here are the lyrics to…“Kentucky”:

“Seven notorious caught handsdown

Children in the rain

Racing racists

From Kentucky

Things things things things

Doyouknowwhatimean whenisaythemthings

In the back of the caddilac

BOOTS WITH TEH FURR.

Seven deadly sandwiches.

My God the acumen!

Laughter is everlasting

Except

When it vibrates and

Evaporates.

Do we believe in a higher FROST?

Mebbee.”

[Caesar and Castro stand in amazement at what they have done.]

Afterwards came the most epic camera whoring this side of Sorority Lane. I wasn’t dressed anachronistically like an asshole enough, so I pawed through Castro’s closet and pulled a few uncomplimentary threads. Short-sleeve plaid, wife beater, 25 cent wayfarers, and a neon blue Euro cap that would make Lady Gaga look conservative. Castro groomed himself beside me, summiting at what could only be described as hipster Santa. We were looking right.

EXT. MERRITT MILL – MOMENTS LATER.

[Castro pulls out a small cylindrical pouch from his pocket.]

Castro: “Dip?”

VOICE-OVER:

“I have never, nor will I ever, smoke a cigarette in my life. There’s no family sob story; there’s no goal of becoming a professional marathon runner. I just simply have no interest in doing it. It’s kind of my thing. That being said, I have enjoyed literally every other kind of tobacco product—hookah, black-&-milds, cigars, pipe, you name it—every other kind, except one: chewing tobacco.”

Caesar: “Hit me.”

Sidenote: It’s okay. Castro and Trotsky had procured the dip ironically.

So, with giant scoops of chaw under our lips, we staggered through the middle of the streets, wantonly ignoring oncoming traffic and other things They render life-threatening. I realize I’ve left my jacket back at the ranch. I also realize this gives me an explicit survivalist advantage. I relay my epiphany to my friend.

Caesar: “Bro, I’m agile in these sleeves. I’m ready to fight.”

Castro: “You realize what you just said, right?”

I stared ahead, and life looked like a painting.

Caesar: “This idea is so bad, it may be the best we’ve ever had.”

INT. CAT’S CRADLE – FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER.

After standing outside, spitting on the curb and taking more pictures of ourselves, we took the party inside. Fuckin’ mistake. There was more party on that curb than anywhere in that venue. Surveying the crowd for about four seconds, I realized why. Everyone there was in high school.

[Caesar packs another dip.]

Castro and I stole to the corner another DJ and a station manager were sitting and pontificating about trends in rock music. He chimed in almost immediately, but I was not having it. I don’t think my demeanor went over that well, seeing as how I never introduced myself or said as much as a word. I more just sat there shaking my head and spitting tobacco into a cup the whole time.

I ventured into the cesspool for a quick second to go to the bathroom. A girl who was old enough to know better came up and hit me on the arm.

Girl: “Hey! Are you in high school?”

Caesar: “Do I look like I’m in fucking high school?!”

Girl: “No! I was just asking!”

With ten minutes left, people I knew/people between the ages of 19-23 started showing up. Old Major entered with his posse, saw our spittoons, and pulled a dip of his own out of his JNCOs. Castro and I proceeded to mingle and gyrate like idiots for approximately ten minutes, then pulled an Irish goodbye and left to get more sauced.

INT. CASTRO’S DEN - TWENTY MINUTES LATER.

Castro: “Fuckin’….DRUNK.”

[Trotsky returns from his sci-fi movie. He is the most sober.]

Caesar: “Drive my car back to TownHouse?”

Trotsky: “Why?”

Caesar: “That’s where the liquor’s at.”

INT. IVANNA TRUMP’S DEN – THIRTY MINUTES LATER.

We catch Ivanna and her gang just as they are about to leave for a moustache party at Mill Creek. They have an assortment of construction paper staches taped to long, thin handles on the coffee table. We try everything from ‘Caesar Noshember’ to ‘Dali’ to ‘Prussian Royalty’. (Prussian Royalty is still on my floor somehow. Ivanna, PM me when you read this!)

[The gang cuts across the TownHouse commons, mumblecoring about how the helping hands are wearing off and they need to re-up the ante.]

INT. CAESAR’S DEN – MOMENTS LATER.

[Montage of powder soaring up rolled Jacksons and pupils dilating, a la “Requiem for a Dream”. Study meds, rather than blow, for the lolz. JLeto arm action for the omgz.]

Trotsky: “This makes me wanna do one thing. Drink.”

[White Russians are had, and later forgotten about.]

From here, we headed over to our friend Puch’s 21^st, conveniently in the apartment right next door. Puch throws a rage even when it’s no one’s birthday. Time would only tell what he had in store for tonight. I also like to think Puch lives by himself a) because I’ve never seen his roommates, and b) because.

A hand at the door stops me as I step up. I’m told it’s $5 a cup. Hmm, tough one. Let me do a mental run-down of the things I could spend these five dollars on by not paying for this party’s Alcohol:

- Crack

- More dip

- More adderall

- Five secret santa gifts at the dollar store

- Twenty games of The Claw

The choice made itself.

Caesar: “Not thanks, man. I’m the sobreh on tonit.”

To be fair, Trotsky says the cup monger bumped into me and I did not take it well. Apparently I threatened to fight him. I take pause here. If this was Wikipedia, I’d need a citation. Now given, I was in my agile, fighting sleeves. It well could’ve happened. I just need to ‘beyond’ this ‘reasonable doubt’.

We shuffled our way indoors, brushing into people on all sides of our bodies. It was so crowded, the throngs moved in waves like the ocean, or like Franklin Street after we ‘BEET DOOK’. Trying not to get seasick, I use the wall for support as I make my way to the kitchen. I take a glass out of the cupboard and proceed to the keg, announcing that “This BEST not be all heads.”

Meanwhile, Puch was spotted absorbing and emitting the alpha image of the pad. Eyes more glazed than donuts, he was shirtless with a sharpie tied around his neck with a rope. People were signing his torso like a cast. He turned around for a five and exposed the giant penis concockted on his back.

Then I saw Castro chatting up two girls on a sofa. I went over to whisper something to him, and upon closer inquiry, recognized one of the two as the girl from Cat’s Cradle who had asked me if I was in high school. Upon discovery that he and I were friends, her smile for him faded. Later my conscience was cleansed when I learned Castro had destroyed his own chances by hitting on both girls at once. They thought this was impolite, rather than efficient. Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.

VOICE-OVER:

“I don’t remember exactly how or when we left…”

[EDIT. Trotsky: Dude, you spilled a beer on me.]

VOICE-OVER:

“I remember exactly how and when we left. After spilling my beer on Trotsky and apologizing with an ‘Oh shit!’, we headed back to my place. It was a long and twisted night, and I needed to crank out a paper the next morning. But it wasn’t over. About twenty minutes after my departure, I received a frantic text from Castro saying, ‘Need access to your apartment NOW!’. I asked if he was bringing a “friendy-friend” home, to which I received no reply. But the answer was illuminated the next morning over hashbrowns and coffee, and a friendy-friend was never farther from the truth:

CUT TO:

INT. YE OLDE WAFFLE SHOPPE – 1 pm.

[Castro regales the climax of his night as CREDITS ROLL in the background.]

Castro: “Okay, so, you guys…suddenly weren’t there. But this guy started talking shit about my frilly red shirt. And that really pissed me off, because he looked like John Mayer. I told him that. I was like, ‘well at least I don’t look like John MAYER. Your songs SUCK.’ And he didn’t like that too much either. And then I called him a cockhole. Wait. On second thought, it was probably the cockhole that set him off...anyways, I almost got in a fight. And you guys had peaced. But what was I gonna do? I was agile.”

[Roll legal: ©2009, Party Bolsheviks, INC. Unauthorized distribution of this material is strictly illegal and very much encouraged. The Pretense appears courtesy of…no one, yet. Check us out on MySpace for sick merch and shit.]

- Caesar

"These hallucinogens produce muscle relaxation, dilation of pupils, vivid visual and auditory distortions, and emotional disturbances"- dea.gov

Greetings Bolsheviks and Bolshevik fans alike, Party Trotsky here with a summation of a particularly eventful day I spent with Comrade Brezhnev last week. It came to my attention a while back that an acquaintance of mine had come into possession of some of those psilocybin-containing beauties, the magical mushroom. I’ve had a few encounters with this ancient and religious intoxicant, but they haven’t given me the mind expanding results I was looking for. This time however, would prove to be different. Also, disclaimer, this post is kind of long because I have a lot of bullshit to say about drugs, and if you’re not trying to hear slight nonsense, then you can see your way out.
I woke up around noon on Saturday, and after grabbing a sandwich with which (I love alliteration) to hide the taste of shrooms, headed over to Brezhnev’s domicile to imbibe the stuff. A little aside here, I vehemently hate the taste of magic mushrooms; to me they are a combination of horse shit, moldy dirt, and dry sticks. They are an abhorrent substance. I have never been able to stomach the taste, so perhaps the sandwich would conceal the taste and smell enough for me to choke them down. My comrade on the other hand, was being completely bad ass that day and decided to just dump the ground up shrooms into a glass of water and drink it like a boss. We finished up our midday mushroom meal (again with the fucking alliteration), and went outside to smoke a small bowl in order to accentuate the effects of the shrooms. We then sat down to an informative show on one of those learning channels, I believe the show was about fishing or some such nonsense, while we came up on our trip into the rarely traversed paths of the human psyche. Since we were at his abode also, Castro joined us on the couch and observed us to make sure we didn’t decide to burn the place down or jump out a one story window or any of the other idiotic things that the government tells you will happen on psychedelic drugs. It took about thirty minutes for us to start noticing the effects, but it was pretty subtle. It was a change in our demeanor more than anything, a slight softening of the world and its edges, a feeling that everything was ok. I also felt slightly warm and cozy, which was nice. I looked at Brezhnev, saw him smiling for no apparent reason, and I knew he was feeling the same way as me. It was around this point that Castro took us for a ride onto campus, as he had to meet some people there. We walked around on the upper quad for a few minutes, and decided to sit down on the bench and let the high come over us. It was freezing outside, but the world itself was beginning to lose definite shape, and things were awash with an odd light, a sparkly energy that surrounded everything. A second aside, the things that come after this point in the story are extremely hard to explain, ineffable if you will, and they might not make sense to those who haven’t participated in psychedelics, but hopefully you’ll be able to follow my nonsensical drugs fueled ramblings. Also, my mom is watching Knocked Up on the telly as I write this, and it was the part where they trip shrooms in Las Vegas. Ah irony. Anyhoo, Brezhnev and I were sitting on this bench, freezing our asses off, and chit chatting with Castro as he went about his magazine photo shoot. He kept going back and forth between the two of us and the group of people he was meeting, and we kept as far away from that group as possible. But Castro’s in between provided us with two very interesting events. The first is that when Castro told his group, subsisting mostly of black, hipsterish fashion types, that the two of us were on mushshrooms, they were not amused; in fact, they were definitively not about trying to trip some shrooms. I hypothesized later in the dying throes of my trip that this arose from the different drug experiences of black culture and white culture. I’m not trying to stereotype here, but it seems to me that the drugs that are mainly associated with black culture at large (weed, coke, heroin, and that crickety crack), are mostly about escaping reality, which makes sense because black people’s reality is one that can kind of suck from time to time, to put it bluntly, while white people’s reality is not one that is inherently biased against them, so they enjoy exploring and testing the boundaries of the reality they’re given, rather than leaving it entirely. This is not to say that white people don’t do coke or smoke weed, duh, but the psychedelic is a drug that mainly middle class angsty white kids do in order to rebel against their parents, which is ironic because our parents probably took enough psychedelics to kill several small Midwestern towns. I digress from my main story, but I just wanted to share my slightly coherent theory with you all, and please let me know if you disagree, this is by no means set in stone, but it seems to make sense.
The other occurrence that has to do with Castro’s group is when Brezhnev and I observed Castro talking to a member of his group, and they glanced our way a few times, and were talking and laughing. Now in our paranoid state, we KNEW they were discussing us, and I made that point aloud to Brezhnev. The best part came later, when we discussed the trip after it ran its course. We related that observation to Castro, and he told us our suspicions were correct and that they were talking about us, but not only that, they were discussing the fact that we were looking at them, and that we were probably thinking that they were talking about us, which in fact they were. This kind of blew our minds for a second, and since on mind expanding drugs little coincidences become giant world altering events, it was particularly appropriate.
Back to the actual trip, where Brezhnev and I were still fucking freezing and the world was still fucking glowing at me. We decided we would walk back, as Castro said it might be a couple hours, and our little journey back was very interesting. Time dilation became a factor as we left, and it was extremely hard to move, as if I was walking through some sort of jelly. So not only was time no longer making any sense, but neither was motion. Two very distinct laws of the universe brought to their knees by the power of a little psilocybin running through my bloodstream. My companion was very quiet on the trip back, as this was his first time tripping I knew he was experiencing things that I didn’t want to intrude on, and we walked mostly in silence back to his casa. I was looking everywhere during the walk, trying to soak in all of reality while my mind was in such a state, and something about the nature of my observations intrigued me. They were very fresh. I mean that whenever I’d look at a bush or tree, it was as if I was seeing that tree for the first time. This was slightly revolutionary to me when I realized it, but I quickly began to enjoy it and take advantage of my new way of interpreting experiences. I liked it, because it reminded me of my childhood, my feelings were very nostalgic, and I don’t think I’d ever considered before how much having prior experience and memories affect the way a person processes and brings in information. I hadn’t really thought about the ways I took in info as a child before this, and I’m thankful that the mushroom experience changed that.

Anyways, we arrived at the house, and we had yet to begin peaking. This would happen shortly. We decided to put in Chappelle’s Show in order to geek out a little, and I think I may have smoked another bowl, but I could be wrong. What occurred hereafter can only be described as moments of pure hilarity, punctuated by moments of near ego-loss. Chappelle’s Show was the funniest thing I have ever seen, and sometimes I would be laughing so hard, I’d start thinking that maybe I should stop laughing, otherwise I wouldn’t stop. I started to become frightened of laughter, even though I was compelled to continue geeking it out. Then all of a sudden I could feel my thoughts. Seriously. Those shits started in the bottom, and bubbled their way up to the top of my mind grapes. That sentence was nonsense. In my inebriated state, all I could think about was the biological processes and consequences of having consciousness, which is classic drugged out thinking. It was an interesting thought, that maybe, fucked up on ancient Mesoamerican religious sacraments, I could imagine what my thoughts would feel like, because there is an actual physical process behind that, now I’m of the opinion that it feels like something bubbling in your mind... Obviously this didn’t really occur, I think the science folks reading this will agree, but at the time that was the most logical explanation I could get from the feeling I was having.
Back to the A plot, around this time, a friend came and joined us on the couch, and the presence of a new person forced me to actually focus on reality for a hot second, as I’d been stuck in my own jibber jabber for a while. Brezhnev was still having a good time, as he commented to me about the poster on the wall, of a skeleton, that was really doing some interesting things. I believe it was along the lines of, “that skeleton is leering at me”, or maybe “that skeleton is a lot of colors”, my memory fails to produce an exact sketch, but he was right, that skeleton was definitely almost every color.
Still reeling from that rush of psychedelic energy that happens when one does these things, I became consumed with a second thing, a string of paper ghosts hanging from the wall. The edges of the individual ghosts were nonexistent, and they were shifting back and forth at a rapid pace, which helped give me a rise in the visual aspect of the tripping. Oh and the walls were breathing, but of course that goes without saying. And I think it was all tinged in red maybe? It’s hard to recall in fine detail, but I think it definitely reminded me of that lucy in the sky stuff, although I’d call it more focused that the other hippie shit, that lucy stuff sort of just makes your brain explode and then put itself back together again piece by piece, like rebooting a computer. Shrooms are much less intense than that, more pleasing to the senses, more of a warm melting feeling, rather than knocking you around a few times like L does. I highly recommend it to all who read this. So around this time Castro returned from his photos hoot (photos hoot was one of the corrected choices Word gave me when I spelled photo shoot as one word, thought I’d keep it for dramatic effect), and seeing as Brezhnev had never seen if before, decided to watch Zoolander. We laughed, we cried, we came down to the sights of Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson becoming best friends. The trip was basically over by the time the movie ended, so it was the perfect accoutrement to finish out our mental exercises. It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. Go out and try them shits, please. We pontificated about hippie bullshit while on hippie bullshit and I would make this a requirement of anyone who partakes in aforementioned substances. Yes yes y’all, the logic behind the last several hundred words has been shaky, so apologies and congratulations to anyone who stuck it out all the way to the end here. Adios.

p.s. Later on that night, i was walking home and came upon a copy of the new york times. being the consummate liberal that i am, i promptly stole it, and perused it the next day while driving my prius, drinking a latte, and retroactively bitching about bush. good times.