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 4th.
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 8th 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 21st, 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
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