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