I THINK WE HAVE A SITUATION

In this world, there are very few Drinking Holidays, days where you are not only permitted to consume, but are societally encouraged to. You’ve got the 4th of July, Halloween, whenever the Pistons win an NBA Championship, New Years Eve, Veteran’s Day. . . and that’s about it. These structures of imbibidity are deigned to us by the INSTITUTIONS prescribed to our society before our birth. We have no choice in when these days fall. It is mandated that we must drink on such holidays by forces bigger than ourselves, bigger than the government, bigger than the world. We are presented excuses to drink, and we (pun intended) drink 'em up. The Secret World Government controls us. We are complacent. We are sheep. We have always been at war with Oceania.

(This is what happened the last time the Pistons won an NBA Championship.)

The only way to combat these insidious, shadowy forces that govern our blood-alcohol-levels is to say, “Structure can go fuck itself,” and create New Drinking Holidays.

This is where the hair gel comes into play.

Two days after New Years Eve, the Party Brezhnev and myself created a little Drinking Holiday and celebrated it at our de la casa by throwing a party. The cause for merriment, you ask?

Jersey Motherfucking Shore.

Those of you who know me – probably most people who read this because our readership is as of now in the high single digits, not counting the people who write for it – know that I’m obsessed with Jersey Shore. Shit is like The Wire crossed with the experience of watching zoo creatures run around out of their cages. It’s just beautiful. I shudder to think of what would happen if the aliens that are monitoring Earth were to watch the show and assume that this is an accurate portrayal of how humanity functions on a day-to-day basis. They would immediately destroy the planet. The very fact that we haven’t been blown up already is proof that the aliens also have access to such delightful fare as the Alec Baldwin/Merryl Streep romcom about growing older while rekindling old flames and also smoking pot, It’s Complicated (aka DIVORCEFUCK: Electric Boogaloo!).

Anyhoo, a Jersey Shore party is really just an excuse to dress up like a douchebag and yell a lot, as long as you’re dressed the part. To accomplish such aims, you have to go to TJ Maxx and buy a shirt that’s really shiny. I got one that was a couple sizes too small and had a bedazzled cross surrounded by green flames. It was hideous. Brezhnev got an Ed Hardy tie, and in a minor coup, Trotsky, who spent a significant portion of this break sleeping on our couch, got hisself a black sparkly joint that came with a free pair of headphones. Woo-ha.

This was a dedicated-as-fuck theme party. A lot of people covered themselves in bronzer, and Old Major even went so far as to slick back his hair and turn himself orange. Many, many people had blowouts and faux-hawks, and some people even got into character, giving their new, bronzed selves alter egos. Perhaps the ultimate in this came with Ivana Trump, who went by the remarkably subtle and tasteful “Tits.” Additionally, I thought one girl in attendance was literally not wearing a shirt, but it turned out she had just cut her garment's back out, because if there’s one thing that the rich, illustrious history of Italy has taught us it’s that entire shirts are fucking stupid.

Oh, and there was a DJ who played house music all night. We fist-pumped a lot. My arm was tired the next day. Somebody smashed a pumpkin in our yard. If you couldn’t have guessed, I can’t remember a lot of what happened, but the next day our house was covered in sunglasses and Heineken bottles. Sorry to whoever left the Gucci shades on our kitchen table, because Trotsky reappropriated them shits.

- The Party Castro

A BITTER NEW YEARS BY A BITTER MAN

Ahhh, New Year’s Eve. The annual celebration of insidious Occidental cultural imperialism, of the way in which the dominant Western ideology has become manifest in the very way we keep track of time. It’s enough to make an Old Major vomit. All of you who saw me on New Year’s, I WAS vomiting from disgust, not from alcoholic excess.

Still, when in Rome, do as the Romans do (this aphorism is especially pertinent, as the Roman calendar is the one we use today, and Rome was America before America was America). And so begins my tale of some str8 up Party Bolsheviks doing what it is we do.

Since, in addition to a celebration of Christ’s 2010 and 6/365th birthday, the festivities on the 31st were to welcome home the expatriotic Party Lenin, we all knew we were in for a blackout. We began the night over at Castro and Brezhnev’s de la casa. There were people there. We played a drinking game called Pin the Tail on the Capitalist, which is to flip cup as dong pong is to beer pong. This may have made the female contingent uncomfortable, but, in the spirit of being oppressive, white, bourgeois imperialists, we didn’t give a fuck.

So now we’re walking to the Big Party, rolling str8 up fourteen deep. I’d like to say that we brought the party, but the party was doing just fine without us, and even if we hadn’t come, it still would’ve been great. YEAH FUCKING RIGHT. We immediately began distributing a handle of Wild Turkey which, in addition to a keg of what I think was Yuengling (America’s bougiest brewery—still, though, very tasty), provided the fuel for our alcoholic fire. I’m especially proud to report the communal smoking of a legit Cuban cigar which spontaneously appeared, a manifestation in tangible goods of the Bolshevik spirit. We lit it with a car exhaust.

The main activity for the night was, understandably, waiting for midnight to occur so we could all yell and recall fondly what a good time we had on New Year’s. People coupled up in anticipation a moment of societally-mandated promiscuity. To the dismay of many a member of the fairer sex, I spent midnight in the bathroom taking a piss. Sorry ladies, but principles before hoes.

After this comes what was my personal favorite part of the night: the cadre of drunken frat boys who showed up trying to fight. This was The Situation we in the Party Bolsheviks had been waiting. After the main frat guy, who I’ll call the Party Bernie Madoff, called the Party Castro the F-word (and I don’t mean Fuck) one too many times, it was time to take things outside. Since it is impossible to simultaneously participate in and remember a fight, I cannot provide details. Suffice it to say that the invaders were soundly beaten, with our only casualty being the brave Professor Jonathan Ringlewater. He will be missed.

And that’s that, as far as I’m concerned. I walked the 2.5 miles back to my house at around two in the morning. The festivities may have continued, but I did not.

OLD MAJOR

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