An Ode to Drunk Late Nights in Chapel Hill

A poem:

Bad Poet

Fucking a bad poet

is like ordering Gumby's.

You only do both when

very drunk, and you think

at the time that they

will be so satisfying and

worth the money you spend

on them. But after a couple of

days of sitting around, they're

both stale, soggy, and still

very cheesy.

by Jesse S. Rice-Evans

Last Nite. . . .

Hello interweb,

I thought I'd drop my two centsworth on last night. Given, everyone reading this was probably there, but I was--in all likelihood--'the most drunk', and this might well act as a ketchup for myself on details that I've not been so graced to recall.

For those unaware, Saturday Oct. 3rd (fact-check me on this) marked three important occurrences in Carolina party history: the Town House Middle School-THEMED party (and not "the middle school party" as my friend on Twitter so delicately pointed out), the Church St. Recession-Proof Party, and the ritualistic slugging back of Sparks like they're going out of business. Which, it turns out, they are.

Not in that order.

I must preface by adding that Emma Goldman decided to honor us with her presence and drove all the long way from Asheville to party like a Bolshevik. She owed me quote "all the liquor you can hold" after I recently completed a bit of dirty-work for her. Emma does not disappoint.

When you start a night with Sparks, you prepare for the worst. Or the best, depending on how you view that half-glass of liquid. I prepared for the best night, and the worst morning.

Come 9:30, I'm drunk. DRUNK. But we weren't going to the middle school-themed party til eleven, so I had no choice but to keep drinking. I adopted the general philosophy that if someone asked me to do a shot with them, I couldn't say no. It fosters good camaraderie and it correlated well with the common theme of the events: who cares about the costs? Certainly I didn't in middle school, and I'll be damned if this 'economic downturn' cuts my buzz off.

So I'm staggering around like a Gonzo portrait, decked in my 7th grade attire: the dyed-blue pocket tee over the striped, collared Aeropostale long-sleeve...bottomed off with flip-flops. I look like I'm going to a Simple Plan concert. The crowd at my place was jamming to our favorite 2003 dance staples ("Hey Ya", "Ignition (Remix)", "In The End", Ride Wit Me") with Battlefield Earth on mute in the background. It was a beautiful thing. The smell of ripe opportunity was in the air...as well as the smell of "Autumn Spice & Crisp" because at several points, I emerged from the lavatory spraying Febreeze to a chant of "FALL! FALL!"

I'm gonna fess up and admit I don't remember a lot of the middle school-themed party. But I DO remember being CUT OFF from the party juice (only one). I also recall an extended moment on the balcony, where I believe an altercation happened. Back inside, after Emma Goldman scooped up some booze in a hollowed lemon and explained that's how they do it in Asheville, someone promptly cut her off with a look and told her that it's indeed not. Which leads me to a point: no one is qualified to say how a town does or does not 'do it'. Except Greenville. Generalize ay-way. That place is more myth than meat, anyways. So after being made to feel like that alcoholic uncle at the family reunion, I was told it was time. Time to go dance off the recession.

Previously, we had planned to return to base camp and change out of the middle school gear, but when push came to shove, and drink came to drunk, I was on my way to Church St. in my flippy floppies. We roll up to a house familiarly littered with hipsters and PBR: I have been here before. And not in the déjà vu sense or the pretentious 'been there, done that' sense. I've actually been here before, slightly less drunk but slightly more glittered up. This time I a) looked equally ridiculous and b) was not in a state of mind to question or check any of my behavior. Nights like these are coming to be collectively known as 'Saturdays'.

The first thing we do is strut through the house, on a mission to reach the backyard. Spoiler: we made it. And as Emma Goldman and The Party Castro began to occupy themselves with a couple indigenous, I spot my Holy Grail. Ten yards away from me stands a scenester engrossed in conversation, with a personal case of Pabst at his feet. Fight-or-flight; no time to think. I stroll by, casually stick my hand in, grab two, crack one in front of him, and keep walking. That's how we do it in Chapel Hill.

We took the party inside to where DJ Prometheus was killing it. We posted up in the living room and became gyrating mannequins for the multi-colored flash lights to harbor their radiance on. This continued for a debatable amount of time until suddenly the crowds froze. Two new lights were introduced from the open front door: blue and white. Okay, whatever, pass judgment, but here I was remarking to the Bolshevik next to me that "they've got a sick light show in this bitch" and next thing I know Emma Goldman is pulling me out the back door.

We made it out via hopping the fence and stumbling through a darkened maze of greater-area Chapel Hill residence. Emma Goldman asks me if I know how to get back to my apartment, to which I feign an overconfident "PLEASE. OF COURSE." and return to humming Spoon's "The Ghost Of You Lingers".

After the river and through the woods, we did indeed make it back to Town House. I was then faced with the tough choice of calling to make sure people were alright or peeing. Priorities are priorities, and I do believe that pee was 80 proof. And subsequently, yes, they were alright. Bolsheviks don't get cited, Bolsheviks get sighted.

It's kind of hazy what transpired next, but it involved an open laptop and a movie where Ricky Gervais was playing a dentist. What was this, I wondered, quite aloud. "Ricky Gervais is in this?! OH MY GOD DO YOU WANT A BREAKFAST CEREAL BAR??"

Just then, my friend from Appalachian State--Ambrosia Bierce--texted me in great peril, outlining that she'd drank too much and needed help calming down. I guarantee I was objectively triple her level, but a friend in need is a friend in need. The textorsation went like this:

Her: "I'm pretty miserable"
Me: "Okee I'm drank!?! Mechjuk"
Her: "I drank too much b.c i'm an idiot"
Me: "Noeo ong. Jesus?"

Her: "Can you call me or are you too busy?"

For reasons still unknown to me, I walked down the corridor past my room and chose instead to lie down on my roommate's bed for this chat. He came back and I kicked myself out. There was a mutual confusion. I moved over to my bed, where I think I finished the conversation to the best of my ability, and then blacked out.

8:30 am: I wake up, in my jeans and Aeropostale with a headache the size of Montana. The lights are still on, as is my iTunes. My pristine Top 25 is fucked. Fleet Foxes - "Mykonos" is playing. Could've been a lot worse. It got there. Rick Astley came on next.

These were the events of Saturday, October 3rd. A raging proletariat success.

KEEP THE BEAT ALIVE. I am the walrus.

- Caesar

The Drunken Communist Manifesto

(A note from the Party Castro: The following was sent to me by one of our more fringe members whose love for revolution and ideology is only matched by his questionable fashion choices made in the name of irony. Please enjoy.)

Comrades,

Our nascent revolution has already become bloated with all the trappings of the bourgeois we oh so recently were committed to destroying: DESIGNATED DRIVERS, MIXED DRINKS, PAYING FOR ALCOHOL, SLEEP. Since it seems that some of our less devoted comrades have abandoned these most central of our principle enemies, I’mma give a brief outline.

ALWAYS REMEMBER that all we do is predicated on the need to transfer ownership of the means of production of parties to the proletariat. Once we’ve liberated the party capital from the hands of the bourgeois elite, we will create a partier’s paradise:

• A NONSTOP PARTY—there will be no persona, sequestered BOURGEOIS “home,” and no exclusive, private BOURGEOIS “parties”; rather, EVERYWHERE will be a party. As such, we will eliminate the need for cars, and thus for people to drive them. END THE REIGN OF THE DESIGNATED DRIVER.

• NO FUCKING SLEEP—this is both self-explanatory and closely related to point 1. To reiterate I’ll subvert one of the favorite techniques of the BOURGEOIS and use a very obviously relevant mainstream rap lyric: I NEVER SLEEP CUZ SLEEP IS THE COUSIN OF DEATH.

• STEAL FROM THE bourgeois—ok so everyone agrees that stealing from the BOURGEOIS is necessary to provide party Bolsheviks with raw party materials, but we need to be sure NOT TO STEAL FROM EACH OTHER. With that in mind, I’ll let slip my favorite technique: GO TO PARKING LOTS WHERE TAILGATING HAS BEEN HAPPENING DURING HOME FOOTBALL GAMES AND STEAL LIQUOR AND BEER FROM THE COOLERS OF THE PIGS.

• ONLY DRINK ALCOHOL—this is admittedly a fringe a position, but no one ever said revolution would be easy. TO REACH PARTY UTOPIA WE MUST PARTY PURELY AND THAT MEANS NOT MIXING OUR ALCOHOL WITH THE bourgeois CRUTCHES LIKE OJ MILK OR SQUIRT. Although I am all too aware of the human body’s need for hydration—and grudgingly accept that people might drink a glass of pure water from time to time—mixed drinks represent weakness.

So let me tell you about my weekend. I DRANK STOLEN LIQUOR STRAIGHT FROM THE BOTTLE BY MYSELF FOR 50 CONSECUTIVE HOURS AND THIS WILL BRING ABOUT REVOLUTION.

-OLD MAJOR

An Ode to Anonymity

Comrades!

While one understands the desire to remain anonymous in this blog, especially considering the contributers' statuses of "Under 21," I must confess that while abroad in Paris, France (party central, SUCK IT PARTY CZAR), I myself am not only allowed to drink legally, but in fact encouraged to do so. Every meal in France begins and ends with liquor, and for the in-between times, you have lots and lots of wine. Furthermore, you are encouraged to drink on the street, in the park, on the river, in the metro, and pretty much anywhere that isn't inside of a Catholic church or the Louvre.

So, without further ado, my credentials.

Party-Goer Extraordinaire, Wine and Malt Liquor Enthusiast, Appreciator of Generalized Debauchery, Champion Beer-Pong Competitor, and All-Around Much More Qualified Than ANYONE Who Works at the DTH to be the Arbiter of the Party:

Jesse S. Rice-Evans.

So, for the amount of time that I am abroad here in France, I will discard the status of "Anonymous" and will report all the news that's fit to blog about. For instance: "La Nuit Blanche," an all-night arts festival where you basically drink all night long and see music and art stuff. Guess what night that happens? Tonight. Be prepared for tale after tale of debauchery.

Weekend Recap Two: A Personal Reflection

Being that the entire weekend was spent parting with my fellow Bolshevik, Castro, and perhaps more selfishly because I have a test that I should be studying for, I’ll spare you an entirely new post describing essentially the same events. However, because Castro acted quite grandfatherly this weekend and with the exception of Friday night, hit the hay a little too early for any respectable college student, I do feel it might benefit readers to add some minor details. You can expect a more individual recollection of events as compared to a collective storytelling.
I’ll start, logically, with Thursday night. Not only did many fellow Bolsheviks leave the party before the addition of new people, but they also left before quite an intense conversation on, of all topics, God (or lack thereof…Ah Ha!). As we all know, there really is nothing more fulfilling than a good old fashioned philosophical conversation while under the influence. I, for one, won’t pretend that I don’t consider my nights more successful after having had one. I mean, the Communist Manifesto was certainly not written soberly! Having decided nothing would quite compare to the delightful conversation, my friend and I decided to call it a night. However, having realized our DD had long left us, the harsh reality kicked in. We’d have to walk a terrifying 1.4 miles from the party destination to our respective homes. Feeling ambitious (and having failed to convince our DD to come back and get us) we began the walk home. However, half way back, out of breath and longing for a bathroom break, we gave up and pleaded to our DD one last time. Well, it seems 2nd time’s a charm.
There’s not much more to say about the parties we attended on Friday night besides that fact that, having been a part of Group A, non sub alpha, I feel severely less cultured (and was severely less intoxicated) for having not experienced this so called “Baste Box” that was previously mentioned. You think a turkey baster can only be used for, well, turkey basting and then you’re made aware of such beautiful utilization of this apparently multi-functional kitchen utensil. I predict an exciting Thanksgiving this year for the -anonymous last name- family!
Now, there are some events that took place after leaving the party and reconvening at Castro’s humble abode that I feel deserve mentioning. I will now use the blog for my very own pity party.
You may have read in Castro’s post about this so called yelling at each other. Hmm, ironic Castro, as I’m pretty sure just one person was doing the yelling and I’m even more sure that it was you. After attempting to stop a small domestic dispute between Castro and a fellow Bolshevik, I was ever so graciously thanked by being yelled at by Castro. Having been made embarrassed and confused, I buried my blushed face in a box of goldfish and ate my sorrows away. I’m pretty sure my rendition of the official Goldfish song, remixed to the tune of the Bagel Bites song, not only made me feel better, but brought an overall cheerful attitude to the entire party. Having felt pleased about my rather enjoyable song, I rewarded myself with a heaping portion of Chinese food upon arriving home, just the right thing to induce a most satisfying sleep.
Saturday night has been pretty accurately described for the group as a whole, but I have some more personal reflections to add.
Being that I consider myself resourceful and not “cheap,” as it has previously been called, I will admit to being the girl who so deviously skipped everyone in the keg line to “use the restroom,” aka fill my empty Busch light can with free beer. Should I feel dirty and ashamed? On the contrary! Instead, I feel I was just being economical. I’m sorry to go all communist on you, but that beer should have been for benefit of all, not for the profit of a few. Had it not been for my quick thinking, I would have wasted 3 dollars (which would have probably been given to filthy capitalists) to wait in dreadfully long line only to have found myself arriving at an empty keg- one that wouldn’t be replaced. And then what would I have felt? My labor exploited perhaps? Indeed. Used by people who I didn’t even know, for this my friends, was a party I hadn’t even been invited to. So, there is my justification for that. Why don’t you just freaking execute me if you think it was so damn appalling (RIP Ethel).
Busch light i.e. stolen beer in hand, I headed back out to the front porch to join friends, not passing through the house without noticing the quite hopping dance party. While drifting in and out of conversations and greeting more people than I can pretend to have remembered seeing, I found my mind keep slipping back to the dance floor. Before I knew it, my ass had got the best of me and I proceeded to spend the majority of my remaining time dancing, perhaps a bit too promiscuously at times. What better way to make a good impression on a bunch of people I don’t know than by gettin’ low with strangers. Why, I can’t very well think of one!
Having worn myself out from my preferred form of exercise, I headed home and called it a night. Needless to say, my 12 o’clock shift at work the next day was void of much happiness. If only the bliss provided through excessive calorie intake could extend to the mornings after. Mmm, if only.

Alright, that is all my little commies.

With love,
Ethel (Rosenberg)

Weekend Recap - 9/25-9/27

Well, the Party Bolsheviks started out their reign of revolutionary drunken terror with not a bang but a whimper, attending a party Thursday night at a friend’s house for a triumphant forty-five minutes, accomplishing the herculean task of going into the living room and talking about bullshit, AND THEN going into yet another room to continue said conversation about said bullshit, all while managing to scarf down amounts of beer that might have been able to get a twelve-year old drunk but only if that twelve-year old had a particularly low alcohol tolerance.

So I was out of the party by 12:00, asleep by 12:30. In short, the party was great, but some of us (okay mainly me) had class the next morning at eight and weren’t trying to play that weak-ass insomnia shit. This is double-unfortunate because apparently like half an hour after we left the party became like awesome times a million and us sleeping children weren’t there to experience it. Damnit.

The next night (AKA Friday) the People’s drunkards really put on a show to make up for their lack of drunk the night before and all of us proceeded to get, how do you say, uh, completely and utterly trashed.

(Oh, a quick aside: A week ago, two of my friends and I traded belts before going out, because don’t ask questions it’s just what happened. And then this week we were all pre-gaming at his apartment when we realized that (a) we were all wearing the same belts that we’d traded off a mere six days previous, and (b) we had all planned our outfits around said belts. Needless to say at that moment we concluded the trade was to be permanent.)

The Party split up as to best wreak havoc upon the structural institution of sobriety, so I’ll try to account for the nights of all groups. There were two main parties to hit that night, a friend’s birthday party at a place pretty close to campus and then one friend’s non-birthday party quite a considerable distance away. Where I’m from we call such distances “out in the sticks.”

Group A (my group) hit up the first party circa 10:45. Because we knew that we were a considerably large group of people to descend upon a house and expect free booze, we brought along refreshments of our own – namely, a case of beer that we’d stowed in an officially licensed Dale Earnhardt Jr. soft cooler, because in case you were wondering we are that classy. Our hosts, in their infinite grace and hospitality, were kind enough to provide their guests with what can only be described as a “baste box.”

What is a baste box, you ask? Well that’s a good question because I’m pretty sure these girls invented such a thing. It was a big ol’ plastic container full of some liquid (my discriminating palate detected some lemonade and a lot of gin, with perhaps a smattering of grapefruit) that you the drinker administered to yourself via squirting into the liquid your mouth with a turkey baster. My friend and I dubbed this “getting basted” (Get it? Like getting wasted but with a b because it was a baster?) in what is perhaps the most lazy pun in the history of linguistics.

Circa 11:15 Eastern Standard Time, Group B made its triumphant arrival at Party Numero Uno. Blissful tears were shed, hugs administered, beverages chugged like thirsty Inuits playing the drinking game where you name all of the Inuit words for “snow” and if you can’t think of one then don’t chug a beer. We stood in the front yard (let’s be honest we were probably talking about indie rock or some other pretentious bullshit) for a considerable amount of time, when it was time for some of Group A to hit up Party Numero Two, way out in the sticks.

I was not a member of this group to go, because the car wasn’t big enough to hold all of us at the time. Some nonsense about how not everybody had a seatbelt and the cops had been following our designated driver (ALWAYS HAVE ONE, PEOPLE) or some other completely invalid excuse. Anyway, I’m dubbing my friend and I who had to wait “Group A, Sub-Group Alpha.” We killed some time by playing beer pong (won one and lost one, which is way better than I myself usually do at pong, though let the record show that during the game we won I didn’t make a single fucking shot) and then by having a few (okay a lot) last-minute interfacings with the basting mechanism.

Our DD made her return and Group A, Sub-Group Alpha hopped in to go on our merry way. Somehow we ended up not at Party Two, but at a friend’s house in Carrboro, where we dallied for a while and picked up a few friends - but not, if I remember correctly, the friends that we’d actually intended to pick up. I was riding shotgun, so I didn’t have that great a vantage point from which to view such happenings. Anywho, in the car we put on some Wu-Tang and had a little rap session that I’m sure didn’t annoy our driver in the least (Sorry, I’ll take the blame for instigating that one.), and then showed up to the undisclosed* location where Party Two was happening.

And let me tell you, children. Shit was popping. People were piled upon people inside of the apartment slash house slash triplex slash dwelling. When we arrived, I texted the host as to ascertain his whereabouts, only to discover that he’d left on a beer run because as he so eloquently put it, “shit’s fucking out man.” Luckily, Group A, Sub-Group Alpha reunited with the totality of Group A, as well as our handy dandy Dale Jr. cooler, which allowed us to re-up on our buzz. Gracious Party Host returned shortly, beer in tow, and it was again lollipops and butterflies in the entire joint. Our Group had set up shop on the back deck, with some of us sporadically re-entering into the dwelling with the intent of socializing further.

Towards the end of the night, a friend of mine showed up to the party wearing one of those hats that’s like a beanie with a little visor sewn into it. Now though as a Party Bolshevik I have taken an oath to never desire for material things, I must say that I envied her and wished to possess this hat. So, in my drunken state, I just snatched it off her head, employing the time-tested thieving tactic of blatantly taking something from someone and hoping they won’t care because you’re both drunk. I was the gushing owner of said hat for tens of minutes, when our ride arrived to take us home, and just as I was a mere fifteen feet from the car, my friend (apparently not as drunk as I’d figured) re-claimed her hat from my head. Evndently she’d been laying in wait outside, hoping to jack my shit. Notice I said my shit not her shit, because really when you drunkenly take something from someone and they allow you to take it without complaining, that’s about as binding an agreement as a written contract. Anyway, at this time the hour was appropriate for us to leave for home.

Now, let me tell you about the happenings of Group B, who had elected to remain at Party Number One, which was admittedly smaller and in a neighborhood that looked like real people (aka non-college students) would have been living there. The party had been going swimmingly, all steadily getting progressively more intoxicated, when all of a sudden the cavalry arrived, and by that I mean the cops showed up. Now, it is a credit to Group B that they didn’t pull an Everyone-Else-At-The-Party and freak the fuck out. Instead, they just hung out away from the presence of the fuzz, and then left the party after the police had kindly requested that the party disperse. As it was told to me, the police were very gracious about the whole deal, and didn’t hand out any drinking tickets which was super nice of them**.

We then reconvened at our own residence later that night, when we proceeded to yell at each other then all pass out.

And that, to paraphrase Biggie, is what the fuck happened on Friday.

Saturday night brought yet another opportunity to critique society via self-intoxication, but some of us (I’m especially guilty of this crime) were too hungover from Friday to fully devote themselves to the deplorable practice of drinking alcohol. It was a sad day, friends, but I pushed through and managed the heroic feat of drinking a monumental three beers throughout the entire evening.

Anywho, we ended up pre-gaming at Party Headquarters and then headed to some big-ass party off of MLK where people were literally spilling out of the house because it was so crowded. Like, there were more people just standing outside the party because they’d given up on actually getting in there than were people actually inside, and the inside of the place was wall-to-wall packed like sardines in a crush tin box (word to Radiohead). We did a quick run-thru of the house just to check the place out and found ourselves wanting for oxygen, having given up on the concept of personal space some time before even entering into the foyer. After discovering the whereabouts of the keg, one of the more industrious (okay I’ll just say it, cheap) members of the Party Bolsheviks decided to take an empty can of Busch Light that she’d had in her purse and use it to fill up from the keg instead of shelling out the three dollars or whatever for a cup.

Now, I have never been a fan of ginormous parties. I’m just not the type of person who enjoys walking up to a big group of people and introducing myself to them over and over, plus big parties sketch me out because crowds attract la policia, and who really needs that. If I’m at one of these things at all, I’m off on the fringes somewhere talking to literally the same people with whom I arrived. So why do I have to go to such a big party to do that?

And who throws one of these things anyway? I don’t know about you, but I’m not trying to have a bunch of random-ass people all up in my house drinking my booze and making out with other random-ass people on my couch because of the booze that I just gave them, and then spilling their beer all over my floor because now those random two people are like horizontal and knocking cups off the table. We have fake plants on the organ in my house next to our vintage hymnal, just like any good American. I don’t want people fucking that shit up.

Okay, soap-box dismounted. The point I guess I’m trying to make is that I and two of my friends did not stay at this party for very long, instead opting to go to Bun’s and then to Townhouse to annoy our sick friend, because lest we forget if you get exasperated enough you forget how shitty you feel or at least that’s what I’ve read, so really we were doing her a favor. The night ended pleasantly enough with the most sleep I think any of us has gotten since before that one time in ‘Nam.

So until the next time we blog, I guess we’ll keep drinking and see if that makes the revolution happen.

Love,

The Party Castro

*Let the record show that the Party Bolsheviks was too collectively intoxicated to actually remember where this party was, or the location would totally be disclosed.

**Fellow Party Bolsheviks Member pointed the following out: Isn’t it shitty how the relative coolness of the party is determined by the likelihood of the cops showing up? Damn you draconian drinking laws!