The Katrina Mardi Gras

My Mardi Gras story begins the moment C-Money waltzed into the library on Monday, February 27, 2006; a true shocker - his presence in the library fleeting and rare because C-Money scorns mindless waste of mindful energy, and therefore avoids the library at all costs.  I demand an explanation, “Dude! What the hell are you doing here?”  His tall frame laughed, explaining that he had arrived to rescue me from myself, “I am here to take you to f*cking Mardi Gras that’s what, you hatchet-wound!”  The visions of flooding, pain, and loss that had filled the televisions for weeks provided too tempting an opportunity to see the revitalization, to participate in a renaissance of the jewel of the south on such massive proportions: an emotional swing that humans rarely experience in a single lifetime.  “Are you serious?” I asked.  “Uh, yeah!” he said courtly.  C-Money was always serious, never denying the truth of his natural mystic.  “Did I stutter?”  “F*ck yeah! Let’s Go!”  People look at me disapprovingly, in the middle of the ground floor screaming and jumping like a monkey, gathering my books and throwing them violently into my bag, fearing that without quick action the 6’ 4” southern charmer might change his mind. Damn you boys have a pep in your step, said the friendly janitor, as we scramble towards the exits, fumbling with cell phones.  F*ck yeah, we goin’ gator huntin’.  Within minutes, Stinky is on the line and agrees to trade her car for mine for 2 days so we can travel in style. Truants on Mardi Gras need to travel to the dirty dirty in American style, not in a VW Jetta, but a Jeep Cherokee.  Within minutes, C-Money has commitments to fill the car: Mexico, J-Man, and the Booty are in, and we’re rolling.

We pack the cooler full of whatever we can find including any delectibles in the freeze box; it is a pantry-raiding grab-bag full of booze (half fill bottles of rum and vodka) plus a few random PBRs, Busches, Corona, throw a Gatoraid, half-full bottles of water, some Kraft cheese singles -- and anything else that won’t spoil over the next three days and we have a veritable survival kit.  Mexico is still in bed, not atypical for 5 in the PM, after a busy afternoon, but he is our driver, and it is not like he is missing class anyway, because he doesn't goes to class in the first place; so throw him behind the wheel because he's done twenty hour straight drives from Texas to North Carolina on no sleep but for the power of Framton leading from his shirt pocket directly to the mucousa of the brain.  J-Man is packin flower-power heat for everyone, moving speedily towards the car with a knapsack full of the unknown, that is mostly sleeping bag and pillow.  Even though this car is ridin dirty, J-Man never fears a car ride with 4 full on honkey-looking dudes.  J-Man is half honkey, half-black, full honey, and cognizant of the phenomenon that if outnumbered by all-white dudes, and not driving, he cannot get pulled over for a DWB; nevertheless we are aware of the risks and therefore must maintain a clean compartment within the car, to avoid any reasonable suspicion.  Not that we are breaking any laws, but we know our rights.  This also explains why the Booty arrives soon thereafter, replete with the the radar detector (to tell me where the cops is) a few minutes late but early by Booty standards, and already complaining that the car has not started moving yet. C-Money has been ready, is always ready, and doesn’t need any clothes, or anything else, because he always keeps a toothbrush on him. 

Six hours later, Mexico pulls us into Atlanta.  Ever since Ray Lewis killed that guy after the Superbowl it’s never been the same.  Hey, goddammit let's just stay here for the night..."Forget that, Geezy, we have to keep going, continue through the night."  No man, I have girls here that want to bang me.  I went to college here...I'm telling you.  "Geezy, you haven't had a girl want to bang you ever.  We have to push through.  There is business to attend to." The ride continues through the night for the sake of one of the greatest parties on Earth. 

The big blue Jeep pushes through, with Mexico at the wheel, what I could call a flaming head full of steam, but nothing powering it, just going on fumes, the promise of adrenaline and adventure -- human's greatest high.  Drifting off in the bitch seat while the car pushes forth, onward into the darkness of the evening with a promise of a sunlight and human contact, pushing deeper, 6 hours later -- New Orleans’ seems to arrive with the blueish hue of dawn.  The landscape resembles a warzone: houses, neighborhoods, ripped to shreds, making sheet rock and dry wall look like paper, strewn about the ground, witness to Earth's fury.  Holy shit!  Someone yells, and for a moment I am awake.  Look at that!  It is a Wal-Mart, and it is ripped to shreds. 
I heard this hurricane wasn't that strong...
Whoever said that was smoking crack.  This thing destroyed an entire city. 

* * *
Mexico pulls up to the Hotel Le Pavillion -- a shining homage to post-Victorian industrialism of the roaring 20s – and the hotel is remarkably, unnoticeably damaged.  Our reservation, however, is for 2 PM later that day, which we reserved via Expedia's phone service 6 hours earlier when departing Atlanta's city limits on I-75, and not surprisingly, the hotel won’t check us in at 7 AM however.  The obvious solution is to park the car and head into the Latin Quarter, driking beers without having experienced any sleep, and stumble into the early morning party, Fat Tuesday, the year of our Lord, 2006, only to find a veritable riot at 300 Bourbon Street. 

Thousands of people are screaming at a balcony.  This is the hotel we wanted to stay at but it was booked solid unless someone wanted to reserve a room at the Royal Sonesta for three days, which according to C-Money, was remarkable -- "Normally, you have to book this at least a year in advance.  We could stay here if we wanted, if we only had f-you money..." There swarms of people waiving towards the balcony where young blonde haired women are throwing beads at our heads.  It is a strange find early in the morning, as it would seem to defy all rationality that hundreds of people would be fighting over beads at 7:30 in the morning.  The Butt sees what's going on...Brittney Spears is the ring-leader of the young blondes on the balcony, and she is throwing beads at our heads.  It seems that her distant cousins are getting in the act, with bleached hair and drunk on the power of pursuasion.  With the knowledge that Brittney is throwing these beads, suddenly I am fighting large men for the beads from her hands.  Outta my way! I want Brittney's Beads… C-Money, the Mardi Gras impresario proclaims, points towards the balcony, “See, everyone who’s anyone stays at the Royal Sonesta for Mardi Gras. Brittney is from NOLA Geezy!  She has plenty of beads.  And she knows the deal."  Yes.  If I can get Brittney's beads, maybe I can get some of her good fortune as well.  "Maybe, but her cousins aren't going to make out with you regardless.” Suddenly a stout 50-year-old, the size of a fullback, bumps me, head down.  He has somewhere to be.  Oh Shit!  "C-Money, you see who that was?"  That’s Emeril Legassi!  Yo – your show is the jam - BAM! “Bam!” He responds, and continues to push us out of his way.

Getting pushed around in a crowd by rich assholes reminds me of the time I was in line at He’s Not Here in Chapel Hill for Big Beer Night, held every Tuesday during the summer of my first summer in law school.  According to urban legend, the owners re-named the bar after Jordan graduated, because it was his favorite spot in Chapel Hill and people would always call and ask for him and the bartenders would respond – “He’s Not Here!”A crew of large black dudes unexpectdedly and violently push me out of the way, cutting directly to the front.  “Hey Jerks!” I yell.  An undergrad is next to me, wide-eyed, mad, and proclaims, “Do you know who that was?” “Yeah, some dickhead who just cut line!” She then pushes me out of the way so she can get to the front of the line… “What does this look like, to you people, Summer Slam?” I get in, and there’s a palpable buzz…  Richter tells me, in his sleepy Cali drawl – “Hey, dude, did you see?  Michael Jordan just walked into the bar…” "No way!  I just got pushed by Michael Jordan's cronies.  Now I know how Patrick Ewing feels."  Peepsing my way towards the front, Jordan is already behind the bar, drinking beer out of his shoe.[1]  Guess he cut the beer line too. 

Emeril walks to the center of Music Legends Park, parting the sea of people like a rotund Charlton Hesston. An elevated desk sits in the middle of the plaza, for the filming of Good Morning America.  “Sweet,” says C-Money, “Time to get some beignets.”  Sleepless and disoriented, we head to the jam packed Café du Monde for well needed chicory coffee and donuts. 

Mexico is banging on the windows. I am lying across the cooler in the back. Everyone else is in the cabin, napping, sweaty, and hot.  “They’re checking us in!”  In the street, a parade has materialized.  Floats jam packed with Cajuns and Creoles - WAHARHAR! - dressed like kings and queens are honking and be-bopping, enormous speakers pumping Zydeco from a flotilla civilly making its way around the Jeep / bead-repository.  Parade kings and queens are smiling, gyrating their hips, and aiming beads directly at our heads as we stand outside of the car confused and disheveled. Beads fall like chocolate rain upon our heads and the car.  The Jeep’s blue paint is barely visible under the litter.  Booty snatches yellow toy underwear from the sky that he places in the car’s rearview mirror.  Please baby Jesus, don’t tow this car… “Don’t worry Geezy.  It blends in now with the community, like camouflage.”  Booty looks at his watch, “Shit, I have to call my girlfriend.  I told her I was in the library.”  I look to J-Man, who is puffing a ciggie, for reassurance, and he shrugs his shoulders… 

Back into the quarter in the early afternoon, and it is still packed with people, but drunker.  A small restaurant on St. Charles St. with signs in the window that say, simply, “Hiring,” is serving a half menu of poy bo’ deliciousness: fried oysters, fried shrimp, clam, grouper, and muffalettas  land-lubbers.  The back half of the restaurant is dark with chairs on the table.  A young waitress with short brown hair apologizes that the menu is limited.  “Most of the staff moved away,” she explains, “This is about half of the regular menu; we’ve had a heck of a time getting the restaurant back up and running since Katrina.”  Yeah, we came down for Mardi Gras to party and support the city by spending some money…“Well look at you boys…yes we’ve had a decent showing this year but it’s been remarkably tame.”  “That’s amazing,” I explain, “I’m having the greatest time of my life.  I never want to leave.” We are hiring…

The evening of Fat Tuesday, people flow indiscriminately in the Quarter - a mass of humanity and strawberry hurricanes.  Drinks are everywhere; it’s an open container Arabian market.  Bars on the street will just sell you drinks in styrophome cups.  Hold on Mr. Daiquiri shop operator, for only two dollars I can add an extra shot of ever-clear to my 20 oz frozen drink of death?  How could I pass up such a windfall!  The wealthy, poor and derelicts alike together under yellow lights and horns.  Soon I am dancing with homeless people in the streets. 

At midnight, bright lights are shining in my face and loud horns are blasting.  Street cleaners and cops have suddenly taken over the Quarter, chasing away partiers who scramble to another block.  C-Money is screaming at me - everyone else having disappeared, “At the strikes of midnight, people must to empty the streets.  This town is religion town, so when Ash Wednesday comes around, the party ends.  This year, however, they’re going to let it go on a bit longer.” 

Yes, although lives had been destroyed, the resilient quality of human nature would ensure the Big Easy’s survival.  I wake up on the floor of the four star hotel room. A confused and disoriented litte boy, “J-Man, J-Man, what happened to you last night?  We lost you, where’d you go?  “I don’t know.  I was with you guys, then next thing I knew I was with some locals, and I started making out with a lady in the middle of the street on a car.” “That’s crazy J-man, how did she look?”  “I don’t remember.”  “Well how old was she?”  “I’m not sure.” “Do you remember anything?” “Not really.”  Are you sure she wasn’t a tranny?  No, not really...   

---

[1] Fine.  Jordan wasn’t drinking beer out of his shoe.  But he was drinking a Corona with his shoe in the other hand, holding it up for people to admire.

Party Rule # 5 – Fist Pump to the Universal Party Balance

[continued from Party Rule # 4]

Go with the Party Flow. AKA  The Quickening…

I move further into the Thunderdome's bowl, dancing low now, bending like a surfer, at face level with people’s waistlines in the midst of a group dance -- like a dancehall barbarian in the Philadelphian savanna.  A girl screams at me – “What are you doing!” but I am moving in synch with the atmosphere.  I probe further.  Another brunette with senses sees I’m getting away with too much and her will penetrates mine.  Compelled to make physical contact, she backs that thang up, pushing me backwards into a crowd.  I brace myself to try to ride the wild cowgirl to Akon’s second verse of David Guetta’s Sexy Bitch, a club classic - DAMN GIRL!!!  Sweat is now pouring through, it is late, and the experience is nearing a close.  There is a shorter male with a scarf on.  He looks Latin.  The scarf is mine.  It must have fallen to the floor while dancing.  I entreat, “Hey man – that’s my scarf.  Give it back to me if I buy you a beer?”  “Okay okay – you go, go.”  He points to the bar.  I shake my head – “No, no, you have to come with me.”  He nods, obliges, and removes the scarf after I procure him a bud light.  We cheers and live well. 

Although my goal is sexual at the outset of the night like most of the other males at this scene, something kicks in - something is different tonight, and I can feel it; it is tangible.  I see people fist pumping and jumping to the sky.  What are they pumping to; what are they signaling to?  Is it the DJ?  No, higher…Are they praying to the disco ball?  No, that’s stupid.  Higher.  Another sensibility.  I feel it because chills are running down my spine and without question, I am fist pumping and jumping to the sky in unison as well -- to a universal party-oneness. Finally, I understand why we fist pump -- Don’t look back, move past the object and to the second-level, the phenomenal.  Fist pump – Chest bump, to the force that makes the universe funk, a pinhead balancing the wings of everything…The fist pump is a prayer to the eternal party force.   

Through the fist pump, party-oneness becomes easier to obtain: the act of connection with every living being in the room - the dj, the dancers, the bouncers, the bartenders.  Collective dance strips the protective layers by encouraging group thought and connection, and within the realm of the club, all races are together as one party-whole.  Appropriate levels of intoxication can also encourage party-oneness, but it is not necessary.  Freud calls this the greater oceanic feeling, otherwise known as entry into the collective unconscious.  Party-oneness requires reacting to the forces and energies in the room, not fighting it. 

The party person becomes the moment -- You are the actor, the entertainment, the main character, and yet an extra merely secondary to the identity of the party.  At a good party all party goers are main characters lacking individuality – the collective identity transcends everyone into a greater mutually amenable being – all shift to a higher plane of perception.  Dudes bumping into me, I don’t care – I’m not bothered.  Guys bumping into girls; they don’t care.  They’re not bothered.  The music pushes them into each other, reminding each that they are merely forces on earth who move with the waves of time and music.

Attending a party simply for sexual encounters leaves the seeker unsatisfied and frustrated, or emotionally cheapened by the physical obsession and objectification.  Freud understood that humans are inevitably sexual creatures, especially at the party, so sex is always there.  It is the elephant in the room but shouldn’t be the objective to partying, for it separates the ego from the collective whole by shifting the focus to individual desires.  Party-oneness is most tangible while partying, and easily obtainable when not entirely distracted by sex.  It requires reacting to the forces and energies in the room -- not fighting it – and suddenly there is a sense of oneness with all living things, connection with the dj, the dancers, the bouncers, the bartenders – understanding the energy and sharing with all.  The party epiphany leads the individual to party for party oneness.  The key to party-oneness is feeling the strings in the room and letting the party take you where it will.  One who parties for the party itself never departs unsatisfied.  Unencumbered, the party soul remains pure.  

At 2 AM the lights come on like a spot light from the heavens, indicating, sadly, that the party is over… On the walk out of the club, Big J is asking people “Anyone going back to Bensalem?  Anyone can give us a ride to Bensalem?”  This is Northern Liberties, aka No. Li’s, yet Big J feels secure enough to ask random strangers for a ride home.  He clearly is still partying.  The two young lovers who compliment his beads receive the broken set.  She asks for the set.  He obliges.  I criticize that his breaking the cardinal bead-rule of giving away the large beads for nothing.  How quickly I transgressed into materialism.  He explains his reasoning, which holds up.  “Besiedse,” he says, “Besides, there’s no more use for a broken set of beadsz.”

Big J man way to rock the house…

We throw down again for another cab, driven by another nice, young African man ensuring safe delivery back to Big J’s house -- a bargain at 30 dollars per head.  Upon arrival, he passes out, and I raid his fridge.

Party Rule # 4 – Always be nice to bouncers…

The large bouncer is scouring the line.  He’s nice, with a few gold crowns and big smile.  “What’s up fellas.  Nice beads.  You gotta get in line.”  He informs us.  “Alright, I gotta listen to this guy, he’s scary…” “Hey man,” he chuckles, “No reason to be scared o’ me.”  Pointing at the ladies, impeccable with their dark jackets, tight jeans, and hair: perma-wet sheen dark curls, $creaming out to the world – Look at me! “Those is who you gotta watch out for.”

Bouncers get paid to get yelled at.  They prevent rowdy drunks from starting fights and from threatening seductive patrons and bartenders.  In the face of chaos, they are rule of law, giving the appearance of order and authority at the club, so that utter anarchy doesn’t ensue.  Be nice to your bouncers, listen to them, and joke with them; they have to be outside all night and don’t care if you get in or not.  The fate of your evening lies in their hands, so if you’re nice they may let you in without waiting. 

An inebriated bro, his frosted-tipped hair fully spiked and wearing a long-sleeved graphic shirt, starts yelling at the bouncers.  He’s been kicked out.  “Man, that’s cowsh-t.  I’m not that drank.”  He’s pointing, never good.  “All my friends are inside.”  The bouncer with gold teeth starts yelling, “You! You’re outta here!”  Arms extended, the mountain of a man is walking towards him.  His friends are now dragging him away, pulling the drunk white kid away from his goal.

We step to the front of the line now, away from the fray, behind a group of white kids with nore printed tees and spiky hair who had also jumped in line.  The bouncers step up, and tell the kids they can’t get in; they have to wait in the long line.  I turn, and the line slithers for at least a quarter of a mile, crowds of people – more guys in printed tees and females in pea-coats and short black dresses. 

The line jumpers – their faces speak volumes. With utter despair and sadness seen in turned lips and broken eyes, they forfeit their party-attempt.  Again, paranoia, that it’s never going to happen, sneaks in…Defeated, I turn back around to face Big J and bemoan, “J, man, let’s get out of here and get some cigs, we’re never getting in...”  However, Big J is no longer next to me or listening; he’s approaching the line keepers with open arms and they are frisking him, preparing him for admission into da club. 

I step behind him quickly, smiling.  The line kings smile back, nodding, giving that quiet sense of embrace, the greatest acknowledgment one person can give to another: acceptance – “I like the beads” an intimidating bouncer with a shaved head admits, “Thanks, I brought them up from Mardi Gras just for you.”  “Nice!”  He approves.  We made it to the party. 

Big J arrives to pay and says he’s on “Mikey W’s list”, or “Mikey-P, that’s what they said outside.”  I get up and say, “I’m on Mikey P, W or whatever he goes by these days.” The cashier, American by birth, likely European by descent, smiles at the irony - a male taking the name of his female counterpart. 

On ground level, there is the Bamboo Deck, a coat-check, and side club that is generally empty but is now bustling with other party-goers in fanciful clothing, shiny colors, sequins, and inferior Mardi Gras beads.  Night at the Roxxy is Night at the Roxbury on steroids and ecstasy.  We can feel thumping above, like a giant heart waiting to take it in.  There are people walking down, smiling and nodding at our appearance.  At the top of stairs an orgy of sound awaits.  We turn up the stairs and enter the Thunderdome.

Roxxy's mainfloor is set up like a bowl.  Two bar areas surround the perimeter such that onlookers can observe the large and fluid group dance.  We walk into this giant, flashing vortex, where individual identity is lost.  A young party-girl approaches us from the center, meeting us at the periphery.  She is clearly intoxicated on sexual empowerment or something else chemically attached to her brain.  She immediately flashes me (with a smile).  I oblige her with a cheap set of beads.  She waives at Big J, and repeats – rinse and repeat.[1]  “HAHAHA!” he smiles “Yeah!”  Spin cycle time. The intoxication of her youthful sexual power and pheromones demand his attention -- but she had our attention regardless -- she needed not buy into this materialist corruption.  They immediately are grinding on one another.  Within seconds, this gesture has made his week, month, and year, a stark contrast from a daily life trapped in a cold and artless office, reminding him there is contact out there, even if superficial and disingenuous.  Gazing at this frottage factory, I have instantly encouraged the degradation of this young female, recognizing not her spirit but glorifying the object.  To escape disgust and guilt I go quickly for a beer.  I wade through the middle of the crowd, surfing towards the back-bar, with the goal of re-upping like Super Mario and further losing myself into this spectacle. 

Always drink whiskey neat.  What’s a whiskey neat?

“Barkeep, could I trouble you for a whiskey neat!”

I’ve made my way through to the Back Bar, a quiet, yellow bar that connects to a suspended bridge that overlooks the bamboo patio and shallow pool.  There’s a stripper pole in this bar, which is occassionally utilized by those enrolled in pole dancing class, in order to display their new moves.

The bartender, a young, sandy-haired chap with Buddy Holly glasses, resembling a pre-lapsarian Cobain, asks innocently, “What’s a whiskey neat?”

“WHAT DUDE?  Whiskey neat is the simplest, purest of all drinks.  Simply whiskey poured into a shot glass.  It’s neat because there’s nothing except whiskey.  The only way to drink whiskey. Barkeep dude, you want a shot of Crown Royal neat?”

“Maybe later…”

“In that case, make it 2 Crown Royals - neat! And a beer…”

The bartender is confused.  “Hey - You going to pour or not?  Let’s do this!”  He abides.  “Dude – you want the shot or not?”

Laughing, shaking his head, no…I’m a rum and coke guy…I know who will…

One shot down.  One shot in my hand, and a beer in the right.  I’m on the search for Big J, and I attempt to re-enter the Thunderdome but a large bouncer stops me.  On Friday / 18 and up nights, all the underage kids are on the dancefloor.  They don’t want degenerate 29-year olds such as myself plying minors with booze.  This is a classy joint, he explains, in words such as “No booze on the dance floor.” I nod my head in acceptance, and he winks back.  Back through the yellow bar, I nod at Buddy Holly, and he nods back, diggin’ it – Whiskey Neat guy – he yells.  Then back around the periphery, and there is Big J, beer in hand.  I hand him the shot of whiskey.  He protests, “No way man – if I drink that I’ll puke.”  I shrug, down my second whiskey, and chide at him for being such a p.  Another party girl approaches us, a neck full of beads – “Nice, what you have to do for all of those?”  She smiles and points to the stage, “I was over there!”  There are women on the stage and the crowd and DJ are throwing beads at them.  I don’t know what’s more predictable, that they’re on stage, or that we can’t stop staring.  

I break off again away from Big J, drinking my beer and moving fluidly with the party.  One party-goer approaches me and compliments my beads.  She’s got an id around her neck, and I insult her beads for not being as sweet as mine. “You want to get some more?”  “Haha – no way!  I’m married and I have a six year old at home.”  “Nice!  Congratulations – she’ll be out here sooner than you can imagine.  Decades fly by.”  “I’m from Q102.  We promote this party.  What do you think?”  “I think it’s awesome!” 

Big J, on the other hand, is avoiding socially inept conversations with radio promoters, instead enjoying a never-ending party.  Late in the evening, while we’re walking out of the club, he gives away his beads to a white hot party-girl with her impeccable party-boy.  I chastise Big J.  He giddily explains:

“Look man, I’m wasted and I had the time of my life!  Definitely the most fun I’ve had in months!  Maybe the most fun since I’ve had since Phish Halloween.  You need to understand, however, those beads were broken.  All night I walked up to girls, and they would see my beads and get stoked and literally grab me!  They were totally mesmerized and obsessed with the notion of obtaining my beads.  I would nod in agreement, and they would flash me!  I’ve never experienced anything like that in my entire life!  Hot girls coming up to me and showing off their stuff!  This worked really well until just before we left, a girl came up to me and flashed me, but just in her bra.  I pretended like I would give them to her –“ he motions, as if he’s taking them off – “then I put them back on myself, instead.  She didn’t appreciate the trickery, and grabbed my beads and pulled down, ripping the strand.  I gave them away to that couple because they were nice. They complimented us and joked with us, assuming we’d had one helluva time based upon our showing of neck accoutrements.”

---

[1] The psychology has set in; beads are currency.  Ironically, one will exchange the right to gaze for something lacking monetary value.  There must be some transitory intrinsic value.  Empowering and degrading is sexual appreciation of the human form at its basest and purest level.  We lust that which we lack, but value in the object and not the individual.  Thus, the degradation of society, before the awakening.

Party Rule #3 – Always take a cab, because money is no object when partying…

Money has no intrinsic value anyway, and it is most valuable when partying, because it grants complete access to your party.  This does not mean that one should be wasteful with money.  Purchasing bottles of Grey Goose v. Skyy Vodka makes no difference, there’s no point in spending hundreds of dollars extra on Grey Goose to impress others, nor is it ever a great idea to drink an entire bottle of liquor at a club in the first place.  I propose: if you’re hanging out with individuals that you need to impress by wasting money on Grey Goose, at places where you need to be buying bottles of alcohol in order to party, then you’re not doing a good job of partying in the first place.   

Naturally, the next topic of discussion was mode of transport.  I suggest to Big J that he drive.  I don’t have a car.  He protests.  Three beers deep, and he complains that if he drives; he’ll stop drinking and won’t have fun.  “Well then you’re not a very sophisticated partier if you can’t have fun unless intoxicated.” 

His voice booms, “Well if you can have so much fun, why don’t YOU just drive my car?”  He lives about 20 miles from the club, and I have no desire to drive his Mustang.  “How much would a cab cost?”  “A cab costs 50 dollars.”  The sinking feeling that maybe we won’t make it out to the post-Mardi Gras Mardi Gras Party sets in, and paranoia, the anti-party force, creeps up.  Suddenly: inspiration.  “Well, if we’re all slaves anyway to the universe, and this is exactly what we’re supposed to be doing, screw it!  Let’s get twisted and take a cab!”  “Yeah!” “Vodka shots!”

A $50 cab ride will not ruin your party; it will MAKE your party.  Better to spend $50 on a cab than to risk death, arrest, humiliation, or injury while driving intoxicated.  The round trip average cost of cab fare is worth maintaining a worry-free and safe mode d’emlploi, as the whole purpose of the awakening life is to enjoy and continue existence.  If the net worth of your life is not worth 50 dollars, then you’re not attending the right parties.  The party goal is to keep the party going as long as possible and live to party another day.  Besides, treating yourself to a driver is one of the greatest luxuries in the world, standard procedure, and by partying in-style, you increase party enjoyment.      

-Better to spend $50 on a cab than to risk death, arrest, humiliation,

or injury while driving intoxicated.  PBG

The shots are poured and they are large.  Warm Smirnoff vodka is poison.  The purpose of this heavy neurotoxin is to dissipate the self into the reptilian brain, until all action is merely reaction, no thought, no hesitation.  Large shots catalyze the process.  “Dude!” he grimaces after a large swig.  “I can’t drink all of this.”  “Do you want to party, or do you want to party?”  Pathetic, but it takes vodka and 3 beers for oneness to set in: we are exactly where we should be at this exact moment in time.  “This is exactly what we should be doing.  There’s no other option, so just drink the piss out of some piss!” 

Minutes later, the cabbie arrives in an American car, resembling a Buick or an Oldsmobile, with fancy GPS and tracking devices on the front dash.  We scurry over snow piles to get in.  He is in his late 20s, African, and he’s amused by the sight of two bumbling white dudes, necks full of beads, climbing over snow.  “You boys going to party?”  “Yeah we’re going to party.”  “Haha- me too - later tonight.”  “If you gotta better party…” I scream, “you’d better tell us about it…unless you think we would get messed up at your party, in case white boys aren’t encouraged.”  “Ha-ha!” He laughs, “you’d be fine, but it might be a little quiet for you.”  “Screw that, we want to do it right!”

We chit-chat about his car: 100 bucks per day to rent the cab, and he can’t even pick-up people in the city; he can only drive to and from Bensalem.  “My boss, he got so much money because he has the medallion, and he make-a da money everyday guarantee.  Man, sometimes I lose-a da money when I get no fare. I work-a da 12 hour day, seven day week!”  “Man, that’s crazy…you can’t even pick someone up when you drop us off, then take them somewhere in Philly?”  “No man…the city controls all dat sheet. Odawise dere would be cabs evarywhere picking up-a da people left and right.  It’s all about control.”  “You gotta love competition in this country – where capitalism is discouraged when it might actually help the working man.  Shit man, you don’t take a day off?”  “That’s a violation of federal employment laws,” says Big J, an employment lawyer, fired up by the threat of litigation.  “They have to pay you overtime if you’re working over 40 hours a week!” “No man, I’m a da independent contractah…” “Yeah, what if he’s an independent contractor?” “Irrelevant.  If his boss takes a portion of his pay, advertises out his cab service on the car door, and controls his hours, our man here is an employee.  You deserve overtime man.” 

Club La Roxxy – Philadelphia’s Premier Party Location

We arrive at our destination – Philadelphia’s premier party location - one of the best party spots on the North East in general, featuring a hundred-thousand dollar light and speaker system, lasers, stages, screens, strobe lights, HUGE disco balls, and scantily clad bartenders serving 2 dollar Bud Lights all night long.  In the summer, the party goes outside to the bamboo deck and pool and gets even creepier. 

There’s like a line halfway down the block on N. Delaware Ave.  We jump out the car and cross the median, dodging snow drifts in make-shift Mardi Gras uniforms, cutting right to the front of the line. 

“Hey man – I know Mikey-W,” Random spikey-haired bros scream.  “It’s Mikey-P now, he just got married,” chuckles the behemoth at the point of entry.  “He took her name.” 

Mikey-W is the promoter for Club La Roxxy.[1]  He’s modest and unimposing if you meet the man in the flesh.  Most big city promoters feature flamboyant clothing, outspoken hypocrisy, and are loathsome to males, such as myself, not on the VIP list.  Mikey-W on the other hand is friendly, calmly smokes cigarettes, and encourages all comers to La Roxxy through daily text messages and weekly emails.  If you email Mikey-W, to “get on his list,” from 9 to 11 you get free admission and free well drinks.  Tip your bartenders.    

---

[1] Mikey-W recently retired for family reasons.  I texted him to wish him luck in his future endeavors.  When I get the name of the new promoter I’ll let you know. 

Party Rule # 2 – There’s no free will – so go with the party flow…

In preparing to party, Big J and I frequently engage in philistine argument, which keeps the mind flexible.  Underneath the party sheen, Big J, like most party-misfits, is an introspective human pushing the boundaries of the mind by whatever means necessary.  His religion is atheism, yet his outlook reveals a fundamental faith in the universe.  Challenge him to a debate on faith, and you may find that his eclipses yours.  This is a unifying theme of party-goers globally, that the universe conspires in your favor to bring you before amazing places, people and parties…

The conversation now focuses on free will.  Big J claims that free will is just an illusion.  As an agnostic, my immediate response is bull shit.

Experientially, free will is witnessed as real through our perceptions, what makes us paranoid, and what we choose to believe in: conspiracies, extra-terrestrials, Jesus, environmental degradation, pre-marital sex, prohibition, the corporate capture of American Democrazy, and, most importantly, the creation and appreciation of art and music. 

 “Look, I decide to move my arm, I move my arm.  It moves, because my brain tells it to move.”  “Yeah, but where does that impulse to tell your brain to move it come from?”  “What are you talking about?  I did.”  “Haha,” he laughs at my ignorance. 

“No, what causes that synapse to fire?  We’ll agree, in the end, that your bran is just chemistry.”  I nod my head.  “Now, the chemistry that causes your movements, your thoughts – they are merely electricity moving in your head, as set in motion by the Big Bang.”  “Agreed.”  “Thus, in order to truly control your thoughts, you’d have to control electricity.”

“What are you talking about? I control which synapses to fire.” 

“Exactly, then you would have to control chemistry.” Hmm… “Either that, or it’s just the science in your brain playing out as set in motion by the creation of the universe.  Scientists are now at a point where they’re not sure if they agree whether humans can control the science in their brain, or if it’s all just chemistry.” 

“Surely you don’t believe that.  Humans placed in boxes deteriorate, and they do not evolve into advanced minds.” 

“Let me show you something.” 

Big J, big beer in hand, plays this YouTube Video for an example of Libet’s experiment, which examines the brain activity of a subject directed to do something randomly, such as pressing a button without pattern.  The results indicate that the subject’s brain is activated up to six seconds before the moment he or she randomly presses the button, i.e. before the subject “decides” to spontaneously damper the trigger.  The origin of this impulse unclear. 

Yeah, well, that’s to be expected – the part of his brain that moves his finger is stimulated prior to pressing the button.

"You’re missing the point.  The decision to press enters his brain prior to what he perceives is the conscious decision of when to press.  Thus, the decision to press and when enters his brain well before he actually presses the button, and we don’t know where this decision comes from or what triggers it.  The decision is made for him, and the conscious mind is merely perceiving that decision after it takes place, believing it is making that decision, when in fact, there appears to be no freedom as to when the decision to press the button occurs.

“So there’s no freedom of thought?”

Big J -- The existential problem presents two seemingly unacceptable realities.  I do not claim to know which of the two is correct.  Matter reacts to other matter.  There are only so many elements.  Carbon reacts with water given the same conditions every time.  There is no secondary way carbon interacts with water.  It is always the same.  And it has been since the big bang.  Your thoughts are grounded in this principle.  Whether that actually matters is another discussion.  Matter controls thoughts.  That is option one.  If this is true, there is no free will.

Another equally interesting possibility exists.  Thought controls matter. If that is the case, then we are all God…

Taking it one step further, we are all matter.  There is nothing special about our bodies.  It is just carbon, water, elements.  And the decisions we think we perceive are automated.  Water always boils at 212 degrees.  Always.  Unless you change it and add salt.  Then is boils slightly higher.  Every time.  It’s always the same.  And if thought is an illusion, and thought is as automatic as the boiling degree of water, then there is a much bigger problem we still have not addressed.

There is no I.  The system which makes every decision you think you make is so much larger than you.  There is no you.  It’s all the Big Bang.  Boom! You are the big bang.  So is every piece of all matter.  The very fabric of existence is all the same.  You are not part of it.  You are it.  There is no individual I.  There is no differentiation between “living” and “inanimate”  It is all matter.  Matter is one.  We are all one. “

Partyboygeezy -- You’re freaking me out.  Of course I exist as an individual and can make my own decisions.”

Can you, or is that just an illusion?  Do you really think you are making those decisions, or it’s dictated by the big bang and the system naturally created by it?

Partyboygeezy -- I think I’m starting to understand.  The heart beats naturally, and we don’t think that we are controlling our heart – even though it is controlled by the synapses in our brain.  Why do we think that we can consciously control the synapses that don’t fire uniformly?  But then what about laws?  If you can’t change people’s actions with laws, if they’re all purely reactionary, then what’s the point to laws?”

Big J -- Look, this creates many problems with the way humans have created society, if everything is merely reactive to the natural course of events.  But you’re forgetting that decision-making is situational, therefore situations seem to dictate how events unfold, but put yourself in a given situation at a given time, and you will react with the same reaction in every circumstance.

Partyboygeezy -- So then let’s just do away with everything – all social rules and laws that is.  Let’s just go crazy!  Those who are programmed to follow the laws would do it anyway, based upon moral reflection, and those that are programmed not to follow the laws, won’t follow them anyway – so what’s the point?”

Big J shrugs, “There is none.”

Then it all started to unravel, perceived reality.  A sense of panic crept into my being, and I clung for control.  “Hold on, you’re an atheist.  You’re promoting predestination, the most rigid of all theistic philosophies, one that promotes hierarchy and denounces social justice.  How can you believe in predestination, if you don’t believe in God?” 

Big J -- I put my faith in science, the science that was set into motion during the big bang.  Ironic, isn’t it, that atheists and the most fundamental of religious thinkers essentially believe the same thing?” 

“Well, then you just believe in God, don’t you?  If Creation made everything happen, and it’s all happening just as it’s supposed to, you believe in the same order that fundamentalists are talking about when they talk about God.” 

“I don’t really believe that there is a puppet master pulling strings.  It’s all put into order, and the order is undeniable.  As a single human do you believe that you can alter that order in any way?  Then you yourself are a god.”

"But really, we’re all God in the end, right, because we’re all part of the same fabric we’re talking about.  I would also go to say that you believe in god because you’re part of that order."

“Well, if that’s what you think God is, if that’s what you’re describing, then yes, I suppose I believe in God.”

“Snap!  I got you to believe in God, you dirty hell-worshipping atheist.  I’m sick of this conversation.  Let’s get drunk.  You will believe in God and feel like God when you see all these women shoving themselves at you to steal those worthless Chinese beads I gave you.”

Party Rule # 1 – be prepared to party at all times according to the rules of the party…

Different parties have different rules.  Pool parties require swim wear.  Costume parties demand costumes.  Mardi Gras requires impressive beads. 

Four years earlier, I had road tripped to New Orleans for Mardi Gras 2006, in the eclipse of Katrina.  Sadly, New Orleans had been cleared of buildings, lives, families, and businesses.  It even closed the Wal-Mart.  Yet, in the wake of Katrina, the people came to the party, promising the city’s survival.  I did my part, as did my four party boy companions: The Butt, C-Money, J-Man, and Mexico.  Mardi Gras 2006, through its spirit, resuscitated the Big Easy, and its magical beads found a way back to Big-J on this evening that would now enlighten his spirit with their power of survival. 

These beads had been wasting away their Earth-life in my closet.  Beads, like humans, are built to party.  Unlike humans, it is their sole purpose on Earth.  Created to support New Orleans’ renaissance, their life goal was not being realized by gathering dust in my closet and Now was the time for these beads to re-emerge unto the party world on Big J’s nape. 

…and don’t be subject to premature bead ejection… 

While chugging craft beer in his Bucks County Rent-A-Mansion, I proselytize, “Bead theory holds that all beads are connected, but the thicker the beads the better.  Size matters.  One set of large beads is better than many small beads.  Large beads centralize one’s attention and draw in focus.  I have many, many strands of small, independent beads in different colors.  The loss of additional bead-strands, and I myself would risk losing bead gravitas.  I grant you these, and leave myself at critical bead-mass.” 

I hand him the sweetest set of single beads in my possession: a thick, dynamic strand of multitudinous beads, intermingling red, blue and green in chains and links, shining in distance.  They would catapult Big J to a level of attention that he deserved, as an enlightened party boy, but rarely achieved. 

“The simple economics of supply and demand demands your success.  Demand for quality beads will be insanely high.  This party doubles as a game where the goal is to collect as many high quality beads as possible.  Supply for superior beads, on the other hand, will be extremely low.” 

I provide historical perspective, “As Darwinian chance would have it, the Philadelphia port, once the greatest trade center of the Americas, no longer enjoys such status, and therefore receives not massive shipments of Chinese-made toy beads, as does the Mississippi Delta.  I blame Napolean, and his stupid brother Joseph for selling the Mississippi River to Jefferson, thereby screwing our city and leaving us in bead envy, forcing the best beads to arrive via the I-10, I-85, I-95 dirty south route, along with other, more potent, party supplies as well.”  “Wait, but didn’t the Louisiana Purchase ensure the existence of Mardi Gras as well?”

 “Just shut up and listen.  The temptation is going to be to give them away.  Whatever you do, even if the hottest girl you’ve ever seen invades your psyche and demands those beads, such that seemingly the Creator itself wants you to give away the beads, and you’d have to cut off your hands to avoid giving them away, then cut your hands despite your ass.  These beads are hypnotic.  The social pressure of getting the best set in the room will drive these predictable human-beings to throw themselves at you.  Don’t do it.” 

Thus, Big J, with merely a single set of braided beads, would be better prepared in his party endeavors than the competition. 

“Partying, like anything else in life, takes patience and mystique.  If you give in to the power of others prematurely you will lose your own power.”  I warn him of the dangers, however, of possessing that which others want, when not in a position to give away.  “Others may attack, surge, approach aggressively, or resort to trickery to obtain your power, even nudity.” “No!” “Yes.  Do not be led astray by their forces or magic.  With those beads, go your verve, and you will be rendered useless as a vampire with sunglasses, as Superman with Kryptonite, as a eunuch with a condom.”

“I won’t give these beads away!  Not even if the hottest girl I’ve ever seen wants them!”

“Wants them?  Big J – only if she takes you right then and there because, mystically, her soul is linked to these beads through you and needs them so badly that she will do anything.”

“YEAH!  I WON’T DO IT!  UNLESS SHE WANTS TO DO IT!”

“Then you know what she’ll have?”

“What?”

“Shitty beads and crabs!”  We’re screaming and jumping like little children.  His dog Molly is amid the fray, wrestling and barking at the screaming pair, who are pounding beers above her canine head. 

This conversation, sounding in bead theory and male objectification of the female form, coupled with the alcohol induced oncoming haze, served as a distraction from the haunting revelation that Big J had triggered about an hour ago. 

MaRdi GrAs -- The World's Greatest Party

The Party Epiphany occurred during the week surrounding Mardi Gras, 2010 AD, at Club LaRoxxy, a superior party club in the superior party city, Philadelphia, PA. 

My companion that evening was Big J, a fellow seeker I’d met in grad school, with large hair, a large voice, a large stomach, and a large desire to party.  This impulse to party for the truth inexorably links our souls in friendship.

In 2010, Fat Tuesday occurred February 23.  Mardi Gras at Club La Roxxy, however, occurred that following Friday.  Despite this anachronism, I guaranteed Big J that this would be the greatest Mardi Gras he’s ever witnessed.  After all, Mardi Gras never stops, it just goes into hibernation.  



Mardi Gras requires impressive beads.

-PBG.

The Party Epiphany

Introduction

Life lacks meaning, as a Taoist would say; there is no purpose other than being.  The Big Bang occurred billions of years ago, in an ordered fashion, leading to life on this Earth as we know it, and likely upon other distant planets as well.  It set in motion an inevitable course of events, culminating with your life on Earth, in this form of matter, at this very exact moment. 

In a strange twist of fate, sex, and timing, BOOM you arrive by pure, perfectly ordered fashion. Unto Earth, naked, cold, screaming, assuming you survive the birth process, which for thousands of years was dicey at best -- still is in vast parts of the globe.  You rely upon controlled randomness that parents or someone you are thrust upon will care for you.  

Most of us are born to this world amidst poverty, famine, or tragedy.  Only a select few can even afford to provide chemical replacements for mother’s milk – a baby formula.   As a baby, you yearn for the breast, be it little known if momma can afford chalky formula, and the rest of the world, an unknown, cries for momma's teet whilst momma struggles for a meal.  While others enjoy a certain gambler’s quality that succeeds in capitalism.

Nonetheless vast populations of our country seeks to prohibit abortion wholesale...as if I was asked to be born and would be any better off if not?  Comical in fact, I would be in the same scenario, but simply lacking the fear of what becomes of this whole process.  Hopefully parents or someone you are thrust upon will care for you as a human or other rational being.  It is through acceptance  of the sheer blessedness of one's survival that the desire to party springs -- a celebration of life to the fullest.

For thousands of years, the birth process was dicey at best.  Without perfect conditions, certain species even resort to fillial cannibalism to ensure survival.  In vast swarths of the globe that lack computers, a constant flow of electricity, and modern medical equipment, birth remains a dangerous proposition.  Darwin pushes us forward nonetheless.

For some strange evolutionary reason, humans wish to support a baby.   You cannot support yourself as a baby.  Survive malaria, small pox, the immune system strengthens, but it doesn't get easier.  The only guarantee is that as you age, the probabilly of harm increases – forces out of  your control.  A bully, a neighbor, in the pulpit, lurking, waiting, to abuse -- hopeful to survive without, and emerge whole, with an identity, a sense of self.  Those who do not may be sliced into halves, quarters, twos, threes, as images so severe, atavistic, quick to violent outbreaks,  progressing out of some developmental eternal adolescence towards a purgatory, yet not their doing.  Children are stolen everyday into bands of militants, gangs, porn, or maybe some hidden cult, and most of us don't care.  Once you experience this jadedness, or simply become aware of the desire lurking, life itself loses consistency, becoming an early fear or showcase that Freud believes shapes one's future self.  At the onset of the fear, suddenly it is not so easy to jump and believe; and all that remains is alienation, institutionalization, or imprisonment – be it actual or intellectual.  This is the answer:

Fear of the Unknown

Possibly, negative experiences would not carry the same weight if it were not for the hidden unknown - the fear that pain is lurking, waiting to reappear, at the place and time it is not supposed to, where you are never safe...why am I never safe?  Singular moments of despair, becoming the defining factor.  Singular moments of helplessness defining one's body, mind, and soul.  Dictating how to Live,  Love,  Die. 

The fear in the unknown logically leads one to conclude that despair is truly what lurks behind the curtain. Despair and pain to follow, defines life, and death passes as well with all sentient beings.  This reality to pain is worse than nothing.  Find in nothing the promise of pasture's peace and quiet, a problem ends, along with pain.  Nothing rests in peace, so it goes. 

Becoming One's Fear -- The Great Irony

A story of evolution would implicate some intrinsic value to life.  Once the unborn spirits were blessed with the power of life, a chain reaction was set into a course such that more life was desired.  As a consequence, there is a story of scarcity, and most living creatures struggle to survive; the struggle is programmed into our beings, and the future leads away from that conclusion. A consequence of evolution is to create the self - it drives procreation, persistence, and life.  A self's fears are even driven by evolution -- pain is stronger than the memory of love or ease -- guaranteeing a cave man to stay deep in his fear, keep away from the lion.  Fear provides a tasteful tool from danger, but the mood is intangible, occassionaly despair overwhelms, fear suddently irrelevant, a shot of life again.  As despair trolls, the self becomes the thing it hates, the opposite, the owner, the non-entity.  Do not feed into the fear of the inevitable being and bring that fear to the exact moment.  That moment is inevitable.  The fear, however, the approach is avoidable.  Certain memories bring a time into being, but the approach to that thought -- is key to the moment.  You can elicit hate or acceptance.  The reason to party? The reason I am here?  I was younger, nobody liked me, so now I try to party to make friends.  To feel cool.  Truth is, what do you do with your party?  How do you feel about it?  I party to feel cool.  No, why do you party?  What do you do with the situation that brings you here?  Do you party to feel cool, or do you party because you party, and now you build the most out of the moment, building a tower that doesn't fly too high.  You have two choices -- like Hitler would you die uncerimoniously and infamous?  Like Nixon,  ridiculed by the masses? Or will you die positive and unknown? 

The Power Person

One approach, to nothing, simply, is to amass power and institute fear in others.  Since the dawn of modern civilization and the cities, despots, abusers, bullies have fought incessantly to capture then sustain control over their surroundings and their brethren, believing that with enough power and re$ources it is even possible to defeat death – the great equalizer.  They sell status to the masses as God’s will, even controlling immortality.  Cheating death, through power, has reappeared.  In this century, over 2000 years after the story of a most powerful man who could cheat death only by forfeiture of all materialistic goods, not the acquisition of them, again the smartest, most powerful men in the world believe that they too, within a few decades, will be able to cheat death.  They call it the Singularity. 

Fools, do not fear are the trappings of loneliness or physically vulnerability.   Yes control of one’s surroundings -- even others' thoughts, emotions, and struggles, will protect the Power Person, or incumbants of the sovereign from expulsion (so goes the thinking).  But what ticks internally in such an individual that can effectively (although temporarily) control its material surroundings?  It is simply an unchecked ego -- a view of the self that is not genuine, but merely that which the Power Person seeks to project upon the world.  Control the physical world, the logic goes, and live on forever, while the public accepts your ego.  Within the Power Person, the ego reigns supreme. 

So the ego can rule however it sees fit.  But the true question is whether the ego is proving itself to others,or has nothing to prove?  Think in this manner -- the form of one’s individual ego certainly dies at death, and the world's view of that individual, if persists at all, is no longer in that individual's control.  The value of one's life therefor becomes judged by the effects of one's actions.  Anything that persists individually post-mortem would be that supreme energy flowing through one’s body -- a formless soul -- functionless without an agenda easily manipulated and morphed by brain waves pushing all thought and conciousness.  However, it would be sensible that this soul that drives life would be attracted to the energy -- those waves -- within which it is accostomed. 

If a projected ego is all that soul knows, it will go there after death -- attracted towards those waves of self doubt, loathing, paranoia, that drives the supreme insecure ego to strive for power in the first place.  An ego merely built upon a false notion of self, a facade of insecurity which the Power Person wishes to sell to the masses, and why should it because that supreme thoughtful ego is completely loved by all, yet leaves no guidance for the soul, which is free at death to combine with however many forces it wishes to, bringing vampiric life-forces that only wish to suck for its own eternity -- a soul left free to abuse.

Save the soul from abuse!  Build an identity for the self, against the negative currents, no matter how many, built a strong foundation of the self to stand independently, based not upon the fear of death or anonimity, but upon faith in the self, the collective community; with the only hope that after it all ends boy, the soul will be guided and attracted to the energy of faith and progress, enlivened to such positive energy into the cycle of life, and away from the larger trappings of pride and power that creates so much suffering for others.  Cultivate your identity, if only to protect your soul, and hide it with an identiy mask.  There is something I believe in, it is called the Boomskull, it connects into the ultimate party, and it cultivates the identity, as long as the party soul is pure.

The ego represents nothing individually, and the individual ego that seeks power for the sense of power, to cheat death, controls no surroundings, in death lies merely alone.  The ultimate goal merely unachievable.  Should an ego persist past death, it is certainly swallowed by a greater ego – a greater stomach as part of a larger mystical food chain – leaving nothing but indigestions.

Without death, there is no life.   Death is the illusion that makes life possible.  Life is limiting, yet it is the gateway that catapults your intellectual energy and spirit through the physical realm and into the universe, permeating everything, free to travel through all dimensions of reality.  Life is the gateway between the real and the imaginary.  Why fear the reentry into the imaginary?  There was energy before; there will be energy after you, just not in your same form or substance. 

The Party People

There is no rhyme or reason to these patterns of existence, so the question becomes – what to do about it? A small minority of humans, fortunate enough to survive comfortably, disclaim ownership at times, but generally situational luck that when considering the odds of birth in the first place, multiplied by the odds of suffering, the numbers become entirely befuddling for those in the top experience to comprehend why their lives are not replete with great suffering, and therefore meaning is ascribed – a fortunate past life, gifts from the heaven, a kind spirit acting in your benefit, because the sheer odds are too much for the minds to compute a life without great suffering.  And the biggest irony, is just the middle class blue collar type...what did that person do to get here?  Without the strain of survival on the palate, a waking life not dedicated to fighting famine, disease, or dehydration, life suddenly lacks sense.  Therefore, with such great fortune, why not dedicate life to the promotion of the human spirit at every turn, vitalized through the party. 

The party lives in the Boom. In the skull, for some partying is the ultimate goal.   Some party merely for themselves, while some fight to bring the party to others.  These are the party people, and their souls are eternal.

Ignore for a moment that partying, in its purest form, involves no war, no harm, and no physical injury.  Those whom love to party love it not for those reasons, however; they love it organically as intrinsic within their soul, a calling that involves the mutual expression of the human form, uniting classes and races peacefully, in a single, fluid, love-Jones.  Partying neither judges nor cares.  It is natural, inevitable, and celebratory, the most essential and harmonious of human impulses, chaperoning art, civilization, and love.  Partying without objective is charitable; it requires connecting with others, regardless of stature and status, encouraging cooperation and a shared collective.  Too often, however, partying is rightly perceived as a threat by the power-hungry, shunned as detrimental and morally vacant.  When accepted by the conformist, partying is not lauded as a catalyst of free expression and social discourse, by derided as the devil.  Only the devil calls another by such a name.  

True, at times individuals cannot control their impulses and emotions at a party, and negative consequences result.  However, this has nothing to do with the party but the individual who has lost his way to his own demons.  Most likely, this is not acclimation with Boomskull, but Chasing of the Dragon – a consequence of materialistic desire.  Overcome by the negative forces of the Dragon – self-doubt, envy, lust – and negative results flow from the flaws in the mind-body.  However, there are many negative results from excess – overeating (yet we do not call for the expulsion of foods or red meat), overtanning (yet we do not avoid the sun that giveth life), nymphomania (yet we still must procreate) – why therefore abandon the party and all its favors? 

I challenge the naysayer – what bereft results flow from the party itself? 

And ye cannot answer, for there is none… 

When work is done – do you choose to party? 

If the world ends tomorrow – will you party today? 

Were tonight your last on Earth - would you party?

If the answer is yes then join me…

You seekers, feeling misunderstood, fight the internal and external divisive forces with the unifying force of the party.  Become the individuals from whence the party springs! 

You, party person, capable of evil, shun the divisive force.  Cultivate the inner Boomskull and languish with praise the unknown, unifying force that brings it together.   Admonish that which tears apart.  Cherish the fear of the unknown.  Strive not to be overwhelmed by the fates.  Status, money, power, and control over the weak are not segues to happiness.  Party with all.  Explore the possibilities and landscapes of reality and the mind with the approach of acceptance and preservation of the party,[1] and you will cultivate the inner Boomskull. 

 

With every tick of the clock, this form comes closer to its end on Earth, therefore, at every available moment moving forward, I say, party and bring others into the fold.  There is no greater objective in life.  Use the informational superhighway to lead you to the party; make the world your party blog; party for the party itself and no other end.  This is the party epiphany.

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[1] I’m not talking about political parties, tea parties, or Tupperware parties.  A party is simply a collection of people.  I’m talking about parties where the purpose is to party, just like the song Party All the Time, as performed by Eddie Murphy and composed by Rick James.