Party Foul #1 – Needless destruction by fire, the supreme party foul…

Needless destruction by fire, is the supreme party foul…The proverbial party foul appropriately begins with the beginning, i.e. where it ends.  The original party necessitated fire, and out of fire cometh the original party foul.  How I love fire - providing the energy to attract focus, a surrounding membrane for music, gathering, food and dance, safety from the unknown forces of the night.  The sun of the night.  Yet in the face of creativity and warmth, lies the darkness of fire's power; despite its usefulness, fire can be used to realize the jealousy of man -- unleashing destructive and sadistic forces, that burn down villages and towns.  Fire that destroys the party does not bring the party.  Fire allows the one who believes its party inferior, even if invited, to swiftly lay waste to another's party.  The origin of the party foul mirrors the self and the perceived limitations of the self - true or false it matters not; only that which is perceived is reality.  And fire is never satisfied, but it merely consumes, until dust remains.  Yes, the supreme party foul -- destruction by fire.  If it burns hot enough and large enough, it will result in complete destruction of mankind while in the right arsonist’s hands. 

The party foul of destruction by fire need not be pernicious; while unclear, it may have arisen as early humans tasked with watching the fire itself fell asleep and allowed the fire to come into the wrong person's hands, or if it simply sparked and spread by its own physical forces, and thereafter roamed freely through the campsite, as the early humanoids were screaming in anger and desperation until the fire subsided. Carelessness too is a party foul; a party foul need not be intentional but may arise from mere negligence of the partier.  Whether humans willfully allow the chaos to ensue or watch in silence, the effect is the same - fire consumes!

Within the party foul lies the danger of the party: manifestations of the self in its most destructive force.  This is not specific to the party however but arises in all forms of social interaction -- humans can unleash their inner party-demons to realize massive destruction and pain.  Ironically, the demons themselves were most likely created out of destruction and pain, while humans foolishly repeat these wrongs after experiencing them in the first place as an attempt to overcome these demons.  Fools, a party-fouled cannot utilize the exacting tools of the party-foul to overcome the party foul...fire cannot defeat fire; a mirror that replicates does not defeat but merely doubles over, exacerbates.

Within the belly of the Dragon lies fear of the infinite that drives the party foul; a reminder of our own limitations in an imperfect mind-body.  However within the light of the heart fuels the party-self; love and creation, which is cyclical and undying.  How quickly can the dragon's fire overtake the soft light of the heart, which is the guiding force of the party, and party-balance is lost in favor of the party foul.  Do not be mistaken -- the party foul's affects can be quick and devastating, leading to chaos, anger, destruction, and hatred.  Calm the dragon in the face of infinite fear and the party will never defeat you! Quiet the fire that survives in the belly of the Dragon, and you will overcome the party foul, be immediately united with the greater party force -- the ultimate god-head of the party -- the Boomskull.  Murphy’s law (i.e. Buddhism) dictates – shit happens, so how are you going to deal with it?  The ultimate party rule in the face of the party foul: Open your mirror, turn it inwards, and show the dragon its ugliness.  Now watch as the light suddenly overcomes the dragon and turns its strength in unison with party-preservation!

Remember, the only place appropriate for an uncontrollable fire is on the dance floor. 

The failure to avert a fire, itself is a party foul, even if the fire appears under control or dead such that its overseer believes it will not spread to a massive scale.  We have seen such an occurrence on Penn State's campus in the fall of 2011.  What senior officials at Penn State believed was under control ten years ago, as their party-fouler began to run amuck around campus, committing unspeakable horrors that caused embers of hatred and loathing to go unnoticed around campus, while officials ignored the warnings and threats, just as the fire seems like it will go away unnoticed, suddenly it sparks into a force driven by its own burning hunger, swallowing a pillar of strength within its realm, all because the fire was not snuffed out early, and the requisite party-fouler brought to justice. Yes, when the risk exists that fire will engulf and kill, do not ignore the fire even if in your human ignorance it seems controlled.  Because just as the fire seems about to die, suddenly it spreads with the force and immediacy seemingly incomprehensible, if only were it not completely predictable.

***

Molly the Dog is licking my face.  I am on the futon -- her bed.  The golden retriever intends to motivate motion.  Big J walks into bedroom after surveying the messy damage I caused from browned-out cooking in his kitchen  –

“It stinks like ass downstairs  – what the hell did you cook?”

Immediately, wary of the early morning criticism due to a pounding headache, I am arguing with him, “I made tuna melts for you and me – but you were passed out when I got up here.  I cleaned up – it shouldn’t smell like tuna too bad.”

“It doesn’t smell like tuna down there, it smells like something else.  Why are there two empty Coors lights on my desk?”  He has one of those giant Ikea desks that are really ugly and full of corrogated steel.

“I grabbed one for you, one for me, but like I said, you were passed out.”

“The Coors belongs to my roommate you ass…I had micro-brews downstairs…why are you drinking this beer and not mine?”

“Whatever dude.  I don’t know – let me go back to sleep…”

“What tuna did you use to cook downstairs?  Starkist Chunk Light or the  Albacore White?  What bread did you use?  The Arnold Bakery Cracked Wheat or the Stroman’s?”

“You are a cracked wheat.  We are living in a material world,” Head pounding, this conversation is worse than Madonna while hungover.  “Arnold’s and the Texas Toast I suppose.”

“I don’t even own that bread!  Now I have to buy my roommate tuna, beer, fancy bread, and Texas Toast too.  You have no respect for communal living!”

Dude, seriously, suck my balls.  I was so friggin’ hungry last night.  We don't even own material goods (bull-ish). 

Real World 2120: Episode You Stole My Tuna and Coors Lizzy, suddenly comes to a head, “God – do I look like a red-headed bike-messenger’s step-child born from Puck’s asshole?   We’re talking a dollar’s worth of tuna, two slices of Texas Toast, and two Silver Bullets for Spaghetti Monster’s sake!” 

“Just go down there and see if you smell anything!  Something’s not right…”

Big J’s kitchen smells like propane.  The front burner is turned 20 degrees into the on position.  Hmm…interesting, I turned it off…the multiverse must have turned it back on.

I return upstairs to go back to bed, but the dog is sitting on the futon, smiling and wagging her tail.  That bitch…

“Uhh…well, I noticed the stove may not have been turned off all the way…” 

“What! You left the stove on all night?”

“No, I didn’t leave it on.  Someone else must of turned it on or it just must not have turned off all the way.  Besides, the flame wasn’t burning all night.  Just that the burner may not have been turned all the way off really...a slight gas leak.  It wouldn’t have been enough gas to start a fire.  Gas frequently runs incessantly, think of it like a pilot light...only a slight leak…just air it out…”

“Hold on.  All of those statements are contradictory.  Someone else must have left it on?  Wait, you're other selves?”

What is he talking about?  Typical lawyer, twisting my words.  That doesn't even make sense...

“No.  That’s not what I said.  I turned off the stove, but it didn’t twist all the way off.  Must be defective…”

  

“You Dumbass!  You could have burnt down the house!” 

“Good thing you didn’t light up.  Besides…”

“…A slight gas leak?  Air it out?  I’ll air you out, alright, but that’s not good enough.  Are you a moron?  Slight gas leaks leads to slight gas explosions!”

As vividly evidenced by the Earth’s version of the Death Star,

leaky pipes can lead to serious death and destruction.  Methane buildup from a persistent source can be detrimental towards life forms around it…so can plutonium or uranium that reaching critical mass.  Individuals generally responsible for an all consuming fire rarely accept culpability.  “If you give me the same circumstances, I’d do it again.” 

 Consider the following stellar exchange from the asshole of corporate America:

Random Transocean Exec: pfft, it’s not my problem.  It’s not like we owned the goddamn rig.  Random BP Exec: pfft…we were only reaping millions in profits in natural resources that legally belong to my company, not the people of the Americas or the Caribbeans.  We privately exploit the country’s natural resources.  What did we ever do wrong? We’re the victims!  Safety is Transocean’s job! 

Random Halliburton Exec:  C’mon, what’d you expect?  We’re Haliburton?  Of course we’d f*ck this up…I mean, screw those other guys!  It’s their fault! This isn’t fair!

Dipshit Politician:  Anyone ever think of installing an acoustic trigger – because we certainly didn’t?

Lamar “suck on my drill” McKay:  THE ACCOUSTIC TRIGGER DOES NOTHING! MY EYES MY EYES! 

*** 

“Look.  I turned off the stove…maybe the dog turned it on?” She’s still wagging her tail and smiling, “She is fairly sneaky…”

“Dude.  This isn’t a fart...you can’t blame it on the dog.”

“Chill out man – you’re freaking out like Jim Kosek.  It’s not that big deal....”

“IT IS A BIG DEAL!”  Looking for an insult, Big J pauses, “You can’t cook in my house anymore!”

A few weeks ago during the great Snowpocalype of 2010, I was voted most likely to burn down the rental house that my friends and I had procured for President's Day Weekend.  Now I see their reasoning.  Nonetheless, I feel the need to…defend myself -- ooo...for something that you f*cked up? Yeah, that's a party foul.  Five yards.

Denial of the Party Foul is itself a Party Foul...(read more about Party Foul Denial here)

Welcome to the Party Foul!

Which brings us to the party foul...

This Universe, like the human mind, walks a delicate balance between order and disorder.  Up to this point in human history, we have successfully navigated the milky balance between animus and anima, the ability to create with the hunger to destroy, entropy v. anarchy, etc. 

The party foul represents the moment that complete disorder is unleashed.  When all reason breaks down, Pandora’s Box is opened and irrationality ensues; the negative consequences of the party foul spread like wild-fire.  Religions cast this great struggle as good v. evil, sin v. austerity.  When the dragon overcomes, the Partiers, like John Jenson, Rick the Rat, C-Money, Gards, Fat Pay, Shady G, Euro P Gold, Cousin J, Party Boy Geazy, Party Girl Pinky, Tinka, Juicy Jules, Cousin SEP, Big Z, Big Mike, Big J, CRSN, the Flag Man, Lil' Prince, Lil' Smokey, Ronnie, Danny Boy, Bosch, Eh Goddamit, Quark, Big Davidson, Cliffbar, Aro, Hercules Einstein, Vicky the Viking, Emily the Baker, the Booty, Mexico, Peach Pie, Pigs, CC, J-Man, Strawberry, TaxMan, Suzers, Blazin D, Chuck the Hipster, Nosey Lena, BeReal, Tax Man, Kristophe the Beer Man, understand a different form of chaos – and decry Party Foul!  The Party Foul marks that moment in time when the pure unpredictability of the universe is unleashed in human form, and all hell breaks loose around those within the strings of the persona’s party-foul.    Most of the time, the party foul sets in motion a series of events, compounding, consuming others in its course of destruction until there is nothing left, the momentum disipated, but the indicia of destruction.

For example, following the party foul of the 2001-2 New Year's Party, which you haven't yet learned of but will be detailed shortly, after Joe Jenson jettisoned Dude-Bro Burrows through the wall, it set off a course of events that is impossible to measure in scope and breadth:

Jensen's girl Yoni walked away from the relationship
and into the arms of another. 

She is now a mommy.  Jensen joined the Marines, where he lived at Camp Pendelton,

California and Okinawa, Japan.  This decision could be directly linked

to the lost girl who would have been otherwise. 
Anything is possible in the multiverse,

and a properly executed party foul changes history in manifestations

that may never be truly comprehended.  Were it not for a Tsunami that struck in Thailand

the day after Christmas, 2004, Joe Jenson may have been shipped off to Iraq. 

A few days after Joe Jenson put a hole in the wall with a human body,

riddled with the guilt of causation, I found myself in the back seat of a car

going 70 miles an hour at 4 AM around the curvy roads in the Mainline, 

and Danny Boy hit a patch of ice and the car swerved right and over a wall,

flipped across the street and landed with a defeaning thud. 

A BMW collapsed into a shattered meatball. 

Bosch was in the front passenger’s side, upon touchdown,

his ankle broken into pieces as well.  His winter was spent hobbling around

Cornel’s campus with a walking boot in tow, struggling through the snow. 

My head, bloodied from the impact, vividly remembers

struggling from an upside down angle, a car that smelled of fuel,

and how difficult it was to unbuckle while strapped in the wrong way. 

It’s all related to the party foul.  We’re all connected for better or worse.   

       

            The greatest party foul of the information-age occurred September 11, 2001, championed by a powerful and influential group of shadowy world leaders.[1]  It has led to years of war, destruction, and a lost generation of volunteers that have returned home without any hope for the future, devastated by PTSD and no longer able to integrate into society.  Villages and a century of culture lost in the wake of war.  Adolescent recruits drawn into a war by a propaganda machine.  A media obsessed with images of firey planes and destruction, flames that unfolded into bloodlust and rage.  A complacent government that ignored the warning signs, and potentially understood the benefits of war to its benefactors.  A country traumatized by the memory of a day survived by all those who observed on television, and obsessed with exacting that same carnage against innocent civilians thousands of miles away.  Party fouls abound. 

            Everyone alive remembers that fateful day.  While in college at Emory University, a few blocks away from the CDC, watching televisions in the gym after class was cancelled, briefly in fear that an attack may take place close-by.  The student population resembled a walking lot of zombies, confused and destinationless, hungry because Dobbs Cafeteria had been closed.  About 10% of the school’s population hailed from the New York Metro region, 5% from the DC region, unspeakable sorrow and fear.  School was cancelled for two days, so then everybody went home to relive the nightmare on television thousands of times in the next 48 hours.  Since school was cancelled – I invited people over -- a group of select friends - C-Bo, Crackhead, couple of freshman girls from New York who did not know anyone, and Beastie Girl - this hot sophomore I’d been courting for a couple of weeks.  We are drinking games for 2 hours –

            Make a rule – little Shreepal rule – you have to take the little Shreepal off of the cup before you drink.  Eh don't drink me!  You just drank Shreepal, you have to drink!

"Eh Goddamit!  I'm gonna cut you.  I don't talk like that!"

"Hey man, Sweeps man, you kinda do sound like that man..." Says Crackhead, a handsome 6'2" baseball star from Valdosta who had quit the baseball team and about half his brain when he joined the fraternity to become a ladies' man drinker as opposed to a ladies' man athlete, Lauren Freshman in his left arm, who is interested in C-Bo but C-Bo and all 135 pounds of him is already passed out on the couch after like 5 beers.  Been a long day for C-Bo, his family from North Jersey, lots of firemen, lots of stress, I just hope he doesn't pee on the couch like he did last week.

"Shit, two queens, I can’t play."  "AH! You didn’t take off the little Shreeps" yells the Beastie Girl, "DRINK!" 

            The Beastie Girl stayed over that night.  We dated for two years.  Almost started a family, if it weren't for distance, graduation, moving to different cities and starting carreers, and therein lies the strangeness of our world, where beauty occassionally arises from tragedy; French women fall in love with wonkey U.S. soldiers during WWII, yes there is always the slim promise of opportunity, even in the face of sheer horror, that is a reason to get up everyday even in the most disheartening of circumstances. 

---

[1] The iconic 21^st century party foul in no-way overshadows the political party fouls of the 20^th century – the Holocaust, the A Bombs, the annexation of Palestine and corresponding internment of its people, Stalin’s “Gulag Archipelago” and engineering of the Ukrainian famine, the Cambodian Killing Fields, Ruwandan and Bosnian genocides – too much sorrow and pain to list from historical eras that people hope to forget, but their mere occurrence and remembrance seems to perpetuate further violence.  The party foul is rooted in the marginalization of the other, fratricide, that people are worth excluding or not sympathizing with because understanding would require a person to turn the mirror inwards; instead of introspection, much simpler instead to condemn another. 

Party Rule #6: always eat before you party…

Party Rule #5: always eat before you party…this way you don’t burn down the house… 

Order Dominos.  4 out of 5 prefer the new recipe.  Perplexingly, however, with the exception of New York, it is nearly impossible to get a friggin’ Gyro delivered at 2 AM.  I have a dream where all races and peoples, across the world, shall have universal access to food, and late night pizza delivery…don’t cook drunk, don’t forget to turn off the stove, and don’t collect 200 dollars!

On the cab ride home from the club, we bypassed the Great American Dinner Pub, the archetypical late night livery in Bensalem, and nowhere would deliver that late.[1]

---

[1] When dining at the Pub, ask for Kurt, the late night waiter with a sweet, green, cartoony tattoo-sleeve, green eyes, a boyish face, and skittish smile.  Don’t worry however; he’s too polite to spit on your food.  He must be a graphic designer or artist by day, and waiting tables at night, because he’ll draw a cartoon of Goofy on your check at the end of the meal.  Nothing is better than receiving a hand-drawn Goofy on a late night dinner check.  If you still need convincing, the Philly Cheesesteak Omelette is the bomb, and there’s Naked Photo Hunt at the tables, boys’ and girls’ edition.  “Oh Sh*t!  Kurt the Killah drew Goofy on my check again!  HAHA!!! Damn, look at those boobies!”   

Drunkenly, I raided Big J’s kitchen for anything edible – two pieces of Texas Toast from the freezer, along with stealing two pieces of sliced wheat bread in a plastic bag on the kitchen counter, take two cans of tuna – fry the melts in some oil – steal two Coors Lights from the fridge in the bar for Big J so he could enjoy his tuna melt, and it’s steal a meal deal, cheap.  By the time I get up to his room twenty minutes later he was passed out asleep.

Sometimes in life you just have to steal (listen to Song 8, from that hyperlink. It is Stealy Man, by Perpetual Groove.  The website it is from is archive.org, one of the most important internet recepticles of information, along with wikipedia.org.).  According to a rule of nature, you have to steal in life, the question is will you steal and give back, or simply steal and keep for yourself.   The latter, of course...then my friend, you are engaged in a party foul...

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.