Monday, July 24, 2006

Drunken Party Post

There was a big puddle of rum in the middle of the floor. Someone had spilled thier Mojito while collapsing in laughter at a joke that some other person had made. My girlfriend, in a burst of brilliance, wrapped a towel around her body and did a backspin on the mess, cleaning it up and starting an impromptu break dancing competition in the process. I wasn’t there when it happened, but that’s how I heard it went down.

A girl whose name I’d learned then forgotten drunkenly collapsed on my shoulder and neck. Her breath was hot and wet and smelled of sugar and fruit and alcohol. She whispered in my ear sloppily: You have to come and see this. Then she grabbed my arm and began falling back, pulling me with her. I pushed her hand away gently, and focused on the next song to play.

There were two people on the couch speaking in French. A guy and a girl, he looked a bit older than her. She looked too cute for him. Another girl sat on the arm of the sofa, I think her name was Daniella but cant be sure, taking polite sips from a huge tropical cocktail. Two dudes I’d never met before stood next to my closet, quiet and passive, checking out the girl, Daniella… I think, on the arm of the sofa. Laughter came from the office behind me, the smoking room, where people go to sin. The girl whose name I’d forgotten collapsed back on my shoulder, and a friend of mine rushed up to kneel down next to her. The three of our faces were inches away from each other; I could feel the warmth of their sweat.

Dude, you have to see this. L-swizzle is pop locking. She’s killing it back there.

I lined up three bumping hip hop tracks and rose slowly, stumbling back a little, smiling. The hum of conversation rolled under an Outkast track from the Aquemini album, in my opinion, their best.

When it came out, it was a surprising leap in maturity not only for the group, but for hip hop on a whole. The method in which they blended the modern black mans paranoia, vernacular, and general mindset, with the spirit of traditional soul music, was not only brave and ambitious, but magnificently accomplished. In terms of career advancement and pure achievement of talent, I would be bold enough to make this comparison: Aquemini was to OutKast what Ok Computer was to Radiohead.

As we barreled through the house I noticed a cute, slightly overweight girl was sitting sprawled out on my bed; a friend of L-swizzles hovered over her. A guy name Kevin. He was pretty cool, if I remember correctly. His eyes had their targets locked; he looked down on her in full lurking pervert mode. He said something hushed that I couldn’t hear over the music and the cute, chubby girl giggled. The chick whose name I couldn’t remember dragged me past them on to the next room, where the break-off was in mid battle.

It was a dizzying whirl of people and I saw her in the middle, prancing in a circle. Her bandaged hand [she had burnt herself on a hot plate of shrimp kabobs earlier] rose up in the air. Her hot pink dress like disco clinging to her curves. Her face flush and beaming. She had a drink, half full, in the other paw. Her hair was curled against her red cheeks, sticking to her face in the damp heat. She threw her head back and took a deep swig of her drink and then swung it back down, spilling more on the floor than she had down her throat. She laughed and then howled and it was like a white light screaming into all corners of the room and every body dropped their jaw and widened their eyes and gasped, then raised their glasses and screamed along with her.

I stood and stared at her for a second, admiring her loose and clumsy motions, then turned around and headed back to the other room, anxious to tend to my tunes.

I cued up some forgotten pop from the early 90’s and a dude I know from somewhere I forget slid up and asked if I had any weed. I threw my arm over his shoulder and lead him to the office. Three people were already cramped in there, sucking down stogies, browsing through my book collection. A heated discussion on American literature followed a few fat bowls and topped off Mojitos. Someone asked why I was yelling so much and I said it was simply because I was black and drunk and high on xanax in my own god damned house and then asked why they liked to expose what might be a minor character flaw of the host in the middle of his own fucking party. Then they laughed nervously and I handed them a pipe full of weed and said relax, its all fun and games, in a real cool and calm voice, like James Bond would use.

I gave a guy I had met just minutes before my favorite John Fante book and told him to stop yammering on about Kerouac, that there are other authors that have lived and others still living. He folded it and put it in his back pocket and I told him he had better read it or he was a fraud, but I didn’t divulge that I was a fraud already, if he was smart he would have known that and called me on it, instead he promised he would read it as soon as he sobered up.

Later on that night a pretty, black, wanna-be model danced with a stocky white rapper and a hot but creepily muscular lesbian made out with a grad student that had just left his girlfriend. A couple broke up and another met for the first time. Somebody puked in the bathroom sink. When the last person left, freshly corked bottle of wine in their hands, they said to me, Man you guys throw the best fucking parties, and I smiled and delicately shoved them out the door then closed it and locked it and took a deep deep sigh.


Sometimes I think when the world is watching we all look like idiots. I could be wrong though. Sometimes I see interesting videos with conversation inspiring rants and tripped out music, and I see that people are as confused as I am and feel less lonely in the city. Then I see new UK buzz band videos directed by the legendary Chris Cunningham and realize that I am the city and it just confuses me more.


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:gray matters: by jkg is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
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