The 2002 New Years’ Eve Party

Party Foul #2 – Denial of the Party Foul is itself a Party Foul…

According to Murphy’s Law and the Buddha –shit happens, so don’t needlessly add to the pile.  The party foul represents the gateway to internal hell.  Take ownership of your party foul.  Failure to control your internal party leads to chaos, perpetrating the vicious cycle of the party foul!

In human nature, the more extreme the party foul, the more acute the denial.  For example, in harmless situations, like leaving on a light or the TV, a rote apology is issued…”Yeah, sorry.”  But when a serious harm is perpetrated – deny, deny, deny…Remember, a party foul is no laughing matter – don’t blame it on the dog, don’t snitch-out your bitch, pass go and collect 200… Acceptance of the party foul, whether singular or habitual, is a major step to internal growth and achievement of party-oneness.

My entire high  school’s graduating class showed up for a New Year’s party at my parents’ house back in 2002-3 while they vacationed in Florida, a major mistake at a domicile that is not your own but instead belongs to your master.[1]  At the 10 year reunion, when recalling various destructive New Years parties over the years, which have been numerous, Glavine noted, “That party was wild.  We trashed that joint.  Whose house was that?” “Mine dude!”

Excessive drinking occurred with various notorious party boys: the Dust Bunny, Gards, Eh Goddammit, Riggles, Shady G, the Plant Man, J-Bird, the Killah Krew.  The frazzled excitement that my ex-girlfriend, TC the “Raging Cajun” Kagan, the platinum blonde Norwegian with a cleft nose and deep blue eyes whose family converted to Episcopalian to fit-in in the Mainline to keep people like me out of her life, would be there caused me to hit the bottle hardparty foul.  Oh insecurity you dirty whore…

I’m in a dangerous haze by the time I see everyone’s favorite loud and outspoken ex.  She arrives late, chirping at yapping as usual.  TC laughs at Stumbles McGoo for being so stumbly.  We share a cigarette under the light of a cresting moon, while she quickly surmises, I miss times like this isn’t this wonderful, and can’t help but think, so why don’t we spend more time like this? And as quickly as the blonde has arrived, she is gone.  Sadness remains in her absence; the animus is not satiated; a journey further into self-abuse ensues, and problematically, so does the black-out.

Insecurity, anxiety, and binge drinking – a recipe for party fouls. 

The party’s out-of-handedness is exacerbated by Promiscuous Cousin Sarah and Swim Buddy Tara.  Per the usual, Promiscuous Cousin Sarah’s inebriation leads to bad decisions, in the bathroom, with Jonah Gold, our class president.  He is seen traveling into the bathroom alone with Promiscuous Cousin Sarah.  Later, Gold is accused of taking advantage of the situation, forcing tut-tut in the bathroom in an unapologetic manner, while Cousin Sarah never had the opportunity to protest.  Gold is a slippery beast.  But overlooked throughout the whole dance is that her complaints may possibly be to maintain an appearance of modesty before her cousin  the Gay Boy, aka Joe Jensen.  Joe Jensen shares a creepily close relationship with his cousin and pseudo-cousiny neighbor.  Put these three together in a room, and jokes are launched about practicing on one another as pre-adolescents, Oh, clearly cousins have to practice on one another, otherwise how do you learn? It is all fun and games until an incredible story that could not be true.   Details are vividly recalled with greens and blues of a sullen yet humorous mixture of reality and fiction, where the facts no longer can be distinguished from fiction, yet the story blends perfectly of a 9 year old that whined about icky girls, and a 10 year old swim buddy and a 12 year old cousin from Colorado that keep him squirming all day until finally, after the blood has appeared, and the lifeguards are busy watching the pool, they lure him with the promise of a jelly donut hidden in the woods of the Knowlton Pool Club.

Wee Little Gay Boy knows it is a lie but follows anyway out of curiosity and a love for donuts, to a place where ambiguous things happen in the darkness of the human mind.  The worst part of hearing the story is not knowing.  Although disturbed, I somehow become ravenously envious for not having a swim buddy and older first cousin to take me to the woods, but grateful at the same time.  The conflicting realities leave me scared, and confused.  But this is not you, it is not your head.  That sounds horrible.  They laugh and say, is it? All cousins and Walenties play in the woods.  It is just a joke.  Yes but I feel lonely now. 

From this level of closeness and Freudian ambiguity, it’s no surprise that Joe Jenson responds with a requisite chock-hold and death-threat to Jonah.  Reality has ceased at this point, and no New Years is complete without a Jenson chokehold, even though the Gay Boy knows damn well his cousin is Irish drunk and that Gold’s main fault is being sucked in. Did you pressure my cousin into Tut-tut?  You’re lucky I don’t cut you!

 After all, one must keep up appearances in civilized society.  A fine layer of dust has formed across all Formica-counter surfaces in the basement.  Once the witching hour has approached, I’m thoroughly done – a burnt out, charred piece of hot-dog rubber meat that even the dog won’t touch.  Promiscuous Cousin Sarah and Swim Buddy Tara, decide, once and for all, to show me the dark place that is my parents’ bedroom, as they decide it is bed time for Stumbles.  They lead me away, by my arms and legs, tickling and laughing while I’m squirming in the dark, as they place me under the protective covers of a parents’ bed.  A flash of clarity: this is the closest I’ll ever be to a menagerie, at least the good kind from my perspective.  Tonight I become a real man.  In the bag, a Sure Thing…two hotties climbing on top of one another towards me.   A drunken hand reaches for contact through the darkness…

Sunlight illuminates a pounding head-ache as the fog recesses.  They are gone, as is the hope and promise of the night’s waning moments, gone like Michael, disappeared as quickly as last night’s consciousness.  Lying next to me, instead of the lovely pair, is the stinky Plant-Man – a vegan hippie philosophically opposed to deodorant, soap, shampoo, and showering in general.

The plant man stinks.  He’s been living in the basement for 3 days and has yet to shower.  I kick and yell at him in some slovenly, prehistoric language, projecting my anger and ineptitude.  Mr. Stumbles is back, stumbling over various bodies that never made it home.  No bedrooms, no assignments, pure anarchy.

Shady, a pure old-school reformed gangsta from the mean streets of Tioga, North Philly, is lying in the other room with his lady Martha, “Oh shit man, you’re alive.  Crazy party last night…Can you believe Gay Boy threw a dude-bro through the wall last night.” “Huh?” Confused, I say, “Nah, man, you’re just kidding…Gay Boy was in a good mood last night.  He was making out with Yucka.” “No, there is a man-hole in your basement dry wall.”  Gay Boy’s girl from high school, a year younger, was his first love.  They dated through his freshman year at W&L, until of course her freshman year, when the lax players courted with Milwaukee’s Best and that cool demeanor, leaving Gay Boy lonely and violent, only 2 reconnect 2 winters later, in a very dynamic and prompt fashion, all for it to unravel abruptly last night…

 “Nah…as a matter of fact she stopped see.  Dude-Bro Borrows goes looking for a place to crash late night, but all the beds are taken.  He opens up the door leading to the attic and there’s Yucka and Gay Boy at the top of the stairs, middle of their make out sess on your baby mattress up there, right there with an electric heater in the dark where you told ‘em to go, Dude-Bro just standing there in the hall with the door open, points and laughs at their bone-fest, and Yucka flips out, blatantly grills; gets all budge.”

He recalls:

Ew Yucka! Get offffa me Gay Boy – no more sex: NO!  You have to stop NOW!

“Tee hee,” Martha laughs, “She kinda does sound like that.”

You can now imagine what happens next.  Gay Boy transforms into Interruptus Rex.  Dude-Bro Burrows dashes into the basement, no shot of outrunning a horny Gay Boy, a boomskull still on his dills.  Dude-Bro dodges into the boiler room…

And that’s where he gets GRiLLed…steriously grilled dude…

Gay Boy bashes him in the skull with a fist.  “Yeah I think I broke a toy chair over Dude-Bro at this point.  Sorry about that.”  Gay Boy then jettisons him through the basement dry wall.  “Dude got grilled. Totally grilled.”  Shady’s voice goes bassimo, for effect, to take it down a notch. “I’m really sorry man.  I think that’s what happened.  I’m not sure.  I took a lot of pills last night…”

In the basement, sure enough there is a hole in the dry wall dividing the television and boiler room.  I proceed to Grill:

“Gay Boy!  What the F—!!!”  He grabs a painting of flamingos nearby to cover it up, “Dude, look, you can just put the painting over it.  They’ll never notice.”  “What?  There’s a man sized hole in the wall!”  “Dude, we can just spackle it like we did with Eh Goddamit’s house that one time when his parents were away and Bowden kicked the hole in his wall.”  “What?  Are you crazy? That was toe-sized.  This is a man-sized hole!  What the hell were you thinking?”

“t wasn’t my fault!”  “Huh? You threw him through the wall. Do you see the contradiction?”

“I’m sorry, but that Dude-Bro had it coming.  He walked in on me while I was making out with Yucka in the attic.  You know Yucka’s never in the [moooo-ma-ma-ma-ma] mood [unlike Bradley].  Dude-Bro Burrows knew I was up in the attic and opened the door can you imagine…?”  

 What did you expect while hooking up in a freezing attic next to a space heater on a kiddie mattress – not exactly the smoothest nor the most private of settings at a massive New Year’s blowout. Of course you yucked out the Yucka-Yucka.  She is a yucker…

“…I ran downstairs and taught the little bastard a lesson.” Dude-bro was just joshing you!  “He deserved it – he knew someone was up there, so getting punched in the face twice, thrown through the wall, and having a chair broken over his back is slash was slash always is justified.  So yeah, I’m sorry that I broke your wall, but if your brother didn’t have such crappy friends this wouldn’t have happened.”

This journey in transference and projection of course is perilous.  Blaming others for the party foul leaves one trapped in the quicksand of denial and is a party foul itself.  It risks alienation of friends and loved ones.  Much like leaving the stove on out of drunken oversight, whilst placing four people and the dog in danger, is a party foul, so is throwing a nonconsensual peaceful Dude-Bro through a wall.  In the spirit of Bacchus…come clean!


7 years later, when Big J is yelling at me for leaving on the stove all night after a big Mardi Gras party, and the tables have turned, I understand the need to come clean to my party foul…

“You’re right.  It is a big deal.  I’m sorry for leaving the gas on all night Big J.  It’s a good thing you noticed.  I won’t cook in your house anymore.  But at least I showed you a good party last night…”

“Yeah, that was a sweet party!  No worries – you’re forgiven.”

Thus, it is a simple party rule: don’t blame others for the undesirable situations you find yourself in.  At the end of the day, you cannot control anything but your mind and the signals it tunes into.  If there are circumstances you don’t appreciate, review what signals got you there, and what signals you can follow to improve the situation or avoid the situation in the future.  Don’t throw people under the bus or through the wall.  Blaming others for the dissatisfaction or lack of control over your surroundings, mind, body, and party will leave you alone and disappointed.  Overcome denial, accept that which you cannot control, love that which you can, and the party oneness will come to you.

Party Rule # 7 – Respect your Host. (continue reading…)


[1] Boss, parent, grandparent, CEO, doctor, professor, lawyer, dentist, tennis pro, coach, or any other slave driver.  Not applicable: rental houses, Vegas hotel rooms, beach bungalows, party buses, limousines, barnyards, and field parties.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *