Partying on the Other Side of the World

3 May

First of all, in full disclosure, I’m not sure what the title means. Other than the fact that this blog is about various parties and that those parties happened on the world, the title has little to do with the events to be depicted here. The title just sounded cool. That’s it.

I went to two parties on Saturday night–both consisting of wildly different social groups. SCROLL DOWN TO READ MORE!

It’s Saturday night. I’m doing my usual: sleeping on the couch as my friend and sometimes roommate but always life-mate, Derek, repeatedly wakes me, saying that the movie we’re watching is important and absolutely not porn.

“If it’s so important,” I respond, groggily, “it’ll have Cliffs notes. I’ll read those.”

“Kyle, it’s a mo–”

“–Or you can read them to me. I don’t care. I don’t care about any of this. I’m going back to sleep.” I put my head down and approach the cusp of sleep when my phone vibrates. It has fallen between the cushions of the couch.

“Derek, did the couch just get a text?”


“Did you set the couch on silent?”

Derek stares at me–completely silent. He reaches down into the gap between the cushions and removes my phone.


“Thanks. Hey, I got a text too. Derek, check the couch’s inbox.” My text was from my other, more bearded friend, Chris Brown.

Here’s a picture of Chris Brown.

He's the bearded one. That's Derek in the front. I'm doing my Top Gun impression in the background.

The text conversation reads like this:

“Hey man, you guys [Derek and me] wanna gonna go to some parties with me?”

“Any hot chicks gonna be there?”

“Absolutely. Smoking hot chicks.”

“I’m talking like, so hot it kind of stings to stand so close.”

“Lol. I guess. Yea, that hot.”

“I’m talking like I want girls so hot that I feel like I’m in Hell when I’m next to them.”


“I want to go to Hell. I want to hang out with Timothy McVeigh tonight.”

“I have to go back to work. I’ll call you when I get off.”

“Or we could do some body shots with Lincoln and JFK. They mostly know about head shots, but we can teach them.

“Stop texting me.”

Around 10 o’clock, Chris tells me that he’s off work and at a house show and that that house show would be the launching ground for the rest of our night.

“An open house!” I squeal to myself, clutching my phone. I love open houses.

“An open house?” Derek asks.

“Chris is inviting us to an open house!”

Derek cocks his head slightly to the side and squints one eye at me. “I…don’t think that’s what Chris meant. Did he say ‘open house’?”

“No. He called it a “house show.'”

“Okay, he isn’t showing you a house. It’s a music show in a house.”

“That sounds terrible.”

“It probably will be.”

Derek and I reach the house. We get out of the car and are immediately received by Chris Brown.

Derek, Chris, and I approach the front door. The muffled sound of sheepish alterna-folk can be heard from the porch. I allow Chris, our emissary, to open the door and to lead us in. All the men look like hobos and all the women look like extras from The Little House on the Prairie.

Look at these ass holes.

The scene we enter upon is this: there is a small living room with three couches. All couches are full. There are several hairy, poorly-dressed individuals sitting on the ground. In an adjacent room, there is a dim, blue light and a man playing music. All those in attendance seem to be absolutely furious at our presence there, as if we walked in on all of them in the shower. I instinctively duck down to avoid a thrown loofah. This unnecessary, jerky movement (that also puts my incredible agility on display) only serves to alienate me more. My wholesome appearance and tight, well-toned ass do the rest.

Everybody loves Chris. He’s a big hit–and so am I, after I tell everybody that I’ve got fifty dollars in my pocket that and that I’ll give it to whoever’s nicest to me.

Everybody loves fifty dollars.

“Who’re you here to see?” A small, cherubic hipster asks me.

“Whatah you, like, da receptionist ah somethin?!” I ask her in my best Jersey accent. I’m trying to make jokes and failing miserably.

“I just wanted to connect with you.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. She stands there a bit longer, her eyes seeming to want more.

“I don’t really have fifty dollars,” I say. The fairy in the paisley dress walks away. I don’t see her again for the rest of the night.

I think at one point, somebody makes fun of me for being clean.

After some time, we leave to go to another party–one that’s touted by our friend Courtney as “really good.” I’m excited. We all are. The car is filled with the lightness of shared joy. We all talk a lot on the drive, the kind of giddy, fluttering talk that seems to flow endlessly from the mouths of the jubilantly expectant.

We approach the party. The garage door of the house is open. Against the darkness of the night, its florescent lights and white walls stand as a beacon–a beacon that we soon learn is screaming “Beware, weary traveler. Ye have stumbled upon a sausage fest.”

Inside the garage, there is one girl watching four men play beer pong.

“Oh god,” I whisper.

“No,” Derek says, putting his hand on the window.

Chris Brown turns around and looks to me. There are tears in his eyes.

A black, abysmal sadness creeps into the car, strangling the euphoria that was once so strong.

“Sausage fest,” I say. From the back seat, I see Derek shiver.

All is quiet as we park.

“This is going to be fun!” Courtney says from my left.

We go inside and are greeted by thirty or forty kids who two or three years ago couldn’t see an R-rated film without a legal guardian. So many halter tops. So many sideways baseball caps. Where did I go wrong, Lord? How have I offended you? Chris and I play a game of flip cup. After the game, Chris drinks his Bud Ice with little of the same exuberance he had earlier in the night. Perhaps because his beer now holds a distinctly different taste. Perhaps because his beer is now tinged by the salty taste of tears.

We find out that two of the gentlemen at the party are from Waxahachie–the home town of Derek and me. In spite of the fact that it’s one o’ clock in the morning, one of the gentlemen is wearing sunglasses. I feel so sad for him.

“Be nice to him,” I whisper to Courtney. “He’s blind.”

But this guy wasn’t the nice kind of Ray Charles, Stevie Wonder blind. He was the kind of blind that can actually see but wears stupid shitty sunglasses on his head because he wants everyone in the room to know that his future is so bright he needs shades but you know what I bet his future isn’t so bright I bet it’s pretty dim so he should just take those sunglasses off or make with the blindness because he’s pissing everybody the hell off and I’m tired of looking at him.

The two dudes engage Courtney and I (just Courtney) in conversation. These are the kind of guys who have a problem confusing sexual harassment with flirtation. The blind man reaches out and unties a bow at the front of Courtney’s blouse. I make a comment as to the inappropriateness of this action, but, after giving me a brief physical in which I am found to lack a vagina and breasts, the blind man and his friend decide that I don’t merit a response. Their hands are very gentle, though. And warm. So warm.

Some asshole claims he’s Riley Dodge (Star quarterback from Southlake Carrol). He is not.

“If you’re Riley Dodge,” I say to him, “then I’m Todd Dodge (Riley Dodge’s father) and I’m going to whip your ass for not being out drinking instead of at home studying your playbook.”

“Excuse me?” fake Riley says, stepping forward.

“Go take out the trash, you little shit. Then go outside and throw a football or something.”

He does exactly as I tell him. Because I’m his father.

We leave soon thereafter and go to a bar. Lou’s. Everything is much better after that.

The End.

One Response to “Partying on the Other Side of the World”

  1. Derek May 4, 2010 at 11:47 am #

    I don’t believe for a second that any of those fucks went to high school with us. I literally know everyone who has ever gone to Waxahachie High School, and they are a poor excuse for impostors.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: