big purple

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(The following is an excerpt (pre-edits) of an article I’m writing for a campus magazine, even though I think I’m too old for such things.)

Columbians can do — with near-universal agreement — the following things well: study, a dwindling number of sports, dress warmly. (Not an exhaustive list.) But can we party? We have our moments, sure, but let’s face it: between the War on Fun and the dearth of Morningside party-spots, we’re way behind our Big Purple counterpart downtown — NYU — which purportedly kicks Columbia’s collective behind, party-wise. This, of course, demands an investigation, and the B&W sent one wizened and intrepid reporter to embed himself in the NYU party scene. The following is an amalgamation of his experiences, and is not meant to realistically represent NYU or its students in any way. (Really.)

Let it be known that, despite appearances to the contrary, your correspondent has — to borrow a worn but useful phrase — ‘partied hard’; has attended epic parties better forgotten (or, indeed, forgotten). But never before has your correspondent partied amidst such fashionable pants, hats, haircuts and costume jewelery.

3 October 2009; 19:45

Pre-pre-pre game, so called by the seven attendees, who will, over the course of the night, split and reunite six/seven times  (confusing and lengthy St. Marks bathroom-hunting being the questionable split/reunion). Your correspondent, for reasons of safety and convenience, will cling like a scared-shit capuchin to L—–, the most conservatively-dressed of the bunch, wearing a tan trench coat over a faded and worn cocktail dress. L—- has mentioned (without anything that even slightly resembles prodding) that she has no intention of hooking up tonight, and will therefore be honored to serve as a guide/subject.

The host, an affable and handsome young man wearing canary yellow and royal blue plaid pants (and who henceforth shall be referred to as Y.B. Plaid) brought out a peach schnapps, a bong, and a half-watermelon. Y.B. Plaid stood and declared that each ingredient should be drunk/inhaled/consumed in rapid succession, as they do in Czech Republic. Your correspondent, who not entirely incidentally has been to and partied in Prague, is skeptical, but voices no objection. A man with a haircut that’s best described as ‘reverse-mullet’ shoots his schnapps, takes a hit, grabs a wedge, and, before biting, asks your correspondent (who occasionally has trouble detecting irony) if such cultural experiences are available uptown. Your correspondent replies in the negative. Reverse-mullet and your correspondent then enjoy the unseasonably delicious watermelon together.

Written by menachemkaiser

13 October at 14:01

Posted in rants

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