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(Heya — here’s the full NYU-adventure article that I wrote for the Blue & White, a fine Columbia magazine.)

It’s agreed that Columbians can do the following things well: study, play a dwindling number of sports, and dress warmly. (Not an exhaustive list.) But can we party? We have our moments, sure, but between the War on Fun and the dearth of Morningside social outposts, we lag considerably behind our Big Purple counterpart downtown, NYU. This, of course, requires an investigation, so the Blue and White dispatched Senior Editor Menachem Kaiser to embed himself in the NYU party scene. The following is an amalgamation of his experiences, and is, the B&W acknowledges, a disingenuous and unfair representation of NYU and its students.

Furthermore, 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 bashes better forgotten (or, indeed, forgotten). But never before has your correspondent celebrated amidst such fanciful pants, hats, haircuts and costume jewelry.

3 October 2009; 21:45

Seven people are standing in the small apartment on 2nd St. and Avenue C; it is time for the pre-pre-pre-game. Your correspondent, for reasons of safety and convenience, will cling like a scared-shitless macaque to L_____, the most conservatively-dressed of the bunch, who is wearing a tan trench coat over a faded and worn cocktail dress. L_____ has mentioned (independent of anything that even slightly resembles prodding) that she has no intention of hooking up with anyone 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) brings out peach Schnapps, a bong, and half a watermelon. Y.B. Plaid stands and declares that each ingredient should be consumed in rapid succession, as they do in the Czech Republic. Your correspondent, who has partied in Prague, is skeptical, but voices no objection. A man with a haircut best described as a reverse-mullet shoots his Schnapps, grabs a wedge, and, before biting, asks your correspondent if such cultural experiences are available uptown. Your correspondent, hindered only by his occasional trouble detecting irony, replies in the negative, and, together with R. Mullet, enjoys the unseasonably delicious watermelon.

3 October 2009; 23:22

The original seven have grown to about 15, and we’re in our third venue of the night, which, like the last two, is a warmly decorated Lower East Side apartment with an unverifiable number of occupants. L_____ has said that though this is technically only the pre-game, it is probably going to be the last stop. Y.B. Plaid and accomplice Pink Argyle disagree; they call L_____ a recognizable variation of feces caput, though it’s apparently in good humor.

A beer bong is brought out. Half of the crowd is nonplussed, everyone else looks bummed. L_____, whose pleasure in her role as guide/subject has surged in direct proportion to her drunkenness, sidles up. She motions to a pale girl on the couch, wearing a killer pair of checkered bell-bottoms. (Disclaimer: Your correspondent owns an embarrassing number of bell-bottoms, and is rather partial to those who actually look good in them.) C. Bellbottom, L_____ explains, vomited at the last get-together after choking on the beer bong’s tubing. C. Bellbottom appears displeased when someone starts shouting “Rematch!” (L_____, on the other hand, looks very excited.) Y.B. Plaid and P. Argyle want a falafel with fries, however, and usher us—your correspondent, a disappointed L_____, and some obscenely beautiful hipsterette—out into the hallway towards the stairs.

(Admission: Your correspondent had by this time developed a sizable crush on O.B. Hipsterette, who remained utterly immune to any and all come-ons, conversation attempts, clothing compliments, and completely transparent indie music references. Your correspondent is more confused than hurt by O.B. Hipsterette’s decision to make out with an apparent stranger with whom she seemed to exchange everything but words, later in the evening. Your correspondent will live, despite the heartache.)

4 October 2009; 00:02

The five of us, over french fry-filled falafels, go to a local, very crowded bar. There, a man who resembles nothing so much as a mime without makeup—bowler hat, suspenders holding up hiked-up pants, black and white horizontally striped shirt—welcomes us. It is clear he knows the group well, but he is noticeably cold toward L_____; they had had some sort of romantic entanglement. M.W. Makeup doesn’t take too kindly toward your correspondent, either, though it’s not clear why. (It’s possible that he did not appreciate your correspondent’s earnest and non-ironic compliment that he “pulled off the mime look really well.”) In any case, M.W. Makeup is very drunk—in his own words, he has “grizzled more shots than pubic hairs,” a phrase that your correspondent is not familiar with, but could, with some reflection, decipher.

P. Argyle, egged on by Y.B. Plaid, challenges M.W. Makeup to some sort of drinking game, the rules of which seem rather opaque to everyone but those three. This much is observable: one player shouts the name of a country, and the other player—after the briefest moment of shut-eyed contemplation—starts dancing. A winner is somehow decided after each round, and the loser pays for the round. Your correspondent’s best guess is that the dance must somehow represent the declared country. This would explain why M.W. Makeup has so much difficulty with “Suriname” (he eventually just grabbed his foot and hopped), while Y.B. Plaid breezes through “Ireland” with an exaggerated step routine. (In retrospect, if these are indeed the rules, “Ireland” is an unbelievably easy challenge, though in all fairness, M.W. Makeup had grizzled more shots than pubic hair.) The game doesn’t last long: few of the other patrons appreciate the erratic (nationalistic?) dances, and it is decided that we seek a dedicated dance floor.

But at which venue? This requires extensive, almost scholarly arguments re: the music. P. Argyle: “I would rather be double-fucked [sic?] by donkeys than dance to house.” Your correspondent abstains from such discourse, until it is resolved that everyone is either drunk or high enough to simply go back to Y.B. Plaid’s apartment and dance to an iPod.

4 October 2009; 02:30

The group’s dancing lasts for a solid hour, though L_____ continues for some time in what appears to be a one-person mamba line. The party is clearly winding down: P. Argyle is quasi-comatose on the sofa; O.B. Hipsterette has gone off, presumably with the aforementioned stranger; a gaggle of suspiciously young-looking students is trying to convince L_____ that she looks like William Shatner’s sister, a comparison which L_____ initially rebuffs but eventually chooses to accept as flattery. Only Y.B. Plaid is going strong; the man needs, in your correspondent’s unprofessional and unsolicited opinion, sexual release. This is not going to happen here, at his apartment. So he leaves, presumably off to another house party, offering no invitation for any of us to accompany him. As soon as the door shuts, L_____ shouts, to nobody in particular, “Now we can start the party.”

Written by menachemkaiser

11 November at 18:49

Posted in rants

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