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Sun, 31 Mar 2013 16:39:46 -0500

All I want to see, the ocean in your eyes.

Sat, 30 Mar 2013 18:47:00 -0500

All I want to see, the ocean in your eyes.

The Pwnstar is dead, long live The Pwnstar.

Sat, 23 Mar 2013 15:58:28 -0500

The Pwnstar is dead, long live The Pwnstar.

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Sat, 23 Mar 2013 15:43:02 -0500

Cage the Elephant @ Lollapalooza 2011, prior to the storm.

Sat, 23 Mar 2013 15:39:42 -0500

Cage the Elephant @ Lollapalooza 2011, prior to the storm.

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Sat, 23 Mar 2013 15:26:06 -0500

party haze!!

Fri, 22 Mar 2013 21:22:00 -0500

“My parents are away for a week. Let’s have a raging party at my house.”

I was living in a teenage comedy movie. There was no doubt. The confluence of factors that lead to that sentence were too perfect. John Hughes, get out of my head.

“OK, so who should we invite?” I asked, like I was planning some sort of posh dinner party, not a fucking mindless rave.
“I guess let’s make a Facebook event,” he responded.

OK. A 21st century John Hughes movie, where your super secret raging party gets a Facebook event, and you decide exactly who to invite by scrolling down your friends list.

Boring. Lame. Doesn’t drink. Super lame. Jerk. Don’t even know them. Weird. Hates me. Ex. Don’t know them. And so on.

Eventually we pinned it down to twenty people or so— and the party was on!

—

Thump thump thump.

There was an ever-present pounding permeating the whole event that separated the world downstairs from the one above it. It was that perfect volume: loud enough to drown out conversation, but not so loud as to be irritating (at least, to someone who was intoxicated.) It kept us drunkards in and the squares out, trapped in this reverb-y echo chamber of a basement.

All the sights and sounds of it are hard to describe. The whole thing is kind of a blur of lights, movement, blueish darkness and sensuality. And the pounding, of course.

I turned over to the girl sitting in the chair next to me. She was absentmindedly staring over at the couple making out on the only full sized couch there.

A sober person might have been concerned by that grotesque display of lust and hedonism. But the most pressing problem for most of us was that the comfiest couch in the room was being wasted by a whole two people, and they were on top of each other for christsakes! So much extra room on that couch.

I figure that’s what that girl was thinking about too. You could tell by that gleam in her eyes (entrancing!) that she wasn’t all there, but I don’t blame her. I wasn’t either.

So, I did what I do, and I started on talking. We started on talking. I still can’t remember what we discussed, but I do remember it being spirited, memorable, and short. I don’t think I’ve had a conversation like it with an intoxicated person since, which makes it particularly intriguing.

But she fled the room eventually. So there I was again, staring at the lights race across the ceiling, to the floor, and back again.

Of course, the damn couch was still hogged.

—

“So, wait, are you telling me you need a ride home?”

When my father was growing up, he told me, they would do shots of vodka in the parking lot, sitting on top of their old Cadillacs and Toyotas. They’d walk around, break shit, try to get into bars, get rejected, and stumble back to their cars and go home.

He said it was fun, but that I could never do it now. It sounds fun. More relaxed.

So in this responsible age we live in, the most terrifying thing to suburban kids like us was needing to be in a car after a night of drinking.

See, this one girl who was with us, she was coming into her own that time. I like to take partial credit for corrupting her this way, bringing her into the fold of sex, drugs, and alcohol, but really, all the credit’s due to her. I was irrationally proud of my corrupting influence, and in a way, I still am, the weird European influence in a bland, stark American suburbia.

“My mom needs the car back by eleven!” she intoned, understandably worried about this impossible ultimatum.
“Wait,” I said, “let’s think this one out. Who’s not drunk?”

I don’t recall who we picked, but someone could do it.

We ended up having a convoy of two cars. The drunk girl got to sat in the back of her own car while the two capable folks remaining brought her home. A delicate switch was made just before arriving at their destination, so it looked like our poor girl was totally fine. I was told they got a pretty good stare-down, but nothing more.

Not good enough, considering we’d later find her passed out naked on a couch later that evening.

—

She and her friends stormed in, like a little clique of high school girls usually does. It seems one of my buddies was having a little personal friction with the SO. One of them was entering that drinking mood while the other was still behind. She wasn’t happy about the situation.

I didn’t hear much (I couldn’t, and I didn’t care to listen anyway), but she seemed pretty unsatisfied with the result. Meanwhile, the host and I conga-lined past her with shitty wine coolers in hand.

It wasn’t the first time I had paraded past her with booze in hand. She must of loved that. She doesn’t talk to me now, understandably.

—

The night capped off with a final teenage ritual— the celebratory pot smoke! The host and I were the only ones with a modicum of experience. We gathered the remaining people around the floor couches- car girl, ‘bad’ boyfriend, and a few others- and started to explain the metholodogy, the reasoning, the thrills. We were like some sort of crazy witch doctors, spinning a mad tale of pineapple dreams.

All told, watching that smoke hit the basement ceiling was utterly satisfying.

Transient, hazy, and perfect, that moment was.

Then it was gone!

Skiba

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All I want to see, the ocean in your eyes.

The Pwnstar is dead, long live The Pwnstar.

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Cage the Elephant @ Lollapalooza 2011, prior to the storm.

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party haze!!