Probably end up crying. But not because I want to – just because vodka turns me into a prepubescent Bieber fan. Remember when Aaron Carter promised to “throw the party of the month – nah, the party of the year”? Ever since that hit single and remarkable career (can’t nobody do it like Aaron can), he set the bar high for the ultimate house party. And so we try. I mean, after the novelty of being 21 wears off, all we have to look forward to is a time share in West Palm and death. So occasionally we throw a banger – a check-your-pants-at-the-door, red cup rager.
If you’re underage you really only have two options: wedge your body into a crowded basement party or go to one of the five bars that will accept your fake New Hampshire ID. Once that inevitably gets taken, you’re back in the basement at the back of the jungle juice line.
For those old enough to not know or care who Selena Gomez is, the door is open to bars and clubs. While we don’t have to finagle our way around a homoerotic frat party, being 21 gets expensive. Once Sully the bartender remembers your name and drink order, that’s a red flag for a time-out.
So whether you’re under or over, sometimes all anyone needs is a certified shindig. The first rule to a successful house party is to never host one. Otherwise, you’ve signed up for sticky floors or a fat check made out to Merry Maids. If you already live in the designated party apartment, do yourself a favor and take off the oven knobs, because it’s only a matter of time until someone leans their bedonk against the stove. Nothing kills the weekend for the rest of us like the headline “Twenty die in house fire.”
Last weekend I peeled myself away from the “Coyote Ugly” direction the night was headed for and went to a house party. It was the kind of throw-down you could tell from the beginning was a hit – people pouring out of the house onto the porch and a kid was vomiting just to the left, all before midnight. Unfortunately, in an attempt to make some revenue, someone had hidden the plastic cups and I was left grasping a Mini Mouse mug filled with warm Keystone. Note to the host: don’t withhold the cups unless you want shattered glasses and a crowd coup.
Like any good party, there was a perfect people dynamic (or PPD, as I call it): a mix of folks you expected to see and the few who you hate to until you get drunk and suddenly want to approach them. There’s that kid from freshman year who you always wanted to make out with, that kid who you unfortunately made out with before and the stranger who you’ll end up making out with tonight.
Then, the iPod battle begins. Half the crowd wants Cam’Ron and the other half is pushing for dubstep. What to do?! Billy Joel. Done. Now that the commoners are appeased you can start your party wandering. Join the smokers and strictly-drunk-smokers on the porch or kick it in the bathroom to have a quick cry and take self-shots in the mirror. The crowded hallway is a good place to camp out if you don’t mind getting to second base with little to no effort. In the kitchen, or heart of the home, loitering is forbidden. Come between a bro and his turn manhandling the keg and you’re asking for a lame insult about your mother. Oh, there’s a second floor? Score. No, literally, people are trying to score, so move your Peeping Tom business back to the living room.
Now, if a party “has legs” there’s bound to be talk tomorrow. Positive chatter the next morning may include:
“Dude, I woke up in their living room. Fully dressed. Sitting up. With someone else’s watch.” Or, “‘Bros and Dinahoes.’ Great theme. Did you see the Triceratits?”
If you were responsible for any property damage the night before, hats off to you. Just bring over a nice Brie and lend a hand unclogging the toilet you flushed your shoe down.
This upcoming weekend (an excuse to party-hop dressed like Sarah Palin), indulge in the party splendor and appreciate a good one when you see it. If they don’t let you in the door it’s either because your costume was a lame attempt to look skanky, or because the party is super lame anyway. If it’s your house everyone is crowding, bump up the Monster Mash and take that noise complaint as a testament to your party-throwing finesse. Remember, Aaron is out there on house arrest somewhere, proud of you and your ultimate slamfest.
Kacy Emmett is a senior in the College of Communication and a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press. She can be reached at kcemmett@bu.edu.
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