//THE PARTY BENCHMARK// There are

//THE PARTY BENCHMARK//

There are a few parties I’ve attended that became the events by which all subsequent fiestas have been judged.

I wish I had more recent memories to share, but the fact is, the types of parties we are invited to nowadays are firmly planted in the slow lane. Most of our friends are married with at least one child. And they drive minivans! It’s no wonder we’ve retired the party animals within us. The Petite Filet and the Cutlet are invited to a 3-year-old’s birthday party next Saturday. I’m not planning to go because I don’t expect the beer selection to live up to the hype.

I wanted to share one party in particular that’s withstood the test of time with few worthy challengers.

The staff of my university’s daily student newspaper marked the end of each semester with a liquor-infused blowout bash. Cleverly named “The Daily’s Dead.” The greatest version happened after my last spring term. It was in a three-bedroom townhouse not far from campus. This was the last such party I attended sober, so the events are quite vivid. I was the “Keymaster” of the affair as well.

A breakdown:

1. Close to 200 people attended throughout the evening.

2. A margarita machine was rented. Twice the recommended amount of tequila was added to the mix.

3. A live band played (loudly) in the living room (before the nextdoor neighbor/police officer told them to tone it down).

4. People were smoking cigars while sitting on the roof. Recreational mushrooms were being consumed elsewhere on the premises.

5. Our editor, Miss Lefty McHamhock, decided we needed more liquor right before the stores were to close, and she made the 30-minute drive to the nearest oasis in 12 minutes.

6. Lefty, later in the evening, proclaimed that “The Daily was dead!” and punched a hole in the wall, breaking a few fingers in the process.

7. The backyard fence was knocked down flat.

8. The city/campus editor, Nita Drink, went missing. We found her on the trunk of her car, a few shades darker than Kermit. She was never one to hold her liquor. It never ceased to amaze me that we always blamed liquor-sickness on mixing different types of alcohol. I think the sheer volume we’d consume at one time was mostly to blame!

9. Buckets O’Jiggles, a managing editor and one of the residents of Party Central, broke her foot near her front door while leaving to look for Nita. At the time, we thought it was just a sprain.

10. Bucket’s younger (as in 19) roommate Tipsy and one of her friends, Turvey, were passed out on a bed. Some of the less scrupulous guys were peering up their skirts before Buckets and the Keymaster (getting an eyeful – hey, I’m male) shooed them away.

11. The other managing editor, Stella Tanline, was going to be editor for the summer semester. I agreed to be her managing editor, even though I knew it would be a Summer From Hell with her at the helm. And remember, I was sober, but suddenly I needed a drink.

12. A fight broke out among some of the non-journalists over something stupid, and the party began to turn ugly.

13. The police showed up again.

14. As the party was ending, every drop of alcohol except what was in the margarita machine was commandeered as partygoers left in droves. As was much of the food in the refrigerator and some of the shrubbery lining the front walk.

15. Lefty, fresh from the emergency room, fell asleep in one of the beds upstairs, already occupied by Slammin’ Sam’s friend, Dexter Drainpipe. Dexter told us the next day that Lefty had come on to him and started tongue-kissing him. He said the experience was like “kissing a shit Popsicle.”
***It may be worth noting here that Lefty is a lesbian. She and Stella (who was bisexual for a few weeks) “dated” briefly. The rest of us knew the fallout from the inevitable breakup would create a tenuous work environment. We were right.

16. Tender Vittles, the lady who had helped us cut-and-paste the paper together each day, was drunk out of her mind. In her 40s but still swinging, she hit on every guy at the party. She was too drunk to drive home, so Jasper Wiseacre drove with her in her car and I followed in his truck. She invited us into her frighteningly retro apartment, decorated with 70s album covers and vintage hats. We were finally able to extract ourselves and return to the dwindling festivities.

It’s been more than seven years, but occasionally a few people from the group reconvene. I wonder what happened to some of them, including Spastic Collin, Giggles McQueen, Tacquito Timmy, EZ Ryder, Burnt Umber, Madam Limpsalot, Shady Shutterbug, Copy Cabana, Jungle Jenny, Hasty Pudding, Milton Milktoast and Long Pole Cole. I know Freddie Flicker was in a car accident that nearly killed him. And Buddy McFratster is a stockbroker (surprise). Many others are just out there, doing their thangs.

There were other parties that came close to the debauchery ... The Night of the Yoo Hoo® Russian and The Daily’s Dead/Summer Edition, ones after graduation including the Lake Kiowa Fiasco, Lake Murray Drunken Camping, Amy’s Rave and Mac’s Farewell (first party attended with the eventual Petite Filet) ... but none overtook the Daily’s Dead’s glory.

The four fiestas thrown by yours truly at his rented West Texas Headquarters in Lubbock came closer – New Year’s 1997 being the party pinnacle. My house was THE place for a time ... many bottles were emptied, things were broken, my food completely eaten, girls peed in the back yard, fights broke out among friends, frantic sex was had in small spaces and good times were had by most. At least they kept coming back, and I dumbly let them in.

After one of my parties, the Petite Filet stayed to help me clean up mi casa. It was before we were actually dating, but we were already hanging out quite a bit. As she was leaving, we had our first kiss – an electric liplock we both later described as making us tingle from head to toe.

And the rest, like my wild party past, is history.