Post Party

Back in the day, Meta Cranky delighted in Bad Parties. Giving them, attending them, watching people fall in the pool at them. Scott Fitzgerald articulated the essence of the bad party in Tender Is the Night, and my undergraduate journalism pals aspired to host parties that met these standards:

I want to give a really BAD party. I mean it.
I want to give a party where there’s a brawl and seductions and people going home with their feelings hurt and women passed out in the cabinet de toilette. You wait and see.

Truth be told, most Daily Texan parties I attended in the mid-eighties didn't miss this mark by much. I have rosy memory of a full day spent inert on the sofa after a glorious multi-birthday soiree in my condo's party room. Through slit eyes, I watched a dozen post-partiers shuffle through my condo collecting lost shoes and empty pony kegs. Some poor soul hobbled by on a foot that had been impaled by a woman's stiletto. From my mostly horizontal position, I pointed toward missing articles of clothing and equipment, and listened to descriptions of epic, irresponsible binge drinking. I realized at day's end that the Mexican fat dress I was wearing was inside out.

Time and space don't much change the parameters of the Bad Party. We celebrated Grace Five Point Five recently, and I'm pleased to report that while it differed in specifics from the Daily Texan model, it still followed classic Bad Party form. Girls in outrageous outfits? Check. Girls jumping on sofas in the name of self-expression? Natch. Painfully loud music to fuel interpretive dance? You betcha. Then: "Caca de Vaca." Now? "Barbie Girl."

I began post-party cleanup by strategizing about the PlayDoh ground into the carpet. As I studied the wreckage, I begin to identify items left by members of Not My Tribe. Gigi's camera. Helena's sweater. Addie's purse. Ellie's jacket. KK's jacket, plus her headband. And I smiled in recognition.
--MCG