Picture This part 2
Picture this. I go to a party in the Hamptons. I've been to this house before, so I know more or less what to expect. I walk up the driveway and through the front door. The entryway has vaulted ceilings and hardwood floors. It leads into a large open living room, also with hard wood floors, leather furniture, wrought iron tables with glass tops, a large fireplace, a big screen TV and so on. There's a support wall which separates the kitchen, also with tall ceilings and a very open air feel to it. The countertops and floors are marble, the appliances all stainless steel, and so on. The entire rear wall of the first floor of the house is glass. Outside there is a large inground pool, surrounded by a deck. The pool is heated. I don't always like heated pools. Sometimes, too much alcohol and drugs mixed with the warm water make it hard to get it up. That is a party foul of the first order. There are kids out there, some of them in the pool, others milling around the deck, still others standing steadfastly next to a large rubber tub, a keg standing upright in it. It's probably Brooklyn Lager, this months cute, trendy beer. At least it's good beer though, next to wine, Budweiser is the worst hangover known to man. I didn't bring my own beer here because I'm relatively sure they're not going to be serving that shit.
I can hear the music thumping through the floor as I come through the house and to the back door. The kids who's throwing this party is downstairs I'm sure. He's one of those east coast faux surfer types, and is really just a geek of the highest order. If it weren't for these parties, the house, the pool and the basement (which I'll get to), none of these kids would hang out with him. As I cross the marble floor next to the kitchens wrap around counter, I realize the baseline I'm hearing belongs to the Wu-Tang's neck breaking classic, "Clan in Da Front'. At least the music is going to be decent. I open the back door and slide onto the deck
Grabbing a tall red Solo cup from the bar on the deck, I step over to the keg, behind some kid wearing the typical Nautica polo shirt and plaid shorts. This is the uniform for upper crust frat kids these days. The plaid shorts are just too much for me. I don't really get it, at all. I'm wearing a pair of Guess jeans, a New York Knicks (John Starks tonight, I have Mason and Ewing at home) jersey, and a pair of black and white Shell toe Adidas. This is what these kids would generally refer to as classic old school. I have a black North Face back pack slung over one shoulder. I couldn't fit all of the things I'm carrying in my pockets, and if by some really crazy turn of events, the cops happen to show up here, all I have to do is put down the back pack and walk away from it. It's got nothing in it to identify me (I checked before I left home), and there are at least ten others which would be idenitical to just about anyone looking, so it would be a fluke if some kid were able to point it out as mine. In this crowd, a pocket full of cash isn't going to make me stand out either. I don't have a "Born To Lose" tattoo on my body.
There's a radio on the deck, blaring the WBLI Friday Night Dance Party, which I have sworn to despise for the rest of my natural life. I smoked a blunt of some pretty good weed on the way over here. My driver tonight was impressed with it, and he's already over at the edge of the pool talking to a bikini clad youngun. I know the weed was pretty good because as I look around the deck and the pool, the conflagration of skin drowns out the horrific sound from the radio. God gave us all the seed bearing plants to use indeed. I smile at a couple of the pretty young things, one or two of whom smile back, but I'm not ready to commit for the night just yet. Surveying the territory before I try and make a choice is a must. Even I know the real truth about this though. The men don't get to choose. The girls do all the choosing. The only reason I ever get any choice at all is that when it gets a little later on, and the crowd thins out a touch, people start to figure out who the hook up is, and some of them will be very interested in how long he's staying and where he's going afterwards. It's better than being the Candy Man. I'm not talking about the horror flick from the eighties either, but the old Sammy Davis Jr. song where's he's very nicely, very poetically, and very unoffensively referring to being the Sugar Dick Daddy. It's The Mac, on fourty or fifty valim. Personally, I like Chuck Berry's My Ding Dong better specifically because it is just this side of completely inappropriate. I'm an NWA fan, so you know, I'm partial to in your fucking face.
I fill up my cup and head back inside. When I open the basement door, a cloud of smoke wafts up from the basement. It's a thick mixture of weed and cigarettes, and very familiar. It's something which denotes to me, "this area zoned for business." As I descend the stairs the mixture of vioces and music is very much like a kind of ether which sets my mind in a certain place. It's a place in which I know all the rules, where they bend, when to break them and I hold a superb hand. A couple of skimpily clad girls pass me on the narrow stairs, one of whom looks relatively familiar and I hope I shouldn't remember her name when she smiles at me. She keeps going, so I'm going to take that as a no. I've probably seen her at other parties or clubs, it's hard to keep track after a while. Add in the amount of drugs and alcohol I consume in any given summer, and you have a database which would be kind of like looking at the family albums in a trailer park. You can tell everyone looks a little bit different, but the overall similarities are alarming because of the underlying genetic cause.
Parker (the kids who's throwing this party) is sitting on the couch to my left, in front of a huge, wide screen TV which is set into the wall. There are two speakers set into the wall next to it with sixteen inch woofers, ten inch mids, and tweeters on top. If I remember correctly there are ten of these speakers set in the walls surrounding the furnished basement. Parker has a large glass bong up to his mouth with his back turned to me. To my right are the pool table, the foosball table, the ping pong table, the Pac Man, Space Invaders, Spy Hunter and Dig Dug arcade machines, the Back To The Future pin ball machine and the full size refrigerator, all lining the back wall. There are people sitting everywhere, red Solo cups in hand, some smoking joints, others cigarettes. I can smell a clove cigarette coming from somewhere, and I vow this person will either leave very soon or does not smoke another while they are here. My stomach turns every time I smell those damned things. There's got to be some art school refugee down here, thinking they're too intelectual for a fucking Marlboro or Newport. I want to put that clove out on their forehead when I think of this.
You might be wondering where Parkers parents are at this point. Parkers mother is either upstairs passed out drunk in her second floor bedroom or out at some bar trying to find a suitor for the night. She's a lush. He doesn't know it, but I ran into her at CPI's last summer and watched her sniff a gram of coke off of some young dumb bells abs in the living room upstairs. Parker was away London for the summer. One of her friends daughters had come back here with us, and as a matter of fact, I had her doggy style pretty much where a little girl who looks like she's Parkers current squeeze is sitting on the couch next to him. That girl's been a good time every time I've seen her since. I wonder if she's here tonight.
Parker's father has a summer house in Montauk. He either favors the more quiet and peacefull setting out there or he goes all the way out to the end of the island to ensure he never runs into Parkers mother. I went to a Halloween party out there a year or two ago. Parker had apparently decided to come make a weekend of it out on the island instead of doing the Halloween thing in the city. A whole group of his private school friends came out and I brought some of my local crew. It ended up being a huge costume party and we ended up doing coke for two days, swimming in the Atlantic on the first day of November (which you'd have to sniff coke for two days to be able to do), and setting a lifeguard stand on fire at three in the morning. Parkers father, I've never met.
Parker looks up from the long glass bong which he's just had his mouth shoved into, and waves me over. We shake hands, and he exhales a cloud of smoke. It's an exagerated gesture I've come to expect, not just from Parker, but from most people who are chronic pot smokers. Somehow, there seems to be some connection in their minds that if you exhale all the more grandly, the more high you get.
I can hear the music thumping through the floor as I come through the house and to the back door. The kids who's throwing this party is downstairs I'm sure. He's one of those east coast faux surfer types, and is really just a geek of the highest order. If it weren't for these parties, the house, the pool and the basement (which I'll get to), none of these kids would hang out with him. As I cross the marble floor next to the kitchens wrap around counter, I realize the baseline I'm hearing belongs to the Wu-Tang's neck breaking classic, "Clan in Da Front'. At least the music is going to be decent. I open the back door and slide onto the deck
Grabbing a tall red Solo cup from the bar on the deck, I step over to the keg, behind some kid wearing the typical Nautica polo shirt and plaid shorts. This is the uniform for upper crust frat kids these days. The plaid shorts are just too much for me. I don't really get it, at all. I'm wearing a pair of Guess jeans, a New York Knicks (John Starks tonight, I have Mason and Ewing at home) jersey, and a pair of black and white Shell toe Adidas. This is what these kids would generally refer to as classic old school. I have a black North Face back pack slung over one shoulder. I couldn't fit all of the things I'm carrying in my pockets, and if by some really crazy turn of events, the cops happen to show up here, all I have to do is put down the back pack and walk away from it. It's got nothing in it to identify me (I checked before I left home), and there are at least ten others which would be idenitical to just about anyone looking, so it would be a fluke if some kid were able to point it out as mine. In this crowd, a pocket full of cash isn't going to make me stand out either. I don't have a "Born To Lose" tattoo on my body.
There's a radio on the deck, blaring the WBLI Friday Night Dance Party, which I have sworn to despise for the rest of my natural life. I smoked a blunt of some pretty good weed on the way over here. My driver tonight was impressed with it, and he's already over at the edge of the pool talking to a bikini clad youngun. I know the weed was pretty good because as I look around the deck and the pool, the conflagration of skin drowns out the horrific sound from the radio. God gave us all the seed bearing plants to use indeed. I smile at a couple of the pretty young things, one or two of whom smile back, but I'm not ready to commit for the night just yet. Surveying the territory before I try and make a choice is a must. Even I know the real truth about this though. The men don't get to choose. The girls do all the choosing. The only reason I ever get any choice at all is that when it gets a little later on, and the crowd thins out a touch, people start to figure out who the hook up is, and some of them will be very interested in how long he's staying and where he's going afterwards. It's better than being the Candy Man. I'm not talking about the horror flick from the eighties either, but the old Sammy Davis Jr. song where's he's very nicely, very poetically, and very unoffensively referring to being the Sugar Dick Daddy. It's The Mac, on fourty or fifty valim. Personally, I like Chuck Berry's My Ding Dong better specifically because it is just this side of completely inappropriate. I'm an NWA fan, so you know, I'm partial to in your fucking face.
I fill up my cup and head back inside. When I open the basement door, a cloud of smoke wafts up from the basement. It's a thick mixture of weed and cigarettes, and very familiar. It's something which denotes to me, "this area zoned for business." As I descend the stairs the mixture of vioces and music is very much like a kind of ether which sets my mind in a certain place. It's a place in which I know all the rules, where they bend, when to break them and I hold a superb hand. A couple of skimpily clad girls pass me on the narrow stairs, one of whom looks relatively familiar and I hope I shouldn't remember her name when she smiles at me. She keeps going, so I'm going to take that as a no. I've probably seen her at other parties or clubs, it's hard to keep track after a while. Add in the amount of drugs and alcohol I consume in any given summer, and you have a database which would be kind of like looking at the family albums in a trailer park. You can tell everyone looks a little bit different, but the overall similarities are alarming because of the underlying genetic cause.
Parker (the kids who's throwing this party) is sitting on the couch to my left, in front of a huge, wide screen TV which is set into the wall. There are two speakers set into the wall next to it with sixteen inch woofers, ten inch mids, and tweeters on top. If I remember correctly there are ten of these speakers set in the walls surrounding the furnished basement. Parker has a large glass bong up to his mouth with his back turned to me. To my right are the pool table, the foosball table, the ping pong table, the Pac Man, Space Invaders, Spy Hunter and Dig Dug arcade machines, the Back To The Future pin ball machine and the full size refrigerator, all lining the back wall. There are people sitting everywhere, red Solo cups in hand, some smoking joints, others cigarettes. I can smell a clove cigarette coming from somewhere, and I vow this person will either leave very soon or does not smoke another while they are here. My stomach turns every time I smell those damned things. There's got to be some art school refugee down here, thinking they're too intelectual for a fucking Marlboro or Newport. I want to put that clove out on their forehead when I think of this.
You might be wondering where Parkers parents are at this point. Parkers mother is either upstairs passed out drunk in her second floor bedroom or out at some bar trying to find a suitor for the night. She's a lush. He doesn't know it, but I ran into her at CPI's last summer and watched her sniff a gram of coke off of some young dumb bells abs in the living room upstairs. Parker was away London for the summer. One of her friends daughters had come back here with us, and as a matter of fact, I had her doggy style pretty much where a little girl who looks like she's Parkers current squeeze is sitting on the couch next to him. That girl's been a good time every time I've seen her since. I wonder if she's here tonight.
Parker's father has a summer house in Montauk. He either favors the more quiet and peacefull setting out there or he goes all the way out to the end of the island to ensure he never runs into Parkers mother. I went to a Halloween party out there a year or two ago. Parker had apparently decided to come make a weekend of it out on the island instead of doing the Halloween thing in the city. A whole group of his private school friends came out and I brought some of my local crew. It ended up being a huge costume party and we ended up doing coke for two days, swimming in the Atlantic on the first day of November (which you'd have to sniff coke for two days to be able to do), and setting a lifeguard stand on fire at three in the morning. Parkers father, I've never met.
Parker looks up from the long glass bong which he's just had his mouth shoved into, and waves me over. We shake hands, and he exhales a cloud of smoke. It's an exagerated gesture I've come to expect, not just from Parker, but from most people who are chronic pot smokers. Somehow, there seems to be some connection in their minds that if you exhale all the more grandly, the more high you get.