I've seen the "walking dead" of the world party, and contrary to the hype you see on prime-time t.v., it isn't fun at all. People with "dead head" problems don't really give a fuck if they live or die, and they just might want to take you out with them. It's not like there's a card in the grocery store for just such an occasion, either, know what I'm sayin'? How would that go, anyway? "I'mSorryYouDiedButGoAwayNow" read really fucking quick?!
When I was forced into close proximity with one of the devil's own, all that lazy bitch Cotto wanted to do was smoke his dirt weed blunts and play "JerkBox" until he died in his 50s, like his "hero" of a dad. Feel me? There just wasn't enough there to make it an exceptionally cool ride to be on, and, true to me, as soon as I made "bank", I was gone, baby, gone. Why wait for his dull-ass second act? I'd already seen the show and peeked behind the curtain, yo. The dead don't party.
As a former Oneontan, I've been privileged to attend some of the most epic student parties ever to grace that small hick town (love ya, tho'), and I'm gonna tell you from my firsthand experience: we looked nothing like half-dead rock stars looking to make their final exit from stage left, practically in front yo' face, to boost their flagging record sales.
Really good times come equipped with this handy, easy-to-remember formula (for all you kids struggling out there with the lameness that constantly surrounds you): really really good music, great food, free-flowing drinks (with the requisite cut-offs for party novices, 'cause you gotta account for the possibility of "lame" descending on you, like, always), a beautiful venue, gorgeous chicks, good-looking guys, and really smart people with something to say, for awesome conversations that can possibly inform and entertain at the same time.
Isn't that what it's really about, anyway? Having a great time, easing your worries, clearing your mind, and getting ready for the next big thing? It "sho'nuff" is! I don't "pay to play" with no bullshit club rife with hookers and other opportunists. I got my own thing to do. I don't need you for that. Trust. You can't hang wit' it. I do roll with low-key jazz joints that know the real from the fake, and bitch, your plastic tits ain't worth the entry fee they built it on. It don't mean shit to me. At the end of the day, I just want to hear the music play while I drink my beer. Bounce.
Doubt my skills? Witness this, peeps. It continues unabated to this day: http://www.thedailystar.com/news/local_news/town-meet-gown-a-night-out-in-oneonta/article_61e06604-97e0-5d34-b6c6-05723c0e1c40.html
