ThE ParTiES: a gONZO aCCOuNT / 63 ParT two
Sunday, 11:26 AM Alright. We’ve made it to Sunday without sustaining any severe permanent damage. i puked up half my hangover about an hour ago, so right now i’m writing this review to keep my mind off of the other half. The tremors in my fingers and the buzzsaw in my head aren’t helping, but we’re warrior-writers and will not be deterred by such trivialities, no matter how skullsplittingly painful. So far we’ve managed to lose our taperecorder (which contained a few interviews and an ambient soundscape of Friday night), a couple of packs of cigarettes, a cellular phone with every contact in it, a pair of contact lenses, a Moleskine notebook full of scribblings on the past two days and maybe a little bit of the respect of our peers and fellow magazine makers. We don’t know how or when we got back to our hotel. our deadline is fastly approaching and we’re still trying to connect the dots. Seriously, i can barely remember a thing about last night, so i’ll make a summary of some of the stuff i do recall. Last night started off with a pretty disgusting dinner at a Chinese joint on the Place D’Armes, which was empty for a reason when we walked in. I think I can safely say that that was probably the worst spring chicken with lemon sauce I’ll ever have in the span of my lifetime. Still digesting, we got in our car to drive up to MUDAM to get the skinny on the secret party location. Turns out we could easily have been chilling in our hotel for another hour, because it happened to be right by our doorstep. We walked over to Marx, collected our complimentary drinks from the bartender and started to blend in with our subject of scrutiny. After that, my memory became a casualty of an alcohol-spiked cluster bomb that went off right in my head. Next thing I know, I’m waking up back in Hotel Christophe Colomb with 15 minutes to go before we have to vacate our room. Each of us caught a blitz-shower, fiercely fighting down chills, headaches and some ill-digested Chinese food. At the moment, we’re sitting in the workstation area, still not having had any breakfast (and not in the mood for it either), with a deadline looming over our still-inebriated skulls. So fuck us in the frontal brainlobe and call us terrible reporters, the following facts and statements are the only details we can drag out of the murk and mist right now. Forget about chronology, locations and facts before you continue reading. Every girl I talked to in the past 48 hours has one or more boyfriends, and I’m not any of them. Everything (everything) sounds totally filthy when you say it in German. ‘Ja. Das ist Ihn. Das ist mein “Bad Motherfucker.” According to our educated guesses, the free welcome drinks at Marx contained Passoa, fresh lime, brown sugar and ice. The bartender called it a Marx Punch, which really lowers the respect I hold for Karl Marx, because his fruity namesake-drink didn’t pack any punch whatsoever. We used them to make a toast to print, knocked them back swiftly and switched to straight rum and scotch on the rocks. Djs Joanna and Emil got the party pumping with good vibes, getting the crowd hyped up. By 3AM, the dancefloor had turned into something that looked like Rocksteady Crew versus Sexy Gymnastics. We added our own percussive touch with a shaker that we found on the floor by the bar and later traded in for a quick shot of double rum. The prime social cohesive in Club Byblos is a big giant steroid cocktail swirling through the air. Seriously, just being in that place made us feel buff, stupid and superficial. The dancefloor was filled to the brim with douchebags, guidos, would-be pimps, blow-up dolls and cut-rate pieces of heavily made-up meat straight out of Silicon Valley. If your cleavage is more than 15cm deep, you shouldn’t be showing it on both cultural and humanitarian grounds. Anything that sags that low shouldn’t anywhere near a bar, it doesn’t matter what side of it you’re on. Seriously, it’s like getting kicked in the eyeballs.
i think i can safely say that that was probably the worst spring chicken with lemon sauce i’ll ever have in the span of my lifetime.