Throw a Party - Hold the Pretension

Despite my preference to dress predominantly in the image of a hobo, I am capable of displaying class. In particular, when called for, in a mandatory social setting. The opera - if ever - would be a wonderful time to ditch the lid, trim the stubble and slide that carefully kempt beer gut into threads of tailored silk.

Humbly following the words of the legendary Omar Little: “a man got to have a code” - I’ve established several notable rules to guide my life. Not the least important of which is:

Life Rule 12-C) When an event features a baby-gorilla sized woman in an “Eric the Red” Helmet, belting out sounds unheard to even Wilt “1,000” – you best suit up.

Throughout history, Opera has provided a haven for large women. There they control the crowd, own the stage and bask in the glory of their tremendous soft pallet. Fortunately, the stage isn’t the only place large women can attract a crowd. Plus-sized divas are more than welcome at 1906’s parties and in my experience they generally come with a noble calling. Their mission is submission - their method: suffocation. When I see a pair of basketball sized tigos smothering a drunken imp, I know everyone’s in for a good time. Not for nothing, but the emerging prevalence of hip-hop culture has afforded plus-sized women a cult following; the same can’t be said for tiny little elf-men. Obviously, heavyset women aren’t required to put on a spectacle but everyone in 1906 has come to party and big girls are encouraged to get down too.

While conversation is surely an acceptable social lubricant, reclining in the corner with your immediate social circle hardly qualifies. As host of a party, you’re required to not only provide a haven for juvenile behavior, but exude inspiration that forces attendees to ask the question “how do I be like Him?”

It’s not enough that guests politely step out of their comfort zones, people must knock them bitches down with a sledgehammer, proclaiming “you’re done, son”:

• The debutante desperate to let her hair down, must pound a car bomb with the prematurely balding intellectual.

• The closeted meatgazer, in need of an inconspicuous thimble-spindle, has an obligation to approach the Hip-Hop Flatly shaking his ass for those too polite to flee from anal warts.

• At the very least, the out-of-touch whiteboy must spit the lyrics, line for line of Whoomp! There It Is and Regulators. Mount up!

Furthermore, it’s entirely pointless to create a buzz around an event and invite a boatload of honored guests, only to proclaim the spot “overcrowded” when an unaccompanied minor spills red wine on your carpet.

So what if a braggadocios neighborhood kid who’s buzzing like Courtney Love and sporting the “I got kills teardrop tattoo” wanders in uninvited? Shit, give that mothafucka a beer. Big deal if he wasn’t built to handle binge drinking Big-10 alumni style. It’s entertaining to see four beers go down as three too many and watch the punk develop delusions of Stringer Bell.

It falls on the host(s) to provide their party with a vibe. For five hours +, the host gets to be Moses guiding the flock through beer filled estuaries and parted seas of Irish whiskey. Next time your invitations go out, send them with reckless abandon. Prepare for a mess, a fucked toilet or two and definitely expect several passed out mopes populating the living room floor.

In conclusion, when throwing a party, Johnny Drama should not serve as the model he’s proven to be through countless other life situations.*

* Watch Entourage this Sunday for further explanation of Drama’s hosting failures. Also come back to this blog (sometime in the future) to read the 1906 take on the hilarity of Entourage.