party for the proletariat

It's ridiculous that anyone should have to defend their right to have a good time. I know. The world is a shitty place. There's war, famine, natural disasters; and all of these things are tragic, but to think that enjoying oneself is a trivial pursuit considering that all people at all times will eventually suffer hardships is the kind of thinking that keeps the world a shitty place. If you can't enjoy yourself, then why bother?

The town I live in made its reputation as a party town--mostly because of its college. I didn't know that when I moved out here, it's just something that people were raving about. Now that I've been here a while, I can honestly say that the parties here aren't anything out of the ordinary compared to parties in other cities, there's simply nothing else to do here but party. And granted, at least there's that.

But the elders who own everything and live out in the hills and canyons and rent shitty apartments to students for ridiculous prices have decided that the party image of the town needs to be shot in the head, buried, then dug up and shot in the penis (or vagina depending on the sex of the image). So they've done everything in their power to say that "the party's over." Of course, they haven't taken steps to give the town a new image, but that would be, I guess, the logical thing to do. Instead, they run inflammatory ads on local television warning residents about police presence, zero tolerance and warning people not to go downtown. The latest holiday to feel the wrath of the Good Ol' Boy Christian Club is Labor Day, which I consider the most hallowed day of the year.

I work all year long. Sometimes I come in on my weekends. Sometimes I work 25 hour shifts. It could be worse, I know. I'm fortunate, but that doesn't mean I don't bust my ass and am forced to question my worth as a human being on a daily basis. Hello. I work for a living. There are billions of us. Luckily, we have Labor Day weekend--a delightfully capitalist idea with just the right touch of communism. I love Labor Day weekend. It's kinda like an early Christmas gift from the fat cats. "Let them eat cake." And I do. In beer form.

When I heard that the town elders were trying to throw a wrench in the gears of my Labor Day celebration, I took it to heart. Fuck them, and fuck their town. So I vowed to ignore their warnings and go out every night, embarking on a five-day bender (starting Thursday night), of which I'm mired in day four. It wasn't the best idea, to be honest. I'm not sure if I'm going to go for day five. Thursday and Friday I got a little overzealous. Thursday especially. I knew it was going to be bad, because before I sat down at the bar, my roommate's boyfriend pushed a shot of good tequilla in front of me and told me that he didn't want to see my wallet the rest of the night. Friday, there was a work party to celebrate the national magazine's release which started at 6:30. I'd forgotten to eat dinner. I heard that Huggy J made his appearance. Huggy J likes to go up to people he knows and put his arm around their shoulders and shout their names. He's the black sheep of my social personas, but everyone else seems to dig him. These two nights may have taken a couple years off my life.

Saturday was a big fat bore, but I perservered nonetheless with the aid of my Good Friend Guinness, and tonight I ran into friends at midnight who, apparently, had decided to inhabit the same bar from 1pm to 1am; and they were plastered. Like really.

But I didn't get hassled by the cops once. I got myself home under my own power every night, and even made it into my bed each time. Imagine that. I can take care of myself. Maybe I should tell the town elders that.