What do you get when four people drink and sing at the top of their lungs for 14 consecutive hours? A very warm karaoke machine and some very sore throats.
At two in the afternoon Friday, the best hundred dollars ever spent arrived at 702 Paulina: a dual-mic Karaoke system with three foot speakers, key adjustment and about 1,400 songs. Most of which were sung over the course of the next half-day. Noah and I were there when it arrived and belted our brains out for three hours until Kolleen and Brian arrived home from work. People started showing up for the party at about 7:30, and it was curtains from there. From 2:15pm to 4:30am, the machine was never silent for more than two minutes at a time, save the three minute interlude it took me to change the disc so I could sing “Part of Your World” from the Little Mermaid. Don’t worry, the forfeiture of heterosexuality didn’t end there.
The idea was to dress as your favorite rock/pop star, which the roommates and about 40% of the party-goers did. Costumes ranged from a clock-wearing, Viking-helmeted Flava Flave to a Loc’ed-out Avril Lavigne if only she were Asian and a gangster rapper. I was Right Said Fred, which expanded the dress theme to “Dress as your favorite rock/pop/famous-person-loosely-associated-with-music star.” Below, you can match each roommate to their corresponding artist.
Now for the ‘moting.
Since Right Said Fred is the most blatantly homosexual macho rapper in all of ‘90’s rap, I needed to complete the costume with the gayest shirt I could find… which I promptly found in Noah’s closet. Noah: ‘moted.
Kolleen forwent the assless chaps (“Do you know what assless chaps go for these days!?”) but still assembled one of the best costumes of the night. Then she proceeded to get about as drunk as Christina Aguilera at a Grammys Post Party. Kolleen and Christina: both ‘moted.
Brian borrowed my idea for self-graffiti and scrawled “Thug Life” on himself to complete his Tupac ensemble. Except where I used an eyeliner pen, Brian used a Sharpie. “Thug Life” will continue to represent on Brian’s stomach for another five weeks, until the layer of skin rubs off. Brian: self-‘moted.
Anyway, good times ensued. If the turnout lacked in sheer volume, it more than made up for it in enthusiasm. Song repetition was kept to a minimum, although “California Dreamin’” was heard at least three times and Boyz II Men made eight appearances even though there were only five of their songs on the playlist. The karaoke machine even eclipsed the usually popular beer-pong table, though a poker table did make a stand and attracted visitors later in the night. Ironically, during the entire Dirty Pop Party, the song “Dirty Pop” by N'Sync was never sung. Neither was “Dirrty” by Christina Aguilera, nor anything off U2’s “Pop” album.
More pictures here.
In the morning, the house was a wasteland of playlists and sleeping people. Bodies were strewn everywhere – it looked like some sort of Karaoke massacre had occurred. The only word I could think of to describe it was “Carnage.”
Nobody felt like cleaning so we all went to T-bell instead. Nothing cures a hangover and a sore throat like two piping hot Chalupas, baja-style. Chalupas rule.