So this party was thrown by the co-worker of my BFF, both of whom work for Viacom. The loft was in this huge commercial space, replete with a multi-stall public bathroom on the first floor. I was told that like 13 people live there, and I guess they supplement their income by throwing these parties and charging people a lot of money to get in. I heard that the discounted rate was $15, so who knows how much the full-price admission was. My friend was on the list, but I wasn’t, so I initially was told I’d have to pay to get in, which caused me to roll my eyes and do the phlegm-y, exasperated sigh. First time in my life that ever worked for anything, as I’d been using it for years—to get out of detentions, chores, picking movies to rent OnDemand—to no avail. But apparently it works for free admission to illegal hippie-raver loft parties.

When I say “hippie-raver” I mean that there was techno music blaring, people playing with blacklight hula hoops, some guy trying to match the beat with his bongos, and another guy inexplicably pounding on a cowbell. All I could think was, “Less cowbell. Less cowbell!” Also, there was a girl wearing a shirt that said, “Got Reggae?”

Anyway, so the kids from The Real World: from what I could tell, there was a normal, apple-pie girl (the one going out with the guy who lived in the party loft) who had a weird different name like Been or Bien or Bash or something; there was a queen-y, tall, black guy who was making a dramatic Blackberry phone call outside, presumably to one of the other roommates, saying, “Where are you!? I’m freaking the fuck out!”; an alterna-girl with styled, black hair who seemed to be short on patience and long on attitude; and there were a few diminutive, run-of-the-mill fratties with Gotti-boy hair.

There was another girl at the party that I initially thought was a cast member (the token whore-y roommate), but then I saw her signing a release form later in the evening and knew she was just a civilian like me. She was kind of awesome, because she had her tits on display, wasn’t wearing shoes, and was really into the hula hoops, and even got down on the ground, put one leg up in the air (despite the fact that she was wearing a skirt, or perhaps, because of it), and swung the hoop around her ankle. When she did that I could see that she was wearing nude hose, and they were all dirty and black on the bottom.

In the smoking room of the house, I made small talk with people I didn’t know because no one else would go in there with me. It was in there that I met a guy named Ron, who couldn’t have been older than 21, if that. He said he’d been cast for the next season of The Real World, and the producers invited him out tonight to see how he interacted with others and to meet the current cast. I don’t know how true this story is, because he also told me that he had chugged two cans of Sparks on his way to the party.

I was like, “Oh, is your tongue orange?”
And he was like, “What?”
And I was like, “Is your tongue stained from the Sparks?”
And he was like, “Sparks is orange?”
And I was like, “Duh. Stick out your tongue.”

And it totally wasn’t orange. However, he did have his tongue pierced, which I heard is supposed to make blow jobs feel really good, so I guess he’s not entirely a pussy. But he didn’t drink any Sparks, much less two cans of it. I’ve been to parties that Steve Aoki DJ’d back in 2004, where the free Sparks flowed like my period on Day 2. So you can’t pull the wool over my bloodshot eyes, Ron. Although, the fact that I cared enough to get into a pointless, victor-less argument over Sparks made me feel young all over again. If not egregiously immature.

I think the best thing that Real World Ron told me (besides the fact that he’s “very stoked” to be cast on The Real World, because he’s “always wanted to be on that show [his] whole life”), was that he had done two Jäger bombs before he got there. He pronounced “Jäger” with a hard “j.”

Here’s some footage of The Real World girls hula hooping.

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