I didn’t party in high school. I was too mature to participate in such messy shenanigans. I was a high school sophomore in 1992.
I was with some friends the other night in the East Village, and in contemplating the after-plan, was offered a penthouse party on the Upper East Side. I rarely if ever like to hang out on the Upper East, AKA: sports bar central, but this was too good to refuse. If I am curious about one thing in life it’s about how other people live, so I had to check it out. A mop-headed red-head opened the door. He could not have been more than a teenager. Not a good sign. Proceeding into the apartment, I couldn’t help but notice a man sitting in the home office. There was a large off-limits sign posted on the door, and he was entrenched in some heavy-duty paperwork. The lord of the manor, presumably, and how odd that he was present. In the kitchen and every other room, rousing games of beer pong ensued. The only alcohol left was some “jungle juice” pooled at the bottom of an igloo cooler on the floor. Headed for the terrace at this point, to savor the only saving grace of the party, which was the view. Oh the view! 360 degrees of New York City lights. I forget I live in this amazing city sometimes when I’m entrenched in it, but from the top looking down, it’s undeniable. Onto the terrace came a young man, asking who we were. Turned out he was the son of the house, the one who threw the party. Nice kid who was a bit concerned that he didn’t know half the people at the party, and that they were “so young.” At the ripe old age of nineteen, he was dismayed that the average party demographic was high school sophomores. It was time to leave.