Congratulations, Noyes! For managing to throw a genuinely, pretty good, pretty normal party. It may not be the first time, and it hopefully is not the last, but it sure seems surprising each and every time they manage to knock it out of the park. Was it the pre-party Jodel hate (reporters on site did not report any of Noyes actually smelling like cheese), or was it just the slightly-awkward vibe that precedes Noyes that made this party feel like something people were only marginally interested in? Whatever it was, the hopes weren’t all tacked on the 1920s speakeasy Friday night party.
And yet: Friday came, and it was good. SLUT may now have a bit of a reputation that piques people’s interest, more so than any other Noyes party seems to manage. The Speakeasy Lounge Under Town theme only seems partially responsible for the party itself being good. Noyes may have managed to shed some light on what makes a party actually good in this day and age. You can’t just throw out some drinks, turn off the lights, cross your fingers, and hope for the best. Parties either need to have some sort of Dress-level history, culturally relevant tact, or actual effort in order to be good, and Noyes pulled out all the stops. From individual, print-out bricks hand-placed on the walls, a Jay Gatsby printout beckoning to students from the windows overlooking the D-Hall entrance, a poker table in the downstairs kitchen, and a kinda wholesome amount of excitement emanating from the house residents, it was difficult to have a bad time at Noyes at any fault of the house itself. If you didn’t have a good time, it was probably because you saw your situationship talking to someone else and then sadly decided to walk yourself home alone. Don’t blame it on Noyes.
Not even a well-attended three person birthday party happening simultaneously on the Bingham porch was able to sink Noyes. It was a stable party—always enough people, no waiting around awkwardly for things to pick up. You could leave, and then come back. SLUT would—and now, is it safe to say will?—be there.
Excuse me. Waiter? There’s a “fly” in my “beef.” And by “fly” I mean “it is currently 40 degrees fahrenheit outside,” and by “beef” I mean “Welling’s Saturday-night Beef Wellington Party, which is, for God-knows-what reason, being held in their backyard garden.”
Yes. It was as bad as it sounds. Even with a coat, it was painfully cold. Almost nobody showed up—because, of course, why would you—and half of the people who did had to spend the night desperately huddling around the two fires. Clouds of ash floated over the dance floor, and if it really had been snow, no-one would have been surprised.
But somehow, through the sheer ridiculous dorkiness of it all, it was actually… kind of enjoyable? Less of a party, and more an elaborate bit. I mean, it was Welling. Come on! Expectations were so low they were basically non-existent. Unlike a totally abysmal party at, say, Booth, there was no sense of disappointment—no sense of a grand failure, no sense that you were witnessing something shameful.
The theme was goofy, but the house went all in. Actual hot dogs and burgers were cooked on a grill and handed out to the crowd. For free! That’s fun! That’s funny! That’s even anti-capitalist! There were lots of aprons, and chef hats too, which are silly in a way where it’s impossible to seem pathetic while you’re wearing one. The lights were bright, and multicolored. Sure, it was cold, but coldness is invigorating! Wits were sharp, and eyes were clear. There was a prevailing atmosphere of sobriety. Standing there, sipping an iced drink out of a disposable cup from D-Hall, complaining to your friends about how terrible everything was, you felt alive.
(This is all also—don’t let it slip past you—further vindication of Party Architectural-Geographic Determinism. The hedged-in backyard location gave Welling something most outdoor parties don’t have, which is walls. Without walls, an outdoor party is sad, limpid clumping. With walls, it becomes Hanging Out in a Space.)
And then, when it finally ended, it felt like a relief. The night was young, and your bed was warm, and sleep is restful. And isn’t that kind of nice?
Be First to Comment