A Kegger In WilliamsburgThere are parties in New York not run by publicists, parties that don't promote perfumes. Tracie Egan (the artist formerly known as "Slut Machine") and Nikola Tamindzic went out in the field this weekend to a real party: A raging kegger in South Williamsburg. There, they discovered oddly-shaped hickeys, uptight douchebags and a lack of alcohol. And we learned a lot about the way we live now. Or did we?

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

A Kegger In WilliamsburgS

I went to a party last Saturday night, I didn't get laid, I got in a fight.

So, this kegger was on South 3rd Street in Williamsburg and was hosted by a couple of 23-year-old boys, one of whom had a heart-shaped hickey on his neck, no joke. (Emosexual!) I didn't get there there till like 1 a.m., thinking that the party wouldn't really be going until then. But it turns out I missed the band, and the keg was kicked. I managed to find a plastic bag filled with cans of Miller High Life, so I put them in my purse and made my way to the roof.

Up there, I found a drum kit, a mic stand, and a bunch of people drinking Sparks. If it weren't for the evidence of an iPhone or two, I totally would've thought I'd traveled back in time to those heady days of 2005, when we were all hopped up on malt liquor energy bevs. Like, people still drink Sparks? And they actually buy it, rather than get it for free from Vice parties or Steve Aoki?

I invited Dana, because I knew that she would stir some shit up. Or at least take her shirt off at some point. She's achieved a modicum of micro-fame on the internet for such behavior. Anyway, she made a beeline for the mic stand and drums, and the people at the party were trying to tell her to lay off them. They were all, "You're wasted! We can tell." Apparently, they're the type to kill kegs and pound Sparks to achieve a light buzz. Drunks are not welcome at their ragers.

Anyway, Dana started beating on the drums like they were bongos, which prompted one dude to leap into the drum kit and knock her over. Once that mess began, Calisha Jenkins, one half of Drunky Brewster, began screaming one of their rap songs. A lyric that stuck with me was, "Just because you poked me in my butt/ Doesn't mean that I'm a fuckin' slut."

The dudes at the party hated it and were screaming, "She sucks! This stinks!" But you know what stinks? Armpits—especially when they're being ventilated and flaunted. You know what else stinks? Calisha's vagina. She'd been shoving garlic up there as a home remedy for a vaginal ailment.

And even though the jerks at the party were booing Calisha, the young thugs on the roof one building over were hootin' and hollerin'. They were loving every last drip-drop of her garlic in clam sauce. Dana began "interacting" with them (probably a one-boob flash) and we invited them over. They came bearing gifts of blunts and Coronas, which they opened with their teeth.

After the dude crashed the drums and the mini-thugs crashed the party, the too-cool-for-school set hopped the barrier and sat in the corner of the neighbor's roof deck. Either they didn't know or didn't care that all night long, dudes were using that area as a urinal.

At about 3:30, this Mystery-pick-up-artist flunkee-type with a flavor saver came up to me and was like, "OK, we're wrapping this up now. Time to go home." I was like, "Do you live here?" And he was like, "No but I know someone who does." And I was like, "Yeah, I know someone who lives here, too, and it's cool if I stay." Then he began yelling about how he was gonna beat someone up. And I was like, "Do you mean me?" And he was all, "Yeah, I'd hit a girl!" And I was like, "Oh, I'd like to see you try!" And he was all, "I'll really do it." And despite my best efforts at wishing and hoping that he'd pull a punch and liven up this dying party, he completely pussied out and instead started making calls on his phone.

As the night wore on, it became increasingly obvious that I'd be going home alone, even though there were these two sorta fuckable guys there. My friend ended up banging one of them. She called me the next morning to tell me his penis was small and that he was one of those dudes that like fucks you forever without noticing that you've become bored and dry.

I decided to call it a night, but then I met this dude who introduced himself as Billy Dee Williams. I told him my name was Eartha Kitt. We hung out on the front stoop with his friend while he rolled a blunt. But then the two boys got in a fight over the fact that the cigar dropped on the ground. The issue was oddly important to them and the situation became really tense and uncomfortable, so I ran into the street to hail the next cab that rolled up. Bill Dee Williams was like, "Hey, we're sorry. It's cool. You should hang out." I began to give it a second thought but then he said, "I mean, it's not like you have your own weed at home, right?"

"Yeah, actually, I do," I said. I climbed into the cab headfirst, and made my way home, where I smoked it in peace and quiet.