Okay, before I get into this I just have to relay something I saw today. I’m driving down the road to my house and I see this truck that says across the back Jesus Plastering. WTF? I thought Jesus was a carpenter! Who knew he did plastering too.

So, now that I’ve had a day off from retail hell, I’m back on the Millipore team building party thing.  As time passed, my department had a goal: We wanted to get the division VP (and our immediate boss), otherwise known here as SV, to one of our parties. We had a plan. We started leaving her anonymous voice mails and notes. We threatened to show up in her neighborhood if she didn’t show up at one of our parties. Of course, we’d show up as only we could. And she knew that.

I’m know there were parties after the Grand Kahuna party but, frankly, I can’t remember them in comparison. Let me tell you how this one started out: It started out with Bruce and I driving up to the Lewiston-Auburn area of Maine in search of  mushrooms. And I’m not talking about the fungi you cook with either. I’m talking mind altering mushrooms. Not peyote buttons, mind you. Those are disgusting. You actually hurl before you hallucinate on those babies. Only did those once. Never again. These were not as potent, but combine them with a little weed and tequila and you’ve got a pretty good buzz on hand.

Not much to do up there in Lewiston but drink, so we did that. We stopped in this little craphole of a bar and watched a rare afternoon Celtics game on television while we tried to find his friends who had access. After about five hours, we finally hit paydirt. Needless to say, we drove home and tested them out. Yeah, we were ready.

This was the infamous jello shot party. Everyone dressed in sixties garb (peace signs and paisley shirts everywhere) and several brought jello molds. The winner was the bed pan of yellow jello with tootsie roll pieces in it. I’m not quite clear on who brought that one, but it may have been Brian. Yeah. Disgusting. Sat it right in the middle of the food table for good measure.

By this time, there was a core group that arrived early at the Party Zone. The group consisted of my departments and my landlords. But an unusually large number of people showed for this one for some unexplained reason. A lot of people from work showed and a lot of our suppliers did too. Not only did my niece and her husband show (as they always did), but so did my nephews that were of legal age at the time. It took only about an hour or so for the party to ramp up. People were just crazy that night. The music was blaring and a “band” had already formed in the dining room. Then there was a knock on the door. All we heard was, “Oh my God!” and several of us ran to see what was up.

There stood our boss dressed in sixties garb, replete with the most incredible beehive hairdo you’d ever want to see. “I hear there’s some kind of party going on around here!” Then, she started laughing and so did we. Everyone was psyched. We weren’t the only people on her staff there. Many of her product and marketing managers were as well. The great thing about SV was that she didn’t cramp anybody’s style. People were just amazed and happy that she showed up. And she fit right in. A couple of hours after her arrival, she said, “Now I know what everybody’s talking about on Monday mornings and why they’re talking about it!”

The place was absolute craziness and those mushrooms went over big time. Then, the bell rang. It was late and nobody else was expected. My nephew had the intelligence to look out the window, then he turned around and looked at someone in the living room and said, “Get those bags off the table, man! It’s the police.” Some people reacted and got rid of the bags. The majority of the people just went back to partying. My nephew buzzed them in.

I’m dead sure they were expecting to see a bunch of teenagers raising hell and destroying the building. Instead, they found a bunch of thirty- and forty-year-olds acting like, well…assholes. It was loud and the windows were all open, so I’m sure the sound was spilling into the street. Somebody complained, but it wasn’t anyone in the building because they were all in my apartment partying. The police walked in and started looking around the apartment. I wish I could say that everyone stopped what they were doing, but they didn’t. In fact, SV had gathered a few people from my department into a corner and was leading them in a very cockeyed version of “Bringing in the Sheaves.” Their version was called “Bringing in the Sheep.” It was hysterical. She just smiled at the police as they walked around. Then they headed for the door again. They turned around on the way out.

“Do us a favor. Close the windows and turn on the air conditioning if it’s hot. We don’t want to have to come back here. And be sure the people who are drunk stay here. Okay?” They opened the door to leave. “By the way, have fun.” That was it. This particular party didn’t end until about five in the morning. There were several people camped out on my floor.

Like I said, there was never a party of this scope again. But I have to tell you, the police stationed a cruiser outside starting at midnight for each and every party to follow. I wonder why?

A little post-”We’re So You” party note here: We had a ton of stuff left over come Monday morning and we were determined not to let it go to waste. We had plenty of the 1-800-the-ladies posters left, so we enlisted a couple of guys to hang them up in the men’s bathroom in the marketing department.  We also hung a bunch of the posters in the hallways along the way MY came into the building. When she arrived at work that day, all she said was, “You guys are in big trouble.” We laughed at her. “Sure we are, Marcia.” About an hour after her arrival, however, one of the product managers (we’ll call him Ken) walked into MY’s office and said, “Marcia, you look pretty good in that poster in the men’s room.” In a loud, booming voice, all we heard was “Deborah!” All hell broke loose on the marketing floor and before she knew it, everyone was hanging out in the bathrooms checking out the posters.

After this party, word about the team building parties really started to spread throughout the company. More people than ever showed up at the next one.

With every new party (and these happened about every two weeks), the ante was raised. Immediately after the “We’re So You” party, we had no particular theme. I was really against forcing anyone to have to dress as anything to have a good time, so we just pretty much let people free form. This time around, Bruce, my landlord’s lover, decided he was going to dress as Tammy Faye Baker. We didn’t tell a soul. Bruce was a pisser and we certainly got into our share of trouble together. If anyone could pull this off, it was Bruce. Coming as Tammy Faye definitely required a shopping trip.

Bruce and I went to Sears to get his shoes. (They were fucking huge. Sears was the third store we stopped in. Nobody had a size 10 women’s high heel.) We went to some incredible dive on Route 1 in Saugus to get a wig. I have no idea where we went for the slutty dress he bought, but it was blood red. Perfect. The make up was a moot point. You could get that trashy stuff anywhere. By the time he knocked on the door, he was carrying a fucking Bible and a martini. And he had his lover, Steven, in tow…dressed as Jim Baker…replete with a tux and tails (and just a pair of boxers from the waist down). It was an amazing show.

When Bruce knocked on the door, he was crying just like Tammy Fay did. He kept dabbing at his eyes with a Kleenex, talking about how his (her) husband had an affair and how crushed he (she) was. Steven just stood a little behind him and to his right, continually handing him Kleenex. It was hysterical. The look is hard to describe. Somewhere there are photos of this, and I’m going to search for them. In lieu of that, I’ll try to explain as best I can: Bruce had a trashy blonde wig on and plenty of bright red lipstick kind of all over his face. Both his mascara and nose were running because he was “crying.” He had on a low-cut blood red dress; he even shaved his legs and chest for the event. We must have bought all the cotton balls in Walgreens to pad his bra.

This was a crazy party. People got all sorts of fucked up. First, one of the product managers (we’ll call her LD) got really wasted on margaritas. Suddenly, she was gone. We were in a panic thinking that she drove home under those circumstances. We later found her upstairs in my landlords’ apartment drinking coffee and talking to Bruce. This was in the wee hours of the morning, way beyond the time when Bruce changed out of his Tammy Faye get up. I actually have no idea what time she left, but she eventually sobered up and left. (I can tell you that her husband was none too happy about the fact that she was out most of the night.)

Another friend, and a member of my staff (we’ll call him BD) also got messed up pretty badly. This time, however, Bruce called me on my cell laughing like hell. “You have to get up here and get a load of Brian.” I immediately went upstairs to find BD a nervous wreck, sitting on Bruce and Steven’s sofa. He looked up at me, “Deb, I think I’m gay.” I looked at Bruce, who just rolled his eyes. I shook my head. “Brian, I think you’re drunk and messed up on pot. But you are not gay, bubba.” Later on I said to Bruce, “You know, I think he’s gay too but he looked like he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. The last thing I want to do in my condition is play psychology. I can barely remember my name.” We both started laughing. (By the way, B is married today. Oh, yeah, to a woman.)

And now for something completely…different

Okay, I’m figuring that Bruce as Tammy Faye must have been inspirational because two weeks later, several people dressed up as characters. MY told us in advance that she wanted to come as Elvis Presley. BD chimed in that he wanted to be James Brown. These two idiots went all out.

Before the party, we went out and bought a velvet Elvis painting and a street sign that read Elvis Presley Boulevard. MY even went to a costume outlet in Arlington and got a genuine Elvis costume, complete with the hair. It was amazing. BD did the same with James Brown. He put on blackface and came in a white tux. You should have seen his hair. It was absurd.

But Bruce was not to be outdone. He came in a white turban and wrap. His name was Sodomy Insane (that’s Saddam Hussein to the rest of you). It was madness. Those who had never been to these parties before could not believe what they were seeing. That was the night somebody asked what one of the dishes was and my niece’s husband replied, “Endangered coconut baby seal.” I thought the woman was going to pass out. It was actually coconut chicken, but we were having waaaay to much fun at her expense to tell her the truth.

This was also the night Bruce introduced us to Grapefruit Flips, a really simple but deadly drink. Basically, you put some ice cold grapefruit juice in a glass and pour a ladle of vodka on top. It works best if the vodka has been in the freezer. No mixing required. Simply chug it. Wow. (Personally, I think vodka could be classified as its own food group, but that’s just me.) Many people fell asleep on my floor that night, but I had to take the dog out in the wee hours of the morning. I was less than graceful during this task and the dog pulled me down the stairs on my ass. Apparently, everyone in the building pretty much heard that.

I’d be a liar if I said I remembered every minute of these parties. There was waaaay too much alcohol and contraband floating around for that. But I do remember some of the highlights. On this particular night, The Pretenders were the band of choice and we must have sung about twenty songs.

All I remember is my phone ringing and Bruce was laughing like hell, “I gotta’ know. Did you just fall down the stairs taking Simone out?” I started laughing too, and I ended up going upstairs and continuing to party with Bruce while some of my guests camped out on my apartment floor.

These parties were crazy, but the grand kahuna of parties was about to take place. And that’s another post for another day, by the way.

Okay, it took a while for all hell to break loose in Melrose. But it was a thing of beauty in the making. The first team-building party at my place was simple enough. It was a boxer shorts party. Everyone had to come in boxers. No problem. Everyone did, and there was no shortage of amazing designs on display, including an incredible pair of Jaws boxers. The Argentinian Tornado, NW, had a new twist on boxers. (You’ve met NW before. She’s the woman who fell into the boxcar after we all went drinking at The Salty Dog.) She pinned gummy worms to her boxers, which my schnauzer, Simone, proceeded to eat one at a time until she got sick.  That dog was jumping at her pants all night. The parties got better and more creative from there.

In fact, the parties expanded in scope and attendance. Not only did my department come, but the product and marketing managers began to come, along with their husbands and wives. The more boring attendees sat in the living room and watched sports because most of the action happened in the dining room. There was a reason for this. I would literally take the day before each party off to cook an unbelievable amount of food…and the bar was in the kitchen. At first, we stuck to frozen margaritas of various colors, then we moved onto tequila shots using Monte Alban Mezcal with the worm in the bottom of the bottle.  But people also brought stuff to drink, so it was crazy shit all the time. There was also plenty of maryjane to go around.

My two landlords, also proud members of the gay community, started to attend as did the rest of the people in my apartment building. Then there were my nieces and nephews (the ones who were old enough to be there and in the presence of contraband). The great thing was that everyone got along and just let it all hang out.

Pretty soon we had amassed an entire orchestra of plastic instruments, like saxophones, guitars, banjos, trumpets, maracas, marimbas, harmonicas and one piano. I had no shortage of great music and it would blare from the time people began to arrive until the wee hours of the morning. I’ll tell you one thing, get enough booze and contraband into people and they love standing in front of a microphone and singing The Beatles, Creedence Clearwater Revival and the Rolling Stones. The beauty was that my neighbors were busy partying with us, so it didn’t much matter how loud it got.

The “We’re So You” Party

The second party started the ball rolling. My landlord called me up on the phone one day and told me that they found one of the zaniest members of my staff (and the oldest, by the way) in his Tufts yearbook. We’ll call her MY. She’s hard to explain. The best description I can give you is she is a totally stream-of-consciousness individual. Nothing that came out of her mouth made sense, and everything made sense at the same time. She’s still as funny as hell.  I could not believe it, so I had to go upstairs and look. It was true. There she sat, almost 30 years earlier, with Earl, her former husband and a former classmate of my landlord’s. It was too good to resist.

We blew up the photo and photocopied it, then we just cut out her head. We made about 30 copies of this and put them on tongue depressors with glue. Then we took her head and replaced the heads of women in every single stupid ad we could find, like 1-800-the-ladies, a stairmaster ad, and some dump plastic wrap ad from Good Housekeeping, just to name a few. We made literally hundreds of copies of these. But we went even further. We took a bunch of quarters and put her head where George Washington’s was. We labeled the back “two bits.”  We also put her on copies of one dollar bills. Everyone would have a wad of cash and coins to use when they “bought” drinks at the bar.

We literally spent hours in the office photocopying and gluing everything until it was just perfect, then we called every attendee on the phone and told them what was going on. Everyone had to be there that Saturday a half hour before MY arrived to get ready. Everybody was into it. Before MY got to my building, some of the attendees took the posters we’d made and pasted them in the hallway leading up to my apartment. The rest were hung on my apartment wall.

We pretty much had no clue how we would handle it when she walked in, but we all had what we called “Marcia Masks.” (Okay, I just gave away her name but she really won’t care.) I know it was my idea at the last minute to use John Cougar Mellancamp’s song, “Hurt So Good.” Instead of singing “Hurt so good, come on baby make it hurt so good” we changed the words to “We’re so you, come on Marcia now we’re so you.” They fit perfectly. Even though she saw some of the posters in the hall (we could hear her saying “Oh, my God! Where did you get that picture?”), she had no clue what to expect when she walked into the apartment. The song went on as soon as she walked through the door and all thirty of us sang the entire thing right through to the end holding the masks in front of our faces.

I have to tell you it was pretty amazing and a total surprise to MY. She loved it. I know for certain that party didn’t wind down until about 3 a.m., and it set the tone for the rest of the parties we were about to have.

At one point in our lives, Greg, Jack, Sam, John and I partied like there was no tomorrow in Vermont. But we didn’t just party anywhere. We were partying in luxury homes at Hawk Mountain. There were two sets of these homes back then, one in Pittsfield and one in Rochester. The majority of these places were owned by New York doctors and attorneys. The rent was steep back then, but we’d just pool our Friday pay checks and head up. It didn’t matter how many of us stayed in these places. They were huge. Hell, once we got up there, we didn’t care if we ever went out, particularly if it was snowing…and it often was. All we cared about was that we had enough money left over for booze and ganja. We did. There was a security deposit and we’d get that back. So, we’d just split that money and we’d have money for the following week.

I don’t know how many freakin’ trips we made up there. They kind of all run into each other in my mind, and for good reason. I’m lucky I can remember any of these trips. Forget the hooch. That was fine. Nobody ever died from that shit. The drinking, however, was crazy. I was lucky I didn’t die of alcohol poisoning.  It was always the five of us, and then there would be several other people who would come at different times. Hell, we met people at the general stores in Vermont who would end up partying with us. It was absurd. We didn’t even know these people. They could have been serial killers for all we knew.

How old were we? Well, one of us had to be at least twenty-one to rent and I was the oldest in the group by a couple of years. The homes were always rented in my name, so I was probably about twenty-three or twenty-four. I was working at Millipore at the time, but it was early in my career there (I started working there when I was twenty).

What were we drinking in those days? Name it. Rum. Jack Daniels. Tequila. Sometimes we drank all of them together. We were just whacked out back then. I remember one day we were waiting for a bunch of people to come up after work. It was a Friday, and we’d been up there from late morning. By the time the early evening arrived it was pouring outside. It was fall, because I was sick as a freakin’ dog and I was sitting outside in the pouring rain in the leaves feeling like death. Buddha only knows what I was drinking that day. I think it was probably Jack Daniels on the rocks.

It was freezing out, so the rest of the gang came out and got me to come inside. They put me in the bathroom because I told them I was sure what went down was going to come up. And that’s when the adventure began. They left, I was about to be sick and, instead of picking up the hopper, I just stuck my head in the toilet. That’s when it got stuck in there. It wasn’t really stuck. It was just that I had absolutely no motor control, and neither did any of them. So, they couldn’t get my head out once it was in. They kept flushing so that I wouldn’t drown…at least they thought I was going to drown. I probably wasn’t. Worst of all, as sick as I was, I was laughing my ass off and so were they. If there’s one advantage to all of us being gay, it was that there was no sweat when I took all my clothes off in front of them and got in the shower. Know what happened after that?

I got my second wind. The rest of the party goers arrived and I dressed in clean clothes, went upstairs and promptly resumed partying. I never even got sick. This particular party went on until about seven in the morning, when we all finally collapsed. We slept pretty much all day. We woke up sometime late in the afternoon to eat dinner and start partying all over again.

There are other unbelievably psycho scenes from this particular movie in my life. We managed somehow to pick up this guy who worked at a gas station across from the entrance to Hawk. His name, if you can believe it, was Silvertooth. Yeah, he had one, right smack in the front.  We met him at this local bar called the Roadhouse, and he was funny as hell. He fit right in. His only problem was that he just couldn’t get it into his head that lesbians didn’t sleep with guys. Don’t know what he was thinking, but he never managed to get what he was looking for. Too bad he wasn’t gay himself because every freakin’ guy there wanted to sleep with him. He was pretty good looking and  could have had an excellent time. Needless to say, Silvertooth became a fixture for a number of months, then he moved out of state. That was the end of that. Seems we had some other transient partiers that I can’t really remember.

Probably one of the most bizarre nights in Vermont happened for Greg and I at the same time. He ended up in the bedroom with a woman, and I ended up in a different bedroom with a guy. We all knew each other, but  neither of us have any idea how it happened. I can tell you that I was drunk. I can also tell you that dead drunk or dying absolutely nothing happened except I said to this guy, “Put that thing away. It isn’t happening now or ever.” Like I’ve said from day one, gay from the womb, baby, and lovin’ it. We both escaped the bedrooms at the same time and just sat on the living room floor laughing.

I’m not sure when the Vermont experience ended. I know it had to have gone on for at least a year. In that time, we probably made more than twenty trips up there. It was surely one of the most out-of-control times of our lives and, while I can’t remember much of it, I know for sure we had one hell of a ride.