Long version of my 99-00 NYE story:
My college buddies and I were having a house party. This was back in the day when ecstasy was SUPER HUGE in Athens, GA. There were two other parties down the street from us who ended up basically converging on our party because I guess they knew people who were at our place that knew we'd have a shitload of drugs walking in and out of the place. Since we all planned on getting Raoul Duke levels of fucked up, we made sure we had everything planned perfectly- one roomie had a pa system and turntables, we had some dj friends coming over to spin drum & bass and breaks, and we got like five kegs since we all planned on being up for at least 36 hours and the beer would stay cold in the back yard until we needed it.
So of course one of the djs didn't show, and one of the other ones got so fucked up he passed out in our hallway bathtub before he was supposed to go on. After a while, the other two djs there got tired of/too fucked up to spin records any more. I was semi-decent when I was sober but couldn't beat match for shit when I was fucked up on anything... and that night I was stoned, tripping on mescaline and had eaten a couple of pills of ecstasy in addition to being continually and properly drunk. Somehow it was decided that I was in the most able state to play records for probably around 80 something people wandering in and out of the house who needed to hear good music to keep their roll going strong.
And I'll be damned if somehow that precise concoction of drugs wasn't absolutely PERFECT to enable me to beat match flawlessly somehow. I played for about 3 hours and went through my entire d&b record collection, and by then the sun was coming up anyhow and all of us who lived in the house wanted all these weird fucking party crashers that we didn't know to leave so we could come down peacefully. Also, we had some really, REALLY good weed that we didn't want to share with these fucking moochers. So one of my roommates dug out his childhood record collection and played breakbeats matched with shit like Puff the Magic Dragon and Smurfs vinyl and we shooed the weird fuckers out of our house so we could keep drinking and smoke some good dope.
I suppose this is why I don't really feel the urge to do drugs anymore... I figure the fact that I got through those years and can still even spell correctly is a sign that I probably shouldn't push it, since it's likely that I only have about 3 brain cells holding some necessary part of my brain together somewhere.
Oh, cool side note- that night was the only time that my cruddy djing skills (such as they were) ever got me laid.
