A few weeks ago, I stumbled upon a series of drawings by paleoartist C. M. Koseman, sketches of present-day animals drawn in the same way that artists have attempted to render dinosaurs. Koesman reconstructed these animal figures from their skeletons alone, parodying artists’ tendency to minimize the effect of skin and rely too heavily on skeletons to inform the shape of extinct species—a process popularly dubbed “shrink-wrapping.” Applying the process to an elephant, rhinoceros, and horse made for gaunt, hollowed-out facsimiles of their natural counterparts.
Last week, I found myself thinking about these ghastly creatures at WYBC’s Y2K, internet-themed Antefling. RXKNephew, the headliner, received a Yale diploma on stage, the entire venue nearly rushed the Davenport Buttery, and there were far too many high schoolers in the audience. I wondered if, like Koseman’s sketches, modern-day rituals would be remembered in stripped-down, shrink-wrapped, exoticized forms. Future archaeologists reconstructing the present with language and memory—the lossiest and second lossiest data storage formats—instill no more confidence than a paleontologist working with bones and fossils.
So, what would a “shrink-wrapped” party look like?
An essential aspect of American ritual life was the themed party, understood as a celebration of a popular culture phenomenon. College students or otherwise specially selected individuals would dress to resemble a specific person, place, or idea. Festivities typically were held at night and were accompanied by the consumption of alcohol, though evidence exists of exceptions to both cases.
Assigned housing structures provided by academic institutions for daily living were frequently repurposed as venues for the hosting of themed parties. Those most dedicated to the form, however, likely acquired private domiciles for the primary purpose of partying and the secondary purpose of dwelling. These “party houses” were often densely concentrated, creating entire regions in urban areas that became hotspots for themed parties.
Attendees were nominally diverse, though in practice, specific spaces attracted and welcomed select archetypes of people. A “disk jockey”, colloquially shortened to DJ, served the role of arranging music for the event. Those who excelled became venerated–the main draw of future events. Alongside music, the event would encourage attendees to dance, converse, or even pursue romantic opportunities. Ongoing research suggests that DJs used musical cues or signals to mark the end of that day’s celebration, though the specific details of which cues were used seem to differ wildly between regions and remain a subject of fierce academic debate. Typical themed parties lasted anywhere from two to five hours, after which attendees would either rest and recharge or migrate to the next themed party.
Photography, narration, annotation—these tools do not immortalize. They mummify moments into static, dead things. Fossils are inevitable, but inert; the only alimony to their silence is attention paid in real time. When “Party in the USA” revives the crowd and light refracts off a first-year’s oversized pleather brown jacket, we live an unquantifiable sweat-slicked qualia, a warming of the blood by proof, static electricity gathering from a gaze held too long.
Stop taking pictures, stop using social media, stop living mummified lives. Dance to the questionable DJ set, laugh at the half-baked costumes, join whatever pulse counts as community tonight, because the present has an expiration date of now. Once it passes, some distant doctoral student can catalogue whatever entropy has left of our revels, assigning them taxonomy and period; what remains ours alone is the strangeness of raw human experience.
Ken Carson is coming to town next week. I pray for you guys to pay attention before the music fades into the fossil record.
