Life has been a struggle. Since last Saturday night, early Sunday morning, things have not been the same for me; I haven’t been right. I’m finally recapturing my essence. The reality that the great time I had at Sir Ivan’s Kiss All The Bullies Goodbye record release party has fucked me up physically, mentally, and emotionally.
“Who the fuck is Sir Ivan?” That was my question when I was told about Sir Ivan and his infamous Hampton’s parties.
“He has a castle?” That was my reply when I was told who Sir Ivan was and why he was considered a big deal.
“He’s having a party next month?”Sir Ivan is having a party next month.
“Fuck that. I have to go. I gots to go to this shit. I can’t imagine the fuckery that goes on there. I’m going.”
This was the exchange that I had with a member of Sir Ivan’s press team. As a member of the press on and off for years, I’ve grown impervious to PR spin, but I was intrigued. What’s the story with this Sir Ivan character? I did what any journalist or normal person did, I Googled.
The Fuck Is This?
“Oh yeah. I’m going to Sir Ivan’s.” His Google Search Results Page is line after line of fuckery, hilarity, and pure madness. The cape with the peace sign. The castle. The records. The over-the-top music video. Out in the Hamptons? I haven’t been this excited for an event since I got an invite to the Playboy Mansion. Yes, my travels have included a visit to the Playboy Mansion where I met Hef, hung out with Bobby Brown (great time with Bobby) and Whitney Houston (Whitney wasn’t as much fun, God Bless The Dead), went into the grotto, saw pink flamingos, and all other sorts of fun shit. Reading that Sir Ivan likened himself as the East Coast Hugh Hefner, my expectations were dangerously high. You know the drill – go in expecting one thing and end up with something completely different.
Ultimately Sir Ivan exceeded all of my expectations in ways I couldn’t imagine. Everything about that night was extreme. I found out two days prior that the attire for the event was Village People-inspired. Yeah… not happening. But I can do 70s since the majority of my wardrobe is inspired by Mr. Furley from Three’s Company(Ralph!). A small army of partygoers dressed as inappropriate construction workers, sexy cops, culturally appropriated Native Americans, soldiers of love, and a couple of Navy sailors ready to go out to sea for the duration descended upon the castle grounds.
The night has turned very much into a blur as I eschewed all shred of professionalism and descended into rookiedom as I allowed myself to get faded off of that Möet Rosé knowing full well that champagne fucks me up. But there was so damn much of that Rosé Impérial and we were out east! Damn you, Sir Ivan! Damn you!
Let me share with you what I actually remember:
The crowd to enter the grounds was huge. We had to walk through a forest to get to the caste. A golf cart. A shuttle bus. A forest. This shit is wild. This place is in a two-fare zone.
As everyone walked in and went to the back, I broke from the group and was one of the first to hit the bar. My mother didn’t raise no fool.
My bar strategy was this: drink Rosé all night. A champagne flute in one hand. A red cup that was actually a rainbow cup (party theme-appropriate) that was filled to the top with more Rosé to serve as my top-up cup. I’m brilliant.
Linked up with a couple where the woman was quite comfortable being ratch as she absconded with a full bottle of Möet. If I did the same thing, I’m sure someone would have seen and kicked me off of the castle estate and I would have to walk through Sherwood Forest to get back to my car. I stuck to two-fisting with my top-up cup.
Food stations, picnic tables, and chaises were set up. Serving Mexican food. Pass. I only eat fast-casual Mexican made by Americans (typically college students who are too damn slow and don’t put enough rice or beans in my burrito), Latin Americans who may or may not have papers, Mexicans in a Mexican restaurant, actually in Mexico, or made by someone’s abuela.
There is a drone flying around. I was curious if I could hit it with a champagne bottle. Wisely, I never tested this out. I wasn’t that drunk yet.
Sir Ivan is LGBT-friendly. The dudes dressed as Village People throughout the party looked like they were wearing their regular everyday clothes. They didn’t look like they were in costume. I’m sure they had hardhats just sitting in their closet and didn’t need to make a run to Ricky’s NYC like typical people.
Any dress-up event is an opportunity for women to dress as a sexy/slutty (fill-in-the-blank). No complaints. Shit. We need more dress-up events in ‘Murica.
This place is huge. Between the nighttime and the forest, you don’t get to appreciate the scale of the place. Sir Ivan has a tennis court that is the size of a football field. You can find it down past the pool with the statue of a naked harpy in the middle of it.
The DJ was playing disco. All nite long. And he wasn’t even mixing it. He played those 8, 9, 10min songs all the way through. I ain’t mad. I fucks with disco.
There was something in the air. This was the type of party where despite the location, there was no pretense. Everyone’s priority was to have a great time and it was palatable. Every woman you say gave you the vibe that you had a shot. I typically walk the Earth already feeling this, but it was heightened tonight.
2nd floor was the VIP area, where I saw a banquet table straight out of Mr. Burns from The Simpsons that could fit more friends than I have.
Sir Ivan had dancers dancing everywhere. It was like Solid Gold. Anyone remember Solid Gold? I can’t be the only one. Solid Gold was television gold. And this party made me feel like I was a member of the Solid Gold studio audience.
Oh yeah… Pras from The Fugees was there. I wasn’t sure if he was in costume. Seriously. He had a shiny shirt on and a big Afro and you could have told me that it was his Saturday clothes and I would have believed you. Sup, Pras!
At any party, there is always the dude who carries the trees. You can’t have a party without the weed man. Despite knowing someone would be carrying, I burned upon parking my car. Trailing the unoccupied bar station with the tub of chilled Rosé, Hot Wheels, the weed dude was my favorite sight of the night. I forgot his name, but he was wearing the type of gym shorts I wore in parochial school and a white Hot Wheels t-shirt. So he became Hot Wheels, the dude who had trees. I became his herald. Anyone who walked within arm’s reach, I would reach out and asked if they wanted to blaze and then introduce them to Hot Wheels. I don’t know if he meant to be a marijuana socialist, but it ain’t no fun if the homies can’t get none.
I met this super bad chick. She comes up on me doing an aggressive two-step and maintained that two-step the entire time we spent parlaying. Okay… I couldn’t tell what her nationality was as she had a dark, dusky complexion, and I thought she was Panamanian or Dominican. Turns out she was a Hindu Indian dressed as a Native American Indian. That, with the Rosé, and the trees all combined to fucking blow my mind. That is a perfect example of the term -meta [Editor’s Note: still have no clue what -meta means, but it seems absolutely appropriate here].
I end up walking downstairs holding hands with Indian2 and went outside. Where were we going? I can’t recall. Why did I leave her? I have no idea. Am I a moron? Absolutely. Did I get her number? Shit. She was the one who initiated that exchange, so yes, I did get her number. I’m not a complete dummy.
Okay, at some point during the night, I linked up with a group of women. Older women. Very nice ladies (of the age where you called them collectively as ladies). Because it was at Sir Ivan’s, everything and everyone is all good. Ended up hanging out with them. Ended up talking shop with one of them. How we got there? No clue. I was so far gone at this point. Ended up dancing with another one. I don’t even remember music playing. I remember the back of my head telling me I would regret this. I remember not listening. I’m almost certain we were dancing with our foreheads touching. I think I held her hand as we walked to the restroom trailer area outside by the forest. Ok, Sir Ivan’s restrooms for his parties are these huge trailer outside with interiors better than my bathrooms at home. Jeez…
I end up sitting on a ledge at the perimeter of the forest in the restroom area. I was chatting with the older lady about what I have no clue. She departs. I stay seated. I put my chin into my chest and proceed to fall the fuck asleep. Sitting up. On the ledge. In my Mr. Furley jacket. Right outside the restrooms. I don’t know what time it was. I don’t know how long I was there for. I do know that I may have spent the entire night there if the security guard didn’t wake me up and tell me the party was over and it was time to leave. Fuckkkkkkkkk! At some point in my impromptu rookie nod session, I did hear Sir Ivan. I’m pretty sure he was performing his song, “Kiss All The Bullies Goodbye.” It sounded like everyone was into it. Damn. I missed it.
All I can remember is a security guard waking me up telling me that the party was over. I realized that I had knocked out sitting on the ledge with my chin in my chest. I was cognizant enough to check my pockets to make sure a rogue cowboy absconded with my personals. All good. I ran through my “how fucked up am I” test. I passed. I needed to get home. I didn’t even have the presence of mind to check the time. It could have been noon the next day for all I knew. The trees of the Sherwood Forest were so damn tall, I wasn’t sure the sun even shined down upon where I was standing.
I got home. Stripped down. Jumped in bed without showering or anything. I don’t even know what time I got there. Time wasn’t on my mind. Survival was. An IV was [Editor’s Note: why don’t they sell IVs? Hospitals could have vending machines and make millions for drunk rookies like myself]. The fact I had a championship softball game in Central Park at 11:30am was. And being honest with myself, when was the next Sir Ivan party was in the forefront of my brain too.
With now a week to reflect, I still shake my head at my rookie move in getting faded at what was one of the best times I’ve had in a while. But thinking about it, it’s the perfect punctuation to the statement that was made that night. It couldn’t get anymore absurd. That is until I get invited to the next Sir Ivan event.