By the time I was 18 years old and a senior in high school, I had grown into a six foot, four inch 185-pound big person. My parents would take off for the weekend once in a while and let me pretty much do whatever I wanted. Well, it wasn’t so much that they’d let me; I pretty much just did whatever I wanted. I wasn’t afraid of them and they couldn’t control me. They threatened me with all kinds of things and I was bigger than they were and, I hate to break it to you, but size does matter.
My parents decided to take a weekend off and go to the horse races, one of their favorite pastimes. My step-dad was actually a pretty good gambler and quite often he’d win enough to pay for their whole trip. They told me under no circumstances could I have friends over to our house, or even worse, a party, and I told them not to worry, that they could count on me.

I used to feel bad about lying to my parents when I was younger, but I had learned that telling the truth was stupid, dangerous, and quite frankly, un-American. The second they left, and I mean the actual second; I was on the phone ordering a keg. I could still see the red tail lights from their car driving down our street as I got on the phone with Pat and Tony’s General Store and ordered a keg for the huge party I was about to plan. I had no actual plan before my parents left; I just figured I’d begin with a keg and then get on the phone and start inviting literally everyone I knew.
It worked like this. In my very small hometown of Hanover, New Hampshire, when someone’s parents went away, they’d have a party and lots of people would show up. In my case, I started calling people around 3 p.m. on a Friday for that same night, and I told them to tell everyone that my parents were gone for the weekend and to invite as many people as they could. I didn’t care if my neighbors found out, or if I got caught. I knew I was going to college that fall and would be out of the house soon enough.

Open party at Cliff Brodsky’s house; his parents are out of town!

The word caught on like wildfire. I wasn’t really all that popular but I was cool enough that the right elements came together allowing a huge party to form. It also could’ve been that there weren’t any other good parties happening that weekend and my timing could’ve just been dumb luck.

By 5 p.m. I had a bunch of friends over and we were all drinking beers and smoking pot IN THE HOUSE and not worrying about a goddamn thing. We had the whole weekend to do whatever we wanted and by Sunday afternoon we’d clean everything up perfectly and no one would ever know a thing.
We got an ice-cold keg up and running. We cranked the tunes, like Led Zeppelin’s Houses of the Holy. We stayed on the phone taking turns inviting people and they just kept showing up and showing up. It just kept growing. It grew exponentially.
Our house wasn’t really all that big, but it was a decent- sized place. You could probably fit 300 people easy in it, plus the backyard and garage could hold another 300. My parents used to throw these amazing New Year’s Eve parties with plenty of free booze and probably 500 people showed up at one point or another during the evening.
Once in a while, my parents were cool and that party was a highlight of the year for a lot of people. I sort of took that philosophy of partying and just went for it. I was graduating soon and about to go off to Berklee College of Music in Boston, and since everything was all set, I had a sort of free feeling that nothing could really go wrong.
Well, nothing went wrong that night and plenty of things went right — quite right, I might add. As the multitudes showed up, we kept gathering money and ordering more kegs to be delivered. The beer just kept flowing and more and more people kept showing up. Of course the music was cranking to The Doobie Brothers, or Lynyrd Skynyrd, or Frampton Comes Alive, the double album that everyone used to clean their brown pot with.
By about 8 p.m., there were probably 200 people inside, and the party was just getting started. Cars were parked on the side of the street in every direction as far as the eye could see. By midnight there must’ve been at least 400 people IN the house. They were wall-to-wall in every room, hallway, and bathroom. Every square inch of floor space was filled with people and beer, laughing and joking and partying.
At around 10 p.m., my cool next-door neighbor, Mr. Breed, showed up, holding a martini because he was always up for a good party. He worked for Dartmouth as a fundraiser, which meant he got paid to be a professional partier. Plus, he was my piano teacher’s husband and he played the saxophone in a cool jazz band and he was quite excellent.
“Oh, I see you’re having a party,” he says, and I say, “Oh, its just a little party,” and I watch him squeeze through the wall-to-wall people. The house looks completely out of a chaotic movie scene of total pandemonium, literally identical to that movie Risky Business, minus the hookers.
The row of cars outside was at least two miles long, and it looked like Woodstock was happening in my house. The Dartmouth hockey coach even showed up! I don’t even know how he could’ve found out that some little shit high school kid was throwing a last-minute party. Pretty much the whole town and college showed up, at some point, during that evening.
Rebecca Baldwin, my neighbor up the street, met her boyfriend Chris Depinto (a cool guy who played rock guitar) at that party and they were making out the whole time in the TV room and I was pretty much the most popular guy in the world that night. I was responsible for creating the environment for young love to happen and that is something of value to some people.
I was hosting a little, last-minute party with just a few friends and it grew into an open party that resembled Animal House. It was by far, the best party that I have ever thrown in my entire life. I didn’t get laid, or get in a fight or any other type of drama. It was just pure socializing at its finest and I have always loved a good house party where there aren’t any uncool parents to RUIN everything.
The funny thing was, the next day, after it was over, it was no big deal. Nothing got broken. Nothing got spilled anywhere, no cops showed up, there weren’t any rednecks crashing the party and starting fights. Nothing bad happened and nothing went wrong. It was as if all the stars had aligned themselves in just a certain way where it all just worked out, and everybody had a blast and it was just a pure magical night for all. There was great music, cold beer, good weed, pretty girls, musicians, hockey players, Dartmouth sports coaches, all my friends, plus a lot of NEW friends after that night.

Even my neighbor, Mr. Breed, had a blast; it was cool to see the kids partying with an older “dad” type guy who wasn’t giving anyone a hard time and just treating people like human beings, with respect and dignity, and laughing and joking. Plus he probably knew half the people there; my town was so small that most everyone knew one another in some capacity. It was truly a fantastically magical night for all.
When my parents came home on Sunday afternoon, I had already cleaned up the whole place spotless and there was literally zero evidence of any kind of a huge party. It was as if it never happened.
My parents probably knew I had some people over, because they’re not stupid, but since I had cleaned up so perfectly, probably even cleaner than it was before they left, they couldn’t really say anything and probably didn’t even care.
Of course Mr. Breed wouldn’t tell on me; he’s not stupid either. My parents had a great weekend, I had a blast, and half the town of Hanover N.H. had a wonderful time. No harm, no foul. It all just worked out great.
It was, by far, the best party in the world.