August 19th, 2013
Please, Can We Stop?

Miley Cyrus’s music video for “We Can’t Stop” has been making headlines for showing the new, sexy, edgy side of the star. One 25- year-old, Jane Burton, had the misfortune of attending the party that inspired the video, on the invitation of a friend who works as a publicist in L.A. “She told me she was inviting me to a cutting edge, celebrity party, but when I got there she was nowhere to be found and it was nothing but drunk 19-year-olds for miles. I kept trying to leave but they wouldn’t let me out of the door until I had ‘twerked it out,’ whatever that means. It was my Nam.” Burton’s recollection of this traumatic event follows below.

Walking into that party was like walking into a nightmare. The music, a weird mix of techno and gangsta rap, was so loud the only way to be heard was the most high-pitched of shrieks. Saying that the guests’ sweaty, young bodies writhed to the music would be overly flattering. They bounced, they vibrated, they bent over and moved their hips in an awkward, clumsy adolescent understanding of sexuality. Most of them wore weird leotards that were hardly covered their barely there chests. And there was Miley, screeching about her new “fuck Hannah Montana” haircut.

And the things they did seemed kind of “fucking hardcore” as they put it. At one point, they all jumped into the pool and started making out with plastic baby dolls. Just a whole pool full of people, fully clothed, licking doll faces. They seemed to think it was sexy. The girls would call the boys over, “Hey Cameron, watch this,” before licking the dolls’ entire bodies, which were dripping with pool water. (Just to clarify, that’s pool water shared by 30 drunk strangers, and I’d say there’s about a 95 percent chance that at least one person pissed in the water.)

To add to the nightmarish Kubric-inspired theme of the party, the people who weren’t swimming in piss were dressed up in mascot costumes. Lions, tigers, and bears, oh my God. They stumbled around, falling down as they attempted to bend over and shake their Pilates-and-coke-toned asses while wearing a giant lion head. One of them tripped, spilling her cranberry and vodka on my white dress. I would have been mad, but I’m pretty sure the high end vodka in the drink cost more than my Target bargain bin maxi dress.

Meanwhile, Miley was on the bed, grinding herself against the white comforter, moaning “Liam, Liam.” Liam, meanwhile, was slumped over in the chair in the corner, passed out from too much vodka, nowhere near her thrusting hips. When she wasn’t moaning for Liam, she would break out singing “We Can’t Stop,” even though it wasn’t playing and hadn’t even been released as a single yet.

And the drugs! Not to resurrect the musings of my eighth grade health teacher, Ms. Howell, but crack is whack. Not that they had crack, they were much more upscale than that. After being forced to pee in front of a bunch of girls doing lines in the bathroom, I tried to engage a bearded man about the atrocities of the drug trade and how all drug use supported that scary business. His uncanny ability to grow facial hair, made me think he must be at least a few years older than the rest of the party. I felt like we were the only adults there, chaperoning a high school rager thrown by a millionaire celebrity with access to any drug her heart desired and with no fear of public shaming. It’s like Miley never saw Lindsay Lohan’s mug shot!  But he just told me to “chill out, bitch,” before popping some E and joining a bunch of giggling kids dry-humping the couch.

At one point, a girl approached me, her leotard askew.

“You look older. This is how grown-ups party, right? Like this isn’t kid shit, you know?” she asked timidly.

All I could muster was an “Oh, honey, no. Not at all,” before she whispered a “fuck you” and jumped in the pool, splashing me.

I kept trying to leave, but a security guard blocked the door to make sure no one left until the sun came up. I was I couldn’t leave until to leave until I had “properly raged.” Every time I got to the door with a new story about my raging, I was turned back. Nothing convinced him. I pretended to have made out with a doll while doing a handstand, I said I hooked up with a guy in a giant bear costume, I even pretended to have dressed up as a goat, done the entire Thriller dance, initiated a synchronized swimming competition, and then led a twerking competition, but he didn’t seem to believe me. Maybe it was the edge of sobriety in my voice.

Around 4am they started to get cranky, like a bunch of toddlers kept up past bed time. There was crying and screaming and then, inevitably, someone would yell out “No drama!” which would pause everything for about five minutes. Finally, with the sun rising over the pool, they all collapsed into a giant sweaty heap and licked each other until they all fell asleep, mumbling about being “so fucking hardcore.” The guard at the door finally let me go, and I drove home thankful to have made it out in one piece.

Since this ordeal, I’ve spent every Friday night in, listening to classical music, enjoying a cup of hot tea and a nice book. My friends bargain with me for hours before they can even get me out to dinner on a Wednesday. Every time “We Can’t Stop” comes on the radio I have terrible flashbacks of dolls and pills and bear costumes. It’s worse than the time I accidentally watched The Shining at age seven. I will never forget that awful night, up in Beverly Hills, watching 19-year-olds redefine cool as the one who makes out with the most dolls.