Last weekend I was made privy to a new New York cultural phenomenon – the BFP.
I was sitting in my old Haunt on the UES, Auction House, with friends (two of them French). We’d occupied the couch spot that I always got by default. Two glasses of champagne cocktails on the table.
“We went to a party last night,” said one of the French men. And by “we” he meant he and I.
“Ah,” said the other, “A BFP?”
“Do you know what a BFP is?” one of them asked me.
“No,” I said back.
“A ‘Boring French Party,’” they said simultaneously.
We were all just coming off of a big French party binge, I’d gone to two parties in a short period: dinners, and pre-games and post games, and you name it. High rises, bars, fancy eateries, fanning away cigarette smoke on balconies and sidewalks. I’d spoken in French and English (to the surprise of the other people attending). This concept of the “Boring French Party” seemed like a fallacy, since all I’d only had fun, on top of fun (on top of fun).
“That party wasn’t boring,” I said, wagging a finger in their faces. “There were lots of people smoking and wearing pointy shoes. There was a Russian guy dancing.” I was referring to the guest who, right before the beat dropped on a song, looked at everyone and said, “Moscow never sleeps.”
“Ah, la, la la,” said French man number two. “If there was dancing, it’s not a BFP.”
This new phrase was just further proof that my life lately has been full of new things: new situations with new faces to meet, new phrases. It feels like it’s strangely tipping on the odd side of a scale. Living in the variables and not the constants. I can’t decide what I’m desperate for, more thrills or more normalcies.
As if to answer that question, my friends and I went walking to a bar to play a game of darts. As a child deprived of darts (“Too dangerous!” my mother warned), it felt exhilarating. I lost every game.