Happy birthday to the other A-child! Little did I know that Ali actually shares a birthday with my bro, as yesterday was her b-day plus one. This is not a cosmic coincidence, just the inevitable consequence of knowing multiple people, and perhaps the lusty aura of early August nights. Regardless, Ali turned 30 this weekend, and Ben threw her a bash last night.
Fun times, fun times - I walked into a room full of people I didn't know at about 7:40 with a crate of beer in hand. Gravitated to the Sprecher brothers, the younger of whom (Evan) just won Ultimate Regionals with Harvard and is headed to Nationals in sunny Columbus, Ohio in a few weeks, so we insulated ourselves from the usual vet banter with vet-banter's nasty and equally alienating-at-parties cousin, Ultimate stories. Good times - Evan really powerfully reminds me of a combination of Mike G and Dan's friend Gabe. These sentiments are only meaningful to me. Solid guy, and good luck to him at natties.
The rest of the night, for me anyways, was miscellaneous wandering around and jabbing jokes at people. Ali had invited a mish-mash of people from various walks, so the vet-party effect was not as prevalent as usual - props to the newly three-decaded. Ben's friends and family were tres cool, as were Ali's misc friends, and her gym buddy Dietrich brought the house down with a well-rehearsed story about "1 O'Clock Naughty Pirate Game," a tale managing to ridicule not only Japanese culture but also quadriplegic kids who ride down slides in burlap sacks. I'm not going to even try to go further with that - she used to teach ESL in Japan, and apparently, them's some really f'ed up genes floating around in the Far East / Nearer West.
So my job for the party was beer provision, so I showed up with Sam Summer, Nevada Pale Ale and Guinness, earning high praise from the 3 to 4 people who cared. Self back-pat begun and ended... now.
Around 10:30, suburban bliss turned back into a squash and people started to head out. I chatted with Ali and Ben a bit and came back to the den of Spark and Wrigs and, despite my SNL plans, crashed to sleep instantly. How DO I afford my rock n' roll lifestyle? So a solid 7 hours later, the dogs woke me up and here I am.
Btw, FYI, IYI, I managed to spend the rest of yesterday reading, playing guitar, video games, writing, watching hockey, giving Ben a ride to the Toyota dealership, driving the wrong way on route 9, and... that about covers it. Solid rainy Saturday, methinks.
Public events tend to depress me through no fault of their own, especially when I don't know many people there - my brain jumps to the meaningless superstructure of suburban culture, mass behavior as destruction of the individual spirit, the relative merit of jokes made about oddly-named cheeses and their (the jokes, not the cheeses') sad predestined tellings. So it was nice to go to a party choked to the brim with meaning. I say that seriously (though you can't be blamed for not trusting me anymore - don't worry, I don't either) - Ali stopped the party midstream to tell everyone how much she appreciated their coming and keeping her going through life and the hard vet school days, and while it reeked more than a little bit of Roquefort, it was a plainly beautiful sentiment. Not so beautiful that it didn't warrant ridicule - but really nice nonetheless. I tip my hand and say I'm jealous of being able to have that feeling. Sorry, "jelly." At the same time, I'm really glad Ali, and the Sprechers, and all those friends, get to have it. (Insert weepy violin piece, preferably played by a Walnut, here).
Just to bring the bitter Nyet back - speaking of music, WTF? No music at a party? Pregnant pauses NOT filled with misunderstood Dylan lyrics? What is this world coming to? Seriously, peeps, if you need some musak for your bash, call Nyet Jones. I used to put on Love Shack at all the appropriate moments.
Addendum: Nothing, and I mean nothing, quite as nice as walking through pouring rain, 4 inch puddles, carrying a mickey mouse umbrella in one hand and a bag of dog poop in the other, conveniently arranged so that every time you have to tug on the dogs' leashes to get them out of the road and away from the oncoming truck that will surely soak you with a splash, you inadvertently end up putting the rose-smelling crap in your face. I mean, we're talking top notch Sunday morning entertainment.
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