I’m not much for the “let me tell you about Event X exactly as it happened” since, usually, it’s either terribly dull, terribly private, or will involve a reader of this blog and ergo, shan’t be discussed. Most of the weekend falls under this category, since it was a fun weekend, but one not exactly blog-worthy. Drinks, laughs, downpours, all well and good, but would you, fair reader, give what those in academia call “a rat’s ass”? Perchance not. The following, however, tickled me enough as it was occurring that I thought I’d break decorum and see how it goes.
The what: Pahtay, as we say neeyah Fenway Pahk.
The where: Sara’s new apartment.
The when: Friday night.
The who: Assortments of people I knew and met for the first time.
The why: Housewarming for Sara/farewell party for her boyfriend Mike who is going to Columbia in the Fall for B-school.
A quick note about Mike: he’s on my liver’s “Tope Five Wanted” list. The boy invents drinking games that completely baffle me and, as such, I always end up reeling, stumbling home with a “Oh man, I’m gonna pay for this sooner rather than later”. I’m not in the door five minutes and he says, “Oh, I got a drinking game, man. It’s based on ‘Risk’. It's gonna be great.” Translation: "Your ass is grass and I'm a John Deere V6, mofo."
Fantastic. I used to be proud to say I’d never played “Risk” as a kid, but now I was regretting my lack of geekdom in this particular department since I knew I’d probably end up wearing someone else’s underwear on my head by the end of the game. Who knew I could have been right had I stayed. But more on that later.
I’m the first one there, so I have time to settle into the place about an hour before everyone else. I luckily scoped out the Lays chips were in a WOW bag. If I had arrived later, I would have eaten them by the handful, and that would have been the ugliest scene this side of the “Gigli” turkey encounter. (The package warns of “anal leakage”. I need not say more.)
So, people stroll in, off and on, for the next hour or so. The usual awkward “Hi, I’m gonna pretend like I’m interested in meeting you even though, chances are 1 in 20 we’ll never see each other again” sorta greetings occur.
So, having achieved critical mass, Mike announces the start of the drinking game and explains the rules to the crowd. One late-comer to the circle was a girl named “Sue”. She sat down next to me and asked what was going on.
“Oh, we’re playing a drinking game based on ‘Risk’,” her husband, sitting across from us on the couch, said.
Without missing a beat, Sue sat right back up and said, “Oh hell, there goes the underwear,” and then leaves the circle. I’m, to say the least, confused. Two minutes later, she plops down next to me. She catches me looking a touch slack-jaw at her.
“Yes?” she asks me.
I’m still a bit confused.
“You OK there, sport?” she prompts.
“Was, um, was that all some form of sarcasm?” I asked, sorta too stunned to play it off.
“Oh, no, they had to come off. Too umcomfy.” (OOOOOOOOKKKKKKKKK. As the Commander said to me tonite when I was relating this story, “Dude, do you have a sign above your head that says, ‘Hey, tell me about your underwear!’ And if so, where can I get one?”)
Now I’m slightly panicked, which is a familiar state to me. I look over to her husband, trying to figure the best combination of eye, arm, and shoulder movement to convey, “Yo, G Funk, I’m so not trying to tap recently-married ass over here, shizzle my nizzle.” Luckily, before I had the chance to fully formulate such a combo, her husband shrugs and says, “Well, five to one the bra’s coming off sooner than later as well. This happens all the time.”
So now I’m in the moral clear, free from future husband beat downs, but I’m still next to the Panty-Less Wonder. Luckily, the game was simply dice-based, so I didn’t need all my mental acuity, which came in handy when of course I got the smack layeth down upon me. Shots of beer seem harmless until you do about 30 in 45 minutes. I would be possibly the worst craps player ever.
I quickly became “The Funniest Man at The Party” to Sue. I’d love to blame this on my razor-sharp wit, but really, I have to give props to the sangria. Sue rolled dice badly; she made me look good. Thus my quote around 10:30 pm: “Well, to death and taxes we can add ‘two for Sue’.” Well, she just doubled over and said something to the effect of “Oh my God! Sara and Mike, he’s great! Can I keep him?” Hey, I’ll take fandom anyway I can, man. If I can’t woo them through wit, aye, a cup of mead, verily!
To those looking for a moral: sorry. Just a little anecdote. It’s hot in herre tonite. I’m hot, sticky sweet, from my head, to my feet, yea. I can’t always shake your world to its foundation with my penetrating insight every day. Terribly sorry to disappoint. If it helps, I’ve just thrown some Def Leppard quotes that you can run with.
At this point it’s fair to note to our “Cliff Notes” readers of “Wading in the Velvet Sea” that a major motif of this summer’s metafiction could be summed up in the following sentence:
Throughout the summer, Ryan has been subjected to games in which he is explained only the most cursory version of the rules, and therefore stumbles around blindly, much like a man operating a Dirt Devil in the dark. See examples: card games in Gloucester; drinking games in Brookline; dating.
If you have any other motifs you, the readers, have gleaned, please feel free to share. Def Leppard quotes are welcome as well if all else fails. If not, well, you're not fuh-fuh-fuh-foolin' anyone.