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I must have had a party last night

I got up at the crack of noon today to survey the damage and clean up. When you start partying at 6pm, events start to blur into one another by the time the last guest leaves, but it seems to me that we had at least twenty people over the course of the evening. I cleaned up the artifacts like an archaeologist, taking due time to conjecture what each might mean. Here’s a cold mathematical picture of the party, based on my foraging:

  • 5 pounds of ground beef, 16 all-beef franks, 15 chicken tenderloins
  • 8 tofu dogs, 3 boca burgers
  • One large bag of charcoal
  • One dozen hamburger buns, two dozen hotdog buns
  • One tomato, half a head of lettuce, generous smears of catsup, mustard, mayonnaise, barbeque sauce and relish
  • 21 beer bottles, 26 beer cans, 3 bottles of Olde English malt liquor, one large bottle of white zinfandel
  • It’s these last that interested me the most, like skeletons of good times. I’m ecstatic about how many of my friends showed up despite their finals the next day and other commitments from the real world, which ended for me immediately after handing in my STAT final on Tuesday. Jared and Dash, who are the only of my friends completely untethered by the concerns of academia, brought their musical talent and spent most of the party in my room rocking out. Jared’s only mode of communication is soliloquy, and the effects intensify with alcohol. Michele and I spent several surreal moments as his rapt audience while Dash played Wilco on my guitar at ear-shattering (or at least neighbor-infuriating) volume, unleashing his near-encyclopedic knowledge of music to our willing minds. Jared speaks in breathless superlatives, gesturing with an always-present beer bottle, pausing neither to clarify nor get a response. I won’t try to duplicate him here, as any attempt to do so would pay ill service to his otherworldly pontifications. It’s something you have to experience to understand, and even then, good luck. Suffice it to say that I now know much more about Wilco than I ever would have thought plausible.

    Ashley, always my sober go-to woman in these situations, pulled me out of my reverie to propose a visit to my upstairs neighbors. Our relationship with Yakko and his wife has been antagonistic from the start; we don’t understand that some people choose to go to sleep before 2am, and they don’t understand that we don’t get home until eleven o’clock most nights and need to hear indie rock at 140 dB to unwind. On Monday I was playing a little White Stripes on my guitar around midnight when Yakko lost his last tenuous hold on sanity, the small part of his consciousness that keeps him from slaughtering the both of us gangland style. He started stomping around his apartment hard enough to make our light fixtures shake violently; it sounded like a herd of angry rhinos had been set loose, or a thousand epileptics having horrific seizures simultaneously. It started at one end of the apartment, then went back and forth a few times, long after I’d quit playing. I had time to think “hmm,” walk into Nathan’s room, and ask, “Do you believe this?” while the assault continued. He kept it up for at least thirty seconds while Nathan and I stared, dumbstruck, at the ceiling. I was too afraid to speak in more than a whisper for at least three minutes afterward. Obviously I can’t get enough hyperbole, so when I related the incident to Ashley, in my usual style, it must have put the fear of God in her, leading to her suggestion the following night. She thought we should at least tell them the party would be over soon and offer our most profound apologies for any neighborly tension, and I agreed.

    It turns out we had nothing to fear. Yakko was smiling, pleasant, and hospitable, hardly the raging lunatic I imagined tirading around his apartment the night before, raising his knees to his chest before each reverberating floor pound. He said the noise wasn’t a problem, that he could hardly even hear the raucous guitar emanating from my room. He even apologized for losing his temper on previous nights, and we left with a feeling of solid neighborly love.

    Still, when Jared returned from the 7-11 with his case of Milwaukee’s Best around 11:30, screaming victory at the top of his lungs and asking who wanted to shroom with him over spring break, I tensed up, waiting for the inevitable call to the police. It never came, which in my eyes grants me carte blanche to have loud parties every Tuesday. You’re all invited.

    Posted in Musings.

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