About a week and a half ago, a girl I’ve spent some time with but was very stop/start sent me a text message out of the blue. It was an invite to a party where the theme was Yacht Rock. For those unfamiliar with the comic stylizing of Yacht rock, start here. I’ve been in situations like this before, where the invitation to a party seems like one of those things where you’re on an email list that you just didn’t get bumped from for whatever reason, where the chance to go from acquaintance to friend or lover didn’t get past whatever hurdles there might be that were real or imagined, or it could go there if you spent more time together, though I’ve found that waiting is often more sensible to dudes, where women move the fuck on. But I had some white khakis and a Cosby sweater (light blue) and a dress shirt, so I knew I could rock the look. I took it to mean “dress like the bad guys in an early eighties comedy.”
I mapquest it, and it’s in Pasadena.The girl told me she still lived with her parents, but she’s 23, so it’s not like I’m gong to give her that much shit. The drive was fine, but when I got out of my car, nothing was as it was expected. I guess I still live by Portland thoughts. I was half-figuring some apartment party, a crowded affair, or something a little more homey. What I got was what I kept referring to as palatial. Her parents (who seemed to hang out until one-ish) had a home that this real estate expert would peg as costing a veritable shitload of money. It was like Scarface’s home in Scarface, but way less tacky.The expanse was fucking insane. And I’ve known people with money, but the money on display here probably trumps all. And there appeared to be a manservant who was loading the woodfires. But after about thirty seconds I realized I could roll with this. And the second thought was “I should really, really try and knock this girl up.”
I was unsure how my attendance would be received. Because I wasn’t sure – as I said – that my invite was intentional. Turns out it was. When you have two girls running up to you screaming when you show up at a party (at a fucking estate), hey, game over. You win. After some pictures, I was led to the bar, where I was given an absinthe cocktail. Shit’s legalized now. I have no idea how much absinthe was in my drink, but it’s basically a licorice-flavored high-alcohol content drink. I don’t know how strong mine was, but I do know that I knew I’d be driving at some point, and I spent the next four drinks sticking to non-alcoholic products. Wreckage. When I met everyone, the girls I knew would preface it by suggesting that I was the greatest dancer in LA county. So then my reputation proceeded me.
It was one of those nights, though not so awesome that is awesominity overwhelms, because I went home at 3 AM by myself. Though not without some benefits. At some point I had to dance, and I guess I lived up to some of the expectations therein, or that is to say someone came up afterward and said “You’re a really good dancer.” I bounced around from group to group, and since I really only knew two people there, it was interesting, though it appeared that a lot of the people there didn’t know each other that well. Though most seemed to be the hostess’ college friends. So I was surrounded by 22-year olds. I wish I could type out “dot, dot dot” as effectively as I mean it at this moment. Cake came out about 12:30, I had a slice with the birthday girl’s face on it.
“I’m eating your face.”
“That’s why I invited you.”
“Well, whenever you want your birthday dance, let me know.”
Around 1:30 the music got shut down, which disappointingly did not stay soft-rocky. Though I showed up late (natch), and the Christopher Cross or Michael McDonald could have been in early rotation. I was throwing down for The Humpty Dance, and Rock With You. When the music died, the party gravitated toward the pool. As I arrived, it seemed a couple of people decided that they wanted to swim, and that they didn’t have actual suits for the occasion was no obstacle. Yes, boobs and bush, but also wiener. As I was saying a little later to the group I was with, after saying how I always add the lyrics “I’m fucking your bitch in the ______” to George Benson’s Breezin’, when people are naked at a party, it’s no party foul to actively stare at their dirty parts. You got naked, it’s a party, not a naked party, you want me to look at your junk.
I wish I could make cool rock faces when I play Rock Band. Currently, my faces are lame. Very sad. That’s the next stage of me getting it down is working on making cool expression.