It seems no party is ever born among my circle of friends without complementary ideas about ways we can collectively express ourselves by wearing this or that sort of costume, preparing this or that type of food, playing this or that genre of music. I don't mind. Sometimes fun things happen.
We'll start with Rafi's bachelor party. Alex saw this as a good opportunity to celebrate a favorite theme among us: Clowns vs. Graphic Designers. Clowns, you see, are people who dress up and act silly and therefore meet with our approval. Graphic Designers are people who claim credit and large salaries for work done primarily by computers, most often for advertising purposes. We don't like them. Except for those of us who happen to be one, such as Rafi himself. It is not a matter of employment, you see, but of attitude, as with most things.
I myself did not dress in costume. My main contribution was the procurement of a stripper. It was, after all, a bachelor party. But as none of us wished to live out a seen from Bachelor Party, a trashy movie from the early eighties starring a young Tom Hanks and the mildly creepy Adrian Zmed, who might be better remembered for his lead role in Grease 2, opposite Michelle Pfeiffer, the stripper I found was not a professional but our very own Green Haired Dave, who likes to think he'll do anything. I rather think he might. Microsoft Word is trying to tell me that last sentence was way too long.
Before Dave's arrival, though, the highlight of the party was Alex's juggling of chocolate pudding. If you've never seen anyone juggle pudding, just imagine a spectacular mess, and it'll be just as if you were able to look through my eyes for one shining moment. Rather than leaving the pudding snug in its individual plastic containers, Alex opted for the more sensual approach of juggling the pudding in moist, sugary globs, which soon decorated the walls, floor and several guests. In a similar vein, Jell-O later came into play, to be spread liberally over the guest of honor, who was wearing Doug's polyester sport coat and Tony's ruffled tuxedo shirt at the time. Doug later wore the coat to the wedding, Jell-O stains and all. Doug, incidentally, was the only guest to come dressed as a clown, though Alex sported an outlandish conglomeration of clothing not much different from his usual apparel.
Anyway, Dave arrived later with an outlandish conglomeration of drugs in his system, not much different from his usual behavior. I presented him with a token payment of Jim Beam, which was hardly necessary at that point. His dressing room was fully stocked with many dozens of ears of corn which I had husked earlier in the evening, assisted by Maria and Dave Brain Damage (to confuse the two Daves would be grievous error, for one Dave is very much different from the other, in the sense that one is very tall and forgetful, while the other is green-haired and responsible. They do, however, share an extreme fondness for Burning Man, incomprehensible to me. And they?re both allergic to corn.) GH Dave promptly removed his shirt and began fastening corn husks to his person. Clad in black vinyl pants and biker boots, clusters of corn husks dangling from each nipple ring, a corn cob strapped suggestively about his waist, and the inevitable duct tape cowboy hat nestled upon his head, Dave was ready for action. I led Rafi to the hairdresser's chair in our living room and cued the music, the inspired choice of Ethyl Meatplow's Queenie. If ever there was a more seductive song, I have not yet heard it, with the possible exception of Spanish Fly's Insert Tongue Here. I will keep that in mind for future striptease arrangements. Dave made a somewhat hesitant entrance, perhaps realizing that he could be seen by other people in his state, such as it was. He pulled through like a champ, though, slinking back and forth and writhing before Raf like a very large snake in a cowboy hat. Rafi, in turn, donned the hat and even made a show of nibbling at the corn. What a guy, that Raf.
The last memorable event of the evening, er, morning by then, was Leila's insistence upon several rounds of Spin the Bottle. Leila, who made no secret of conspiring to get Rafi kissed before his wedding, organized the game despite the extra attention it would elicit from Nestor "Kevin" Mahnko. Her goal was achieved, Rafi was kissed and kissed thoroughly, even by gorgeous Leila's gorgeous sister, who then curled up and fell asleep. Kissing was really about all that occurred, by the way. We really are a tame bunch in that respect, especially in contrast to Dave Brain Damage's free-lovin' raver clan in San Luis. I've seen pictures.
The next consecutive party, if memory serves, was in honor of Chad's departure from the States. This was soon after Michael's departure from the state, and soon before Maria's departure for London. Maria and I had already hosted a mother of a sidewalk sale, boasting the theme of Liberation, so it's easy to see how that idea was transferred onto the next string of events. We had colored posters on pizza boxes urging passersby to liberate themselves from the tyranny of over-priced Haight Street "vintage" stores and buy our used crap instead. A gallon or so of cheap wine was discovered in the household, which we passed out to lucky customers, who also witnessed some live, annotated readings of The Techno-Pagan Octopus Messiah and me staggering around on rollerskates, clad in a polyester ballgown. But the party, yes the party. It was an intimate gathering, comprised mostly of Chad's closest friends and the regular gang of anarchists. My personal sense of freedom from Michael's cruel presence was somewhat deflated after the discovery of a large hole he had drilled through the wall in his room, allowing him peeping access into the next room. My room. But, people ask, how could I have not noticed such a large hole in the wall? I must explain that on my side of the wall, someone had once hung a hammock with a large bolt-like apparatus that failed to maintain its hold on the flimsy plaster. So I had been familiar with a jagged chunk of emptiness, high and near a corner, where it never occurred to me to try and look through. There you have it.
So as we were all gathered in the glory of my new room, inherited from the evil Michael, people mewled in sympathy and horror, until Chad took it upon himself to create a spontaneous ritual to rid the room of Michael's lingering evil. He (Chad) marched through the doorway bearing a large papier-mache boar's head on a stick. A chant immediately rose up from the people, from the boys mostly, a gutteral, rhythmic tone in a language I knew not. How they all managed to know this language was mysterious and frightening to Maria and I. I later found out that it was from the movie Excalibur, but the phenomenon remains mystical in my memory. Once the chanting died down, it seemed to be up to me to participate in some way, so I grabbed the head and marched it outside, where I proceeded to beat it against the ground, removing the sharpened stick to poke out the piggish paper eyes. Not satisfied with girlish rage, Jason scooped the remains back onto the stick and set it on fire. It began crumbling immediately, scattering smaller fires throughout the street and burning Jason's hand pretty badly. At this point, neighbors began to voice their opinions of our little ritual from the safety of their windows. Most seemed in disapproval, apparently concerned by the possibility of their own houses burning down. But one voice supported our efforts, and summarized the situation nicely by screaming "Shut up! They're just burning a head!" After that, it was all sirens and running and bandaging of blisters and exclamations of relief that none of the anarchists seemed to be wanted by the law, after all. "Kevin" was not present that evening.
The next party was also at our house, though it was hosted by GH Dave and in honor of Star Wars. Again, I failed to dress accordingly, though somewhat uplifted by the application of glowing to Star Wars figures to our living room walls. Not so the Official Legion of Jedis (or whatever they called themselves), a group who had evidently heard about the party through the net and excitedly donned their custom-made gear and arrived bearing plastic light sabers. They were a group I can only liken to those who faithfully participate in the Ren Fair year after year. Fanatics, one might call them. People who abandon their dreary programming jobs to thoroughly saturate themselves in fantasy and sci-fi at appropriate times. People who occasionally become millionaires through their internet investments and again abandon their dreary programming jobs in order to play chess full time at The Horseshoe. I'm not bitter; chess looks boring.
The Star Wars related details of this particular evening escape me, as I spent most of the night holed up in my room with others less enthused about the merchandising. I mean, the movies. "Kevin" was there that time, and my conversation with the yuppie terrorist of yuppies centered around the quality of various red wines. Sandy made a rare appearance and robed herself in my fuzziest coat, chain smoking and brooding all the while. She roused herself to deny some foreigners the use of my stereo, loudly claiming there was no clearance for people with stupid accents. It was easily the most amusing thing I had heard all night. Dave Brain Damage was notably adorned in a Swedish goatherd cap, with a stuffed aardvark, or perhaps elephant's head, strapped over his groin. The connection between that and the Star Wars theme is still unclear to me, but the effort was impressive. That's about all I can say about that party. Oh, except that I forced someone to kiss my foot. That was remarkable.
Finally we come to the most recent and my favorite of all theme parties: The Poor White Trash Shindig held by newlywed Rafi and Mirta. They had gotten hold of a white trash cookbook, and being chefs of the most delightful caliber, created an event that would allow friends to consume dishes made of Spam. This was after my plan to run away to Nashville had exploded and my consolation plan to buy a trailer had fizzled under the light of good sense. I was primed for a trashy celebration. I combed Goodwill for the perfect outfit and ended up in acid washed maternity overalls, barefoot and pregnant. What really made the outfit a stunner, though, were the details: fake neon nails, pigtails, a tacky tattoo, gaudy plastic earrings, and a white satin baseball jacket. Several people thought I was actually pregnant and were appalled at my intensive drinking/smoking agenda.
Most glorious, however, was the food table. Petroleum- and pork- based products lounged casually on a checkered cloth. Jell-O quivered sensuously under the weight of Matchbox cars. Guests were finally able to partake of the culinary spectacle believed to have been Elvis' favorite: fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches. They were quite tasty (The Almighty Jessica disagreed).
There is one thing about that night that troubled me, however. A minor event, really, and yet it plagues my dreams even to this day. It cannot be denied: there was a chugging contest. A few of my esteemed peers, normally the fratless sort, indeed gouged holes in their beer cans and chugged away, squirting a fine spray of alcohol over the spectators. Tony, I suspect, was demonically possessed by his clothing, particularly the Poison patch that had recently been glued to Alex's leather jacket without Alex's consent.
After the party wound down, a few of us rambled down to a neighborhood dive bar in full regalia. Naturally, we ran into Steven Steve, local DJ and resident freak. I attempted to avoid him, grateful that my number had changed since our last encounter. Joy, unfortunately, mistook my reluctance to speak as signs of a crush, and dragged me over to his table. "Watcha been up to?" Steven Steve asked, reasonably enough, and I replied, with an affectionate glance at my inflated belly, "Getting knocked up." I intended to stay in character and make the most of it, until Joy broke in and explained about the party. Dammit.
I rejoined my group, where Dave BD was suavely gnawing on a peppered beef stick, and Topher, the doctor, admitted that he too had been concerned about my prenatal habits. It was time to go home.
Coming soon: disco carolling? Or the prom?