Sex, Drugs, and Rock-n-Roll

I'm not typically much of a partier. It's hard to get yourself excited about hanging out with a bunch of drunken bastards when you tend to not even like sober people. For some reason, I convinced myself last night that partying was a good idea. If you're not going to party often, when you break the fast, you need to break it good and hard.

It started innocently enough by playing pool and darts at the Pub at the End of the Universe. They have great tap selections there and I ended up downing two pints and a pitcher between getting off of work at 11:30 and bar close at 2:30. Then I was faced with the decision of either catching a ride home or continuing the party elsewhere. Like I said, good and hard.

Caught a ride to someone's house and slammed another beer before switching vehicles to head to the actual party. At the actual party I was greeted by several familiar young faces from work who quickly ushered me to the keg in the basement. Good thing they were on top of it. I had just enough time to slam another beer before we all got kicked out. I've never before been kicked out of a party without tire irons being involved. It was all so polite. Only yelling and threats of violence were used. Probably because there was no band or skinheads present. Kids these days. Then it was a ride to an apartment. The only alcohol that manifested there was a jug of Carlo Rossi. Shit, that brought back memories. You know it's the good shit because it has a handle so you can't drop it. After a few hits from the jug I taught some folks how to smoke a tobacco pipe. Yeah, tobacco. Rebel rebel. I got home before dawn and I'm only in a little bit of trouble. See, I had left a phone message from work saying I was going out for a few drinks. When I didn't show up shortly after bar close, someone happened to wake up and get worried that something really terrible had happened to me. Fair enough. So next time I feel like going out and making a public ass of myself with the young twenty-somethings, I know to check in so as not to cause unnecessary worry. Yeah! Punk Rock! Anarchy! Personal Responsibility! WOOT! (Ow, my head.)

So, after a totally wild evening I can look back and say that while I partied pretty damn hard, I had no sex, no drugs, and there wasn't even rock-n-roll involved. The juke box at the bar was playing Johnny Cash and Bob Dylan. Which reminds me, I need to learn how to walk in slow motion for the next time I'm at the Pub walking towards a pool table with Hurricane playing.

The traditional party formula is for amateurs.