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Monday, 17 December
All Yesterday's Parties

An uncharacteristically busy weekend for the wife and your humble correspondent! Two, count 'em, two holiday parties to attend! And we went! Believe me, nobody was more shocked than we were, with the exception of all of our friends. "Didn't you move to Prague?" "I heard you stopped shaving and started listening to the voices from your beard." "The ravages of time . . . have really taken their toll." Ho ho ho! All of our friends are assholes, at least the ones we recognized.

First up was our friends J. and S. They live in a snazzy new pad in Fremont with all kinds of nook-y goodness for. . . putting shit into nooks, I guess. Naturally, they're moving out in January, as their rent is being raised by $400. They've been there for eight months or so. FREMONT: Welcome to town! Now get the fuck out and make room for a bunch of shitheads with too much money.

It was a delightful party; not solely because J. is a pastry chef, but it didn't hurt. The entire place was nook-crammed with chocolate-covered whatsits, and he even had a bunch of those dinky little spoons that scream Top Chef all loaded up with foams, gelees, jellies, ices, gorf-blines, unkaboos and the like. The wife was particularly smitten with the unkaboos; I think it had zest in it.

J. and S. also appeared to have some sort of serious hard-on against our friend the pig. The spread consisted of--well, for one thing, a magnificent cheese spread (one of the cheeses looked like a tiny basketball!)--a salami plate, Li'l Smokies, pigs in many blankets, spiral cut ham, obliquely cut ham, suckling pig, chuckling pig, swashbuckling pig, Lynn Thigpen, and, inventively, an evening dress made entirely of bacon worn by the hostess. "Go for the armpit slabs," she murmured to me privately. "They're still warm." Not everybody got those helpful hints! We had been missed.

We spent a nice time devouring all the dead hog as well as the homemade eggnog (or, as far as I know, hognog). The hosts' dog, an adorable little terrier thing, fetched much love from everyone as well as a ridiculous amount of food that slid off of the plates of the hognog drinkers, as the nog was of course also loaded with the brown liquor of one's choice. The dog, Charlie, was in, if I may, hog heaven.

At least until C. and L. showed up. C. and L. are good friends of ours; it was also L.'s birthday that night, which explained why they were, as C. told me instantly, "fucking shitfaced." Yay! Then C. noticed Charlie nosing around his shoe, and immediately plopped down on the ground to dog level. C. began barking at the beast, who immediately backed away and howled. So C. began slithering after him, barking mercilessly. Charlie, clearly unequipped to deal with anything above the level of dead pig fragments (much less a stocky, red-faced man-serpent stinking of corn mash and ill intent) ran shrieking under the coffee table; C. lurched under the table with him, further terrorizing the unlucky beast as well as several people who suddenly found their drinks sliding swiftly to the table's edge--their shrieks joined the ongoing cacophony, adding a nice warbling soprano counterpoint to Charlie's tenor dog-rap and C.'s basso yawps.

Then J. announced that the homemade hognog had run out and he was breaking out the store-bought swill, so we left. The last thing we heard was S. wailing as C. mounted a noisily despairing Charlie.

After all, we had another party to go to! This one was much different: thrown by my friend J.'s girlfriend E., this party was made up of a younger demographic: E., for example, is preparing for her MCATs, which I assume is some sort of audition for a Saturday morning cartoon. I don't really know; I met J. some years ago on the Interplace in a "chatting room" filled with strange young men doing age and sexy checks--it's kind of a blur. Anyway, for reasons unclear to us, they had invited us to their youngster party, possibly out of anthropological interest. In time, our hansom bore us to their charming domicile.

"Skot!" cried J. as we cautiously entered the building; there was some sort of loud din emanating from the walls that sounded like a Sousaphone being violated by robots, and its foreign rhythms curdled my humors a bit. Around us, youths chattered and undulated; I draped a scarf discreetly over the wife's head, and she hooted softly, feeling immediately safer. I led her in the kitchen, where J. served us some mulled wine he had barbarically prepared in a primitive tin pot.

As we settled in to the kitchen, we were introduced to various others, such as L., who immediately inquired--this I am not making up--which version of "Ticket To Ride" I had played, and which version I preferred, and why. I stammered out a reasonable facsimile of a reply while I surveyed L.'s fascinating hairdo; he wore an astounding nimbus of curls that looked almost like an article of exploded clothing. If Mother Courage had been a Yippie, her skull would not have looked unlike L.'s.

There was also P. and his lovely girlfriend A. I had met P. before, but not A., and so I of course promptly made some horrifying joke about my ass and "Mexican pornography," whatever that could possibly mean. "I've just met these people!" I crowed; A. simply looked stricken while the wife continued hooting under her scarf-hood and sipped at the mulled wine. P. smiled at the proceedings and said, for some reason, "It's okay. She's a biologist." Having entirely lost my bearings by this point--I found out later that J.'s had doped the wine with large amounts of antimony--I merely polished my pince-nez with my cravat and blinked agreeably.

Presently, the curtains began to flap ominously whisper faint evil-sounding suggestions at me; P. pretended not to notice while he chatted pleasantly about, of all things, ohms. I noticed L. off in a corner talking to an impossibly young woman; his hair waved like hungry anemones. The wife honked forlornly under her scarf, and her nerveless hands let her wineglass roll away.

It was time to go.

"J., we must away!" I screamed as I jammed my stove-pipe hat onto my head in an attempt to restore my dignity; the antimony fog was creeping in darkly. "Skot, that's an actual stovepipe," yammered J. "You've ruined our chimney." I ignored his nonsense, which was made easier by the blood unaccountably running down into my eyes. "I can't even see you, demon," I said. "You can't hurt me now."

Eventually, after a minor scuffle involving a rather obstreperous tapestry, we left. A short funicular ride down Capitol Hill, and we were home. I rolled the gently snoring figure of my wife on the floor next to the bed and then tumbled gratefully onto the mattress, poisoned with both sow and sulfide, and thought no more that night, except for one final thought before the darkness claimed me: Next Christmas, I'm going to poison the world.

Summary | Skot | 17 Dec, 2007 |

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The first party was in fact a ritual gathering of the Four Pork Products of the Apocalypse. The Gown of Bacon is donned by the High Priestess of Pork in times of joy and celebration. Once everyone has eaten from the frock and the Priestess is left standing as she came into the world, she can sponge off the grease and sit down without leaving marks on the plush furniture.

Comment number: 016043   Posted by: SaltyMissJill on December 18, 2007 06:59 AM from IP:

Skot's New Years Resolutions:

1. Find publisher

Comment number: 016100   Posted by: Bitter Betty on December 22, 2007 08:06 AM from IP:

Firstly, "obstreperous" should be used far more often in conversation / blog posts.
Secondly, the parties and your party ensemble sound delightful. The only party I attended was work-related, and I left before the drinking turned ugly.

Comment number: 016205   Posted by: superblondgirl on December 27, 2007 08:17 AM from IP:

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