High Side, Low Side

Glitter is pretty. It's shiny. It shimmers in light. It's difficult to think of any context in which the bodily form is not improved by the addition of glitter. It catches the eye, and often from a perch which the eyes are already drawn to. Without belaboring the point any further, I enjoy looking at glitter when it is deployed, and I would find it hard to believe if anyone were to claim that they don't feel the same way. If I must suffer for speaking a universally held truth, then so be it.

Something that I don't think I will have to go out on a limb over is the other side of glitter. As nice as it is, it comes at a steep cost above and beyond the actual price in dollars one must pay to obtain the glitter (and I'm sure good glitter comes at a premium). Glitter is insidious. It is just impossible to get rid of. It sticks to things and stays around forever. It's hard to say whether it is worse than sand from the beach, but let's leave that for another day.

New Noise

As I write this, it is rather late. To be precise, it is 1:15 in the morning on the weekend, which some may judge to not be very late. Certainly it can feel less than late, but it feels late enough to me, as I've had a full day. I got up at 8 o'clock this morning to ensure I would be able to watch a football game, and I never had much of a chance to rest.

Some people are having a party over by the barbecue area, which is on the third floor just as my apartment is. They're rather noisy, which is a relative novelty still. For the first year or so that I was in the building, noisy gatherings there (or even within apartments) were rather discouraged. We were always made to believe some other tenant had complained, but the complaints stopped with subsequent building managers.

Dress Right

The other day, I had need of a Christmas sweater. It was, of course, one of those themed parties where everyone is supposed to have one. Like most of those parties, the theme was indifferently received by attendees, but for once I was one of those who actually made the effort. I would like to have come up with a gaudier, more ugly sweater, but technically the terms of the party did not require that it be so- only that it be a classy sweater. I did fairly well.

Of course, I did not try to find anything until the day of the party, and even then I was making minimal effort. I went to one nearby thrift store (chatting along the way with a friend who I bumped into) and found that they had already been stripped of all possible holiday garb. It turns out that such parties have become so fashionable that the sweaters are actually in demand. I didn't leave empty-handed, though. I bought eight VHS tapes, because I have a sort of a compulsion there.

No More

The Halloween holiday season is, as I have made clear enough over the last week or so, a time of anxiety over having to come up with costumes. That alone is hard enough, let alone all the other times when some people are inclined to come up with a costume and a reason to wear it. It used to be, I think that they had to keep such things to themselves once. I do believe in people getting to live out their lives in the manner that they choose so long as it affects no one else adversely, but there's a limit.

Anyway, what I'm getting at is that there was a party the other day where people were asked to dress in costume as a tribute to the birthday boy. I certainly can respect that, as I would myself be honored if anyone decided to do that for me. It hasn't happened yet, but it easily could one day. It's regrettable though that this birthday should fall just when I am in the throes of costume-concocting and wearing fatigue.

Two Timing

The other night, I was at a pair of parties. Each had some merit to it, but neither so much as to render the other entirely unappealing. Together they seem worth some report, although that sort of social account is one I don't do much now that such parties are relatively common for me. In any case, the first one that I committed to was conceived by my roommate, and its central purpose was to make jack-o-lanterns.

I was looking forward to making jack-o-lanterns, and readily committed to the party. That seemed reasonable, as I didn't imagine getting invited to another and this one was being held in my own home. I could hardly help but attend, I thought. This was before discussions with another acquaintance developed into an invitation to attend her birthday dinner. The idea held considerable appeal.

Everything's Fine

It's funny what's truly essential in a party. Of course there is the matter of people, if you're going to get deep and sentimental. Don't do that. Let's just focus on practical matters that don't require us to really take stock in life. That's hard and often painful. The material things in life are never either, although the acquisition of them is often both. At any rate, what I prefer to think of being essential to a party is definitely inanimate, although it is not what one might think.

Of course the reasonable thinking would be that liquor is essential. As they say, it lubricates social interactions, and a race of beings that is under ordinary circumstances too awkward to live suddenly manages it for at least an evening. The liquor is important, but much easier to come by than one might guess. Everybody's thinking alcohol, and many if not most make sure to provide some. Little do they expect what else is important.

When Your Treat Is Beat

I appreciate more and more what you have to give in life, rather than what you can hope to receive. I think it's really true that the more you give, the more you get. Some things, like tipping bartenders, I have learned the hard way. Other things I have managed to pick up on without a string of incidents to motivate me. Of course, there is not always great reward when you give. Sometimes your giving goes unappreciated, and sometimes what you give is just no good.

Consider the potluck. Some organizers leave little to chance, having attendees sign up for a side dish, a drink or whatever else. Others are more haphazard, leaving room for someone like me to go afoul. It's not like I'm trying to get out of contributing my fair share. I want to give what people want to eat, but how should I know what that is? I gravitate towards canned ravioli and store brand Doctor Pepper. I have to be told.

Copping To A Good Time

When I was somewhat younger, I was not accustomed to being included in very many parties of any kind. Those at which I was welcome would at the very most have available as a refreshment Jolt Cola or perhaps mere Mountain Dew or Coca Cola. This being the case, we did not get unduly rowdy, or do anything more severe than watching horror movies all night long. At the most reckless and uncontrolled Bacchanalia, I believe the host disassembled a replica of Bat Masterson's revolver. I expect that it must have been a tough task, but reassembling it was probably not beyond the talents of humans.

The point is that parties then never got so that it seemed necessary from anyone's perspective to call in the legal authorities. Perhaps I missed out on account of that. These days, a party could hardly be worth remarking on if the police do not turn out to curtail our fun. At the very least, I expect the landlord to stop by in a surly mood if I am even going to make the effort to appear at a party. That is to say that I feel that way if the police or landlord come out only when we have really earned it.

The Longest Day: Part Three

Two days ago, I began the story of a recent, exceptional Saturday. It began with a visit by the handyman, and continued with an adventure in self-improvement at a workshop with friends. Where I left off, one of those friends and I left just a bit before the others in anticipation of a birthday party to come. As I indicated yesterday, it was necessary to pick up some supplies. A grocery store near the workshop was to suffice, or so we thought. I rounded up the paper plates and plastic ware we thought would be necessary for the cake, but the cake itself proved somewhat elusive. Blame probably rests with a poorly-motivated, unhelpful bakery department staff, although I'll be good enough to note the excellent cake that actually resulted. The inconvenience was so minor from my point of view as to be barely measurable. This was even more true in retrospect.

After the grocery store, we had to pick up another friend. We were actually several minutes early, showing what I suppose were the fruits of hurrying. After that, it was off to meet up with the birthday girl, the birthday boy, and the rest of the retinue. This took as much time as anything. We sat around and chatted, having a perfectly good time while waiting for the more intransigent party guests (including the birthday boy) to arrive. Once the group was assembled, we divided ourselves into the most convenient number of cars possible. It was decided to take one more car than necessary for the sake of comfort. My suggestion of taking more cars than we had people was rejected outright.

The Barbeque Strikes Back

It ought to surprise no one that the last party I wrote about did not mark my retirement from the social scene. Nor, for that matter, was it the last that I would choose to write about. Barely twenty-four hours later, there was still another one of such a kind that I never imagined only a short time ago I'd be welcome at. Please, if you would, indulge me once again. It's a bit shorter altogether, but comes in one long installment since it doesn't split up easily.

Actually, I had gotten a ride from church to the party. I previously wrote about an epic public transportation journey to church, and resolved that this time it would not be so interesting, no matter the cost to this blog. I had, prior to that, always taken the subway down, walking seven tenths of a mile from the station to the service. I did so again, and it mostly proved to not sir up my passions prematurely. Any intrigue was of a very mundane nature of no interest to anyone but myself.

The Subtle Dance Of Socializing: Part 3

Each of the last two days, I have been telling the story of my latest night out. Yesterday's chapter left of with me alone on a sidewalk in Echo Park at around 2:30 in the morning thinking of how to get home. The trip home was perhaps more eventful than its predecessor. Certainly it was longer. I knew I would be ok getting home on my own, as there are two all-night buses which would serve to bring me within a tolerable walking distance. I ordinarily would scrounge a ride, but doing so in this case, given that the people most predictably amenable to such a request in the past were gone, seemed not conducive to the growth of my friendship with those who remained.

I walked over to the stop served by the first bus. It took a little while, but came. That thing was just jam-packed with all kinds of fascinating people. I couldn't focus on my book, and not just because I was concerned for my safety should I let down my guard. Some prefer to give the irregular and downtrodden on the fringe a wide berth. I guess I'm not so far from that attitude, but I do find such people as you see on a bus at three in the morning on a Sunday most interesting. I often think of how much I'd like to cast a movie with them. You just can't find faces like theirs in an audition.

The Subtle Dance Of Socializing: Part 2

Yesterday I began the tale of my latest night out. Where I left of, I had just gotten off the last bus of a rather interesting public transportation commute, and was walking to the party. I walked by the location a couple times, but found it in loads of time to be the first person to show. This is an irredeemable fault of mine: I show up at parties when it says I'm supposed to, which usually means that I twiddle my thumbs for about an hour and a half while the host continues to get things ready around me. The most interesting element in this case was a laptop playing strange video footage which was projected onto a retaining wall holding back the hill behind the building.

It was another themed costume party, and you know I wasn't having any of that. Sure, a robots and aliens theme is all kinds of fun until you have to start thinking about what kind of costume you can pull off. There are a lot of considerations. First, there's the cost which a costume entails. I have got no intention of spending more than a couple dollars on a costume, particularly one which is apt to get ruined, and will just be dispatched to the closet for ever more even if it survives the night.

The Subtle Dance Of Socializing

There was, not so long ago, yet another birthday party in my circle of friends, well-wishers and hangers-on. I'm beginning to think that some of them are fabricated to provide an excuse for doing the kinds of things that would otherwise be frowned upon in any other context. That aside, it was another in the ever-lengthening string of nights out on my part that warrant a full accounting here. Names have been omitted to protect the guilty and spare the innocent any guilt by association. As is so often the case, this story shall stretch on for three days, so don't miss a single thrilling chapter!

Today I ought to tell of the commute, as I usually do right away. Now, I had dedicated the entire afternoon to watching dvds I had checked out of the library. I went and returned them, coming back maybe an hour or so before I needed to head out for the party. The first bus was uneventful as far as I can recall. The train started out that way. I opted to stop at a kiosk to buy my next month's pass, then went down to get on the train which others were frantically rushing towards as though a monster were menacing North Hollywood.

At What Cost Recreation? Part Three

Each of the last two days, I have related my account of a night of carrousing in Hollywood to mark the occasion of a friend's birthday. In the first part, I told of the movie we saw in a cemetery. Yesterday, it was the bar we went to after. Today, we shall see the thrilling conclusion!

This second bar was more to my liking. It was quieter and less crowded. Call me crazy if you will, but on the relatively rare occasion that I go to a bar, it's for the community and not the drinks. In a place like the former, talking is about impossible and even the drinking gets tough when there's no elbow room. This place did not have those problems, and was an excellent step down as we made the gradual descent to being ready for going home.

At What Cost Recreation? Part Two

Yesterday, I began the latest over-sized account of my social exploits. When I left off, we were just leaving the cemetery where we had seen "The Thing" for the birthday of a friend. Today, I shall tell what followed! Now, we spent an interminable period of time getting everyone in the same page as far as the bar we were going to and its location. Perhaps taking even longer was the trip over there. Saturday night traffic on Hollywood is brutal, owing to a combination of factors mundane and lurid. Worse still was the parking situation, but I promise I won't perseverate on that, as no one wants to hear it.

We got to the place just a bit after the birthday girl and her immediate coterie. There had been the sort-of promise of dancing, but this did not come to pass. The place was crowded, loud, and had its walls festooned with both celebrity mugshots and a deer whose antlers were actually machine guns. It was a colorful establishment. We were there for something more than an hour, and I had three drinks in addition to the perhaps two or three I'd had at the movie. There was a vodka company rep doling out samples, but I did not partake. Vodka tastes like rubbing alcohol.

At What Cost Recreation?

As has become my wont, today I write another multi-part account of a night on the town which so exceeded normal parameters that it must be shared. As always, it was the birthday of a friend. One begins to suspect that not all of them are entirely legitimate. I recall at summer camp one time that we requested from the dining hall kitchen staff a huge sheet cake under false pretenses, and then embarrassed a visiting guest from the state Game and Fish department by pretending it was for her. That seems like a good way of introducing this story.

The substance of the birthday celebration was a movie. This was not any movie. We were to see John Carpenter's "The Thing", and not at just any venue, but at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery. To explain, this is a somewhat dilapidated facility, and they raise money for restoration by showing movies, which are projected against the wall of the mausoleum. Patrons sit on a wide, uninterrupted expanse of grass, and not on graves, as one friend feared. This enterprise is wildly popular, filling up each screening regardless of what is being shown. Getting within a half mile of the cemetery in Hollywood from North Hollywood takes about as long as traversing the final half mile and entering the place.

Fording Fiestas: Part Two!

Yesterday I began the tale of my biggest social night since St. Patrick's Day. As with my most recent summer camp account, it felt too big to be contained by a single post.Yesterday, I told of a birthday outing consisting of tacos and Iron Man 2. Today, the remainder of the story. After we got out of the movie at the theater down around Vermont and Sunset, I said goodbye, and sallied forth towards the second event of the night.

At this point, I was flying by the seat of my pants, and nothing was certain. I knew that technically the party should still being going, and probably would be even when I could get over there. I was in a fortuitous spot geographically, and so was the second party. I merely had to take five or so minutes to walk over to the subway station, wait about ten minutes for the train, travel on the train about another ten minutes, and then spend a final five or so minutes walking from the train's terminus to the party. The only point of stress was uncertainty of what I would find at the party. Would it be a whooping and hollering good time I'd encounter, or a just-wakened party host made angry by my arrival long after the guests had gone?

Fording Fiestas

There recently was another of those rare experiences that warrants being reported to you as is, without any regard for finding the universal or timeless in it. I imagine it may just be in there anyway, but for once, being topical and unique might be to the story's benefit. Now, there were two separate parties to get to. I decided to do my best to make both events. I observed from the invitation of the original event that it was schedule to go on until two in the morning. Now, I know full well that the scheduled end of the party is in play as much as is its beginning. No one shows up for a while after the start, and the effective end depends entirely on how the party is going. Still, this was my plan.My account of the night shall be presented in two parts. Today, the first part of the night.

The "Big Game".

Right on the heels of my Rocky Horror Picture Show exploits was the Super Bowl. It's identified in some advertising as "The Big Game" due to the litigious nature of the NFL, and this year pitted the New Orleans Saints against the Indianapolis Colts. The game was a good one; perhaps it wasn't one of the very best in history, but was worthy of being associated with the best in recent years. My Super Bowl experience was colored by the company I kept as I watched it: one more or less indifferent person from Louisiana and about fifteen rabid Hoosiers.

The Humbling Times and the Salve

This week, we got back to the Armando style of long form improvisation in class. It depends upon a monologist driving and inspiring the scenes. It's a fun and distinct form, and yet does not seem to have in it anything to be wary of when one returns to it after a break. It was surprising, then, that most of us fell victim to it in some fashion. Sometimes the fundamentals fall by the wayside as one tries to master the larger and more lofty elements. Perhaps that's it, or perhaps improv is not like a bicycle. In any case, it was as fun as ever regardless of momentarily prominent shortcomings.

Class was followed by another little party. They're multiplying, and may soon crowd out those endeavors that pay for them. It was fun anyway. My attempts at Pictionary drawings seem to be more fun than the competition itself. The night was capped by a triumphant viewing of a tv show on which a comrade had a silent but winning appearance. Good night.