House Party

It was a Friday night. Maybe Saturday night. It doesn't really matter what night it was. The point is, we were looking for a house party. It's amazing how scarce they have become after graduating from college. The staples of our partying past have become so uninspiring. 6th Street is all useless yelling, shots, and puking; not mine, but worse, someone else's you have to dodge in a steam filled alley way walking back. And the new house parties. Well, the up and coming generation of punks have lost all creativity. Just set up a beer pong table, a revolving playlist of pointless base heavy radio rap, and these kids think they have themselves a good party. It's the same everywhere I go now. Makes me feel like a bitter old man, but it's not my fault their parties are redundant and suck.

Well we found one that night. A birthday party of a friend of our friend. More of a distant acquaintance we hoped would recognize our friend really. Interesting crowd. A good blend of people young and old. The birthday boy was turning 40 years young, but I guess you're never too old to be festive. There were hipsters and suits, tattoos and grey hair all conversing amongst each other. The owners of the home were true hosts: offering plenty of food, a cheap keg, signature well drinks, and the names of strangers you were standing next to. A man named Julian was practicing tarot cards in the corner. He was holding a copy of Ginsberg's poem "Howl". When he approached our circle I took notice and quoted the intro, "I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked..." Julian seemed puzzled and searching, finally recognizing the words of the pamphlet he was holding, "That's Ginsberg!!" he said, like it was some unconscious incongruent statement I had made for the hell of it. Whatever. This is an odd scene, but that's alright. We wanted a house party, and we found one.

Julian was trying to take credit for the evening's existence, explaining that he had kept the host alive during his addiction to heroine throughout his 30's. I didn't care. It was late and I was hungry. I found a crock pot brewing some queso in an opposite corner that paralyzed me, and a three legged dog waiting for anything to drop. I only came to when the fortune teller was gone, and two tender voices were talking about a box on the shelf that had contained some kind of awesome coffee maker they both had. How does it always end over a cup of jo? To these very bizarre beans at the house party: you know who you are....

Birth Control

I was at the counter waiting to order a drink when I overheard the two female baristas chatting with a friend on the other side. He had complimented her glasses, while her coworker laughed calling them BC frames. I was wondering if I was thinking of the same meaning when she said they were essentially a form of birth control, or male repellant. I guess she wasn't as fond of them as the other friend. I was then waited on, and walked away laughing to myself about what had just unfolded. To this bizarre bean with the apparently unattractive Army issued glasses you found at a thrift shop, now sporting them behind the counter: you know who you are.

Never Talk to Strangers

It was 11pm, and the place was packed. Someone somewhere decided it is inappropriate to sit with those you do not know, so many tables are taken by a single person rendering many open seats, but nowhere to sit. I had a saucer and a mug of English Breakfast steaming while scanning. There was an empty couch in the back corner. Directly left of me, two men were at two top against the wall. Directly right of me, a young woman sat down with a book in a smaller love seat.

The men were babbling loudly about something, almost to the point of a nuisance except that there was a speaker directly above me blaring Nirvana of all things, and drowning out the legibility of their words. I was working anyways, and wasn't trying to listen in, but that girl to my right; yes, there was something about her. She was pretty, not sexy or flashy, but elegant and pretty. The kind of girl whom no one ever paid attention to in high school, because she obviously didn't go to parties or put out, but will be taken notice of at the reunion for sure in less shallow circumstances.

She is reading an intense Russian novel with deep seeded themes of communist tyranny and religious undertones. However, she is wearing a plain top with a modest skirt, but trying to turn and position herself, attempting to throw her legs over the side of the couch without exposing too much of the underside of her thigh, or worse; as if she were at home, and no one was watching. It took time. It took a few tries. And, it took finesse, but she finally found a comfy ladylike position.

The men to the left spoke of poet's fears of death. I contradicted out loud. She chimed in. We all spoke for hours. I got a call at 1:14am explaining some sort of emergency that required my assistance elsewhere. I meant to tell her she was pretty for the sake of a deserved compliment, but couldn't get past the piece of spinach caught in her teeth, and forgot in my quick scurry out of there. To these bizarre beans: you know who you are.

Why is that?

Have you ever noticed that certain accessories tend to make people appear more distinguished/intelligent than they really are? Or, in some cases maybe even give them the legitimacy of intellect for pulling off the look. It is also possible that there is no correlation whatsoever, but regardless, I'm talking about: glasses, silk robes, beards, fedora styled hats, a blazer and jeans (how did that happen?), kilts, certain suspenders, NOT bow ties though (that just makes you look like a pretentious deuche outside of the black and white tux), and the rarely seen pipe.

Last night, three separate men sat at three successive tables outside in a diagonal line from me. Each wore beards, and each were smoking something different. Unfortunately for me, I was sitting down wind, and picked up a second hand bombardment of assorted styles.

The first, and closest beard was older and gleaming in well seasoned maturity. He was smoking a minty clove. The second beard was middle aged, grungy, and hardened. He smoked a cigarette; Marlboro Reds no doubt. The last beard looked mid to late twenties, and recently introduced to responsibility. He was the only one who sat in the company of another, a young lady, and he was puffing on an old tobacco pipe. I've never smoked a cigarette, nor wanted to because of any actor on t.v., but damnit, I'd kind of like a nice smoking jacket, a glass of scotch in one hand, and a finely made pipe in the other. Maybe then people would think I was more distinguished and intelligent than I am.

What does this say about socioeconomic status and trends? How the hell should I know? To this bizarre bean, who swiped Old Man Jenkin's pipe, and tried to impress that girl over coffee outside though: you know who you are...

Hangin' in There

During my momentary break from written word, I noticed her standing in front of me across the way. Her side was turned to me revealing an intentional tear in her t-shirt giving way to the illegible writings tattooed on her right flank, as well as the edge of her breast. Not to say that she was scantily clad by any means, but her visible shape behind the single layer left little to the imagination.

We exchanged glances, eye to eye, on her way past towards the counter. She is neither exceptionally pretty, nor unsightly. You might think she was calling for attention, but I've seen the look of a seductress, and this was not of the same class. Despite a careful fixation on her facial region now, she glares at me with disdain in anticipation of the inevitability that I had perhaps peered at her brazier-less contour; like I was somehow supposed to be more mature than thousands of years of deep seeded primal desire. I am not, but who is to blame? To this bizarre bean who gave me no choice but to look: you know who you are.

No Need to Look

I was below in a basement listening to jazz, with its stone walls, small windows offering a glimpse of the successive steps of passerby's on the downtown streets above, and open spaces mostly lit by candles and a neon sign illuminating a green cocktail glass hanging over the stage. No, it's not a coffee shop, but I'm sure they would throw on fresh pot of liquid pick-me-up for the band if they needed it, but they don't. I was drinking whiskey on the rocks.

I have just sat down while the other settled patrons clap for a drum solo that has just ended. The bassist takes his place immediately after as the lead instrument. He resembles a heavier set version of the violinist from Dave Matthews Band; elegantly braided clean dread locks, a pair of dark sunglasses (in the dark), and a huge grin on his face as he traveled up and down picking away at the length of the fret board without ever looking at his quick moving finger placement. Throughout his entire musical improvisation he seemed to be staring at everything, and nothing at the same time. After earning his own personalized claps and soft whistles, their song ended, along with that set. He set his bass guitar down, stood up, and waited for the drummer and pianist to take each arm while guiding him to the bar. He was blind. But, boy could he play. To this bizarre bean: you know who you are.