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....