Saturday Social

Polka dot scarf, polyester, plaid leisure jacket, my jaunty, Bowery boy cap and we were off for a night to Ginger’s in celebration of Brooklyn Pride.

There’s very little I remember from that liquor soaked night, but I remember my outfit. Rather my second outfit. My first, before going out, was a neatly pressed Hawaiian shirt and olive green cargo shorts. This was my entertaining attire. Bryce and I decided (on the spur of the moment) to host a little afternoon gathering in our well appointed Clinton Hill home. The guest list was very casual. Our parties always are. Pretty much whoever we remember to invite (at the last minute) and whoever they’d like to bring along.

What a peculiar and thrilling evening of festivities. Indeed, blame the full moon.

The party itself at Grand and Greene started off slowly. Please note I said “the party” started slowly. The hosts, on the other hand, were well lubricated by the second banana daiquiri blended in our terrible little mixer long before the first guest arrived.

Oh that mixer. It’s something from a Spanish Inquisition torture room. It hisses and smokes while attempting to crush ice. Press the blend button and instantly you smell the acrid, metallic scent of burning iron and hear the grating whine of gears shaving themselves into wheels. Terrible. The banana daiquiris were delicious, however.

“Oh Bryce, these banana daiquiris are great! We’re going to make them for everyone!” Not a single daiquiri was made. The blender frightened everyone except Tim.

I arranged a lovely snack bowl brimming with Yellow corn tortilla chips, Funyons and Cheezos. Cheezos are the poor man’s Cheetos. Imagine Chester the Cheetah living as a rabid alley cat, addicted to crack-cocaine and scratch offs, and then you have Cheezos.

My homemade Guacamole was exquisite. I ate none of it, only sampled one dab. In fact, Bryce and I had nothing to eat that entire day save a croissant from our neighborhood patisserie Choice Market. Thus we were both so very loquacious after only two frothy drinks.

I love it when reminiscing resembles a hazy album of cluttered snapshots and obscure half-memories. Some of my favorites from the evening:

A peculiar yellow parakeet was hanging outside our apartment. It kept looking in the kitchen window. Then on the rooftop it nearly got on my hand until it flew across the street.

Bryce and someone were smoking cigarettes out the window in our lime green boudoir! For shame! For shame!

Did I really cry to Bryce about how much I love him, locked away in that same bedroom? Do I always cry when drunk? Actually I’m rarely drunk when I cry… I must speak to my pharmacist about this.

Darling Tim continued making me frothy, colorful drinks in the treacherous blender with elaborate names like “Long Island Tractor Pull” and “Golden Shower Can”. They were all delicious.

Who knew the Farmboyz are so very charming? They used to live in Montreal and gave Bryce and me many suggestions of where to go and what to do. Oh, did you hear we’re going to Montreal and staying at a bear bed and breakfast? Foxy? Did you know this?

Someone kept telling me I was so skinny. I love him. No! Damn. They were telling Foxy how skinny he is. I hate her.

Joe arrived with a 40 oz. The presence of such beverage was so very unsettling, so very gangsta, so very 718.

Rugby boys showed up! How I love spending time with my peeps. They’re like little brothers to me, little brothers who can injure and maim me.

Our dark and lovely downstairs neighbor Angela attended. Her girlfriend couldn’t make it, but having a neighbor at the party helped create a sense of community at our boisterous affair.

I remember being thrilled that the Empire State Building was spotted from our rooftop. The excitement was lost on the rest of the assembled.

Community was replaced by shame, however, when another neighbor spotted Bryce and I and … a friend skulking up the stairs at 5:30 a.m. You see, our friend had … forgotten his jacket at the party and needed to retrieve it before taking a taxi home … Yes, shame.

I could go on and on, including all the fun we had at the four Brooklyn bars the mob traipsed to and from, but once the mind’s hazy photo album transforms into a grainy, out of focus quick time video, the kind usually awash with the green glow of a tawdry nighttime camera, well, it’s usually best to stop talking and typing and merely leave the night’s events to one’s imagination.

In such films there’s rarely any talking anyway.