Cocktail Party

Admittedly, I haven't been to many "cocktail parties." Apparently, at some point between college graduation and one's 2nd or 3rd promotion at Chalmers Corporation Inc. LLC, the word "cocktail" is to be elegantly inserted before the word "party" for any and all mention thereof. This change in terminology brings with it an aire of sophistication previously unwarranted and inaccurate, now integral.....even if the garage will house a Beirut Table, a keg of Bud Light, and a population consisting mostly of gassy males seeking refuge from the feats of ettiquiette, restraint, and self-awareness demanded of them while inside and upstairs with their wives, significant others, and the other yuppies with whom their wives and girlfriends spend the bulk of the weekly 8 to 6 grind.

I am lucky enough to get along very well with the host (the wife of whom works with Mussolini) and two other "work husbands". Upon the conclusion of the Ohio State v. Michigan game, the four of us engaged in a game of Beirut, at the urging of the host, who seemed eager to mark the garage as exclusively male territory. The senior member of our little foursome, 34 years old and absolutely hilarious, I'm afraid pre-dates the advent of Beirut/Beer Pong (or at least his college experience did). As such, he demanded an explanation of the rules as we filled solo cups with Bud Light.

"What is this? Parents' weekend?" I mocked.

In one fell swoop his eyes shot accross the garage to the door, obviously double-checking to make sure his wife was not headed down the stairs to see what he was up to as he packed a dip into his bottom lip with his left hand, pointed to me with the other and replied, "Oh! It's ON!"

Inevitably, after a few drinks, I am rendered incapable of distinguishing between these two very separate worlds. After my first run on the table, I head upstairs and rub elbows without incident. "Chit chat chit chat. Babble, badger, ballywhoo, brewha ha, bicker, bicker bicker, banter, Talk Talk Talk." Mussolini seems happy with my performance.

After checking the Cal v. USC score, I head back downstairs for a second go round of Beirut. By now I have eaten (delicious food by the way) and drank myself a little silly. Par for the course. We win a game (I hit the last cup in a playoff round!) and lose the next. By now our topics of conversation have reached new lows [for a "cocktail party"] and the volume of my voice has reached new highs.

Feeling frisky, I bound back upstairs to see what my better, if not slightly authoritarian, half is up to. She puts her arm around my waste, pulls me in toward her, and introduces me to Jim and Jennifer Blah. Jim Blah and Jen Blah are married and just moved to the North End. Jim Blah owns a business in Blahville and he's going to be moving it to the North End as soon as blah. Blah. Blah. Mussolini and I briefly make eyes at one another (we've gotten good at this non-verbal communication thing over the past four years) instantaneously acknowledging to one another how bizarre all this hob-knobbing can be. A third couple joins the fray. Hand shakes and "blah's" exchanged. Our attention is briefly drawn to the football game on the television by an injury. As is fashionable now a days, the play during which the knee injury was sustained is replayed in slow motion and from every conceivable angle over and over again. I hear people throughout the room, behind me and in front of me, cringe. Jim Blah turns to me and says something about how distasteful he finds this morbid practice. And then it happened.....

I couldn't tell if I was upstairs with the "cocktail" or downstairs with the "party". They had actually fused together and become the same thing. It was all "party".

I went on to mention the incessant replays of Joe Paterno's recent injury, which was also shown in slow motion from every conceivable angle. And for good measure, I added, "Fucking grundle cam! I think they even had a grundle cam shot of Paterno's grundle! You could see the way the impact, impacted the old man's grundle!"

Everyone in the room froze. Silence reigned. Silence's reign must have lasted but a few moments, but it seemed much much longer than my reign over the Beirut Table downstairs at the "party". No one said a goddamn thing. I stood there.....frozen. Gradually, I heard voices. First faint and far away. Then, one by one, popping up here and there and all around me. They had moved on!

I went back to the basement.