There are few things more enjoyable to me than conversations that go late into the night, and the only thing that makes them more enjoyable are wine, women and song. We had booze, rock and well... not much else, but the conversation was very good.
One of the odd things about me, among the many dozens, is that my roommate The Spy said something way back when we were in college that never left me. It was about the difference between white parties and black parties. In black parties you style, dance and sweat. In white parties you drink, blab and stumble. If either party gets good enough, there's a fight. But what Spy said was hilarious - which was that the white kids drank to get drunk and then they stood around telling each other how f*king drunk they were. Then that becomes the legend of the party - I remember when I got so loaded/plastered/pissed/sot/drunk/wasted/blasted. Yeah whatever.
I'm long way from my days of alien observation mode. I'm a happy guy and loads of people don't disgust me like they used to. I can just enjoy them for who they are or whatever it is they are doing. One of the great advantages of knowing the secret of life is that you don't get pissed off at the masses for not helping you find it. Which is how I used to leave a lot of parties - having got neither styly, sweaty, blabby or stumbly.
So tonight, the Laughing Happy Fishheads found their way to the Georgetown Waterfront for tequila shots and various other truth serums. And try as I might to recall what we left dangling as the conversation swung towards my favorite subjects, only a few of them surface through my groggy consciousness at this hour.
I forget, and sometimes don't pay attention to the numbers of folks that read me at Cobb, and I especially make no assumptions for my workmates, but this morning I'll give it a try. Especially because we actually have some multicultural stuff going on that's fairly interesting.
The first subject that piqued my interest was the nature of the informal rights of passage among American youth. Why do we leave home when we do and why do our parents kick us out? Why does college become such a besotted party anyway? Is it because of our emphasis on individuality? I mean do we ever, in this trope of American culture, ever actually make decent and well-informed decisions about our lives? How many of us, as an expression of our independence and individuality end up drinking from the same damned keg?
You know who showed up. It was the boob spilling drunk girl in the black dress. It was the semi-hotties dancing with each other. It was the dude wearing sunglasses at night trying to cadge a cig. It was the crew cut conservative kid with the nose like Matt Damon. It was the girl who tried to tell us she was 16. It was the loud boor who almost got decked for poking somebody in the chest. It was the dude in the cornrows poking his cell phone. It was the chicks who might have been. It was the dude who would have liked them to be. It was the crowd. All socially dysfunctional on a Wednesday night by the river's edge. Yes, I'm cruel. I have the writer's cruel eye.
I'm trying to get used to being the old man. I enjoy being the old man, but every once in a while I talk too much. But there's something about the intimate honesty of men who get to know each other's taste in women, and limits at the bar. It takes a long time to get to know the ins and outs of life - to share those histories without being too judgmental - to speculate about the unfolding meaning of things and the reconciliation of things once believed, but now not so much as contrasted with new hopes and dreams. I'm still playing big brother. I still want to be useful in that way. I try to not make it all about me.
As it stands, there's not much else to recall except the good time, which it was.
What all did we talk about? Saudi Arabia, Cabernet, cardamom and car bombs, S&Ls vs Glass-Steagell, abusive relationships, eating with fingers, corporate espionage, the regionalization of the GSEs, the detriments of 'black' culture, three specific action flicks, Marine One, being an only child, parents' porno stash, that wild looking girl over there, Stoli vs Patron, architectural similarities between NY and DC, pronunciation of cab driver's names, belly dancer muscle control, Argentinian food, sushi in Texas, feral dogs, Persian beverages, semi-automatic rifles, drivers license rules in various states, ATM limits & the ethics of expense accounts, class, Punjabi music and dance, Sikh jokes, bouncers and fighting drunks, Irish temper, the Taint, Japanese perverts, Chinese hackers, India vs Pakistan, American Military University, the Iranian Revolution, secretive fathers, dual citizenship, arranged marriages, marathon sex, Ayn Rand, death & wisdom and French cuisine.
I don't think we talked about the iPad once, but I could be wrong.
We talked a lot about political philosophy, but that takes lots of time, and evidently lots of OH. I could probably do just fine after one Jack & Coke, but that's not quite enough for my compatriots. I find it queer, but I recognize the inhibitions of conscientious people and the Fishheads are conscientious in various ways. Myself, I've always been the quiet one who would talk about anything - I'm just waiting for the subject of actual pique, and then for people to reveal their motivations, which is one of the things I love best about conversational intimacy.
For most of my early life I heard many confessions. I was like Judd Hirsch's character from Taxi, Alex Rieger. The kind, patient and compassionate soul. Overbrained for my circumstances but resigned to it. Then I got selfish and decided to kick ass, the pendulum swung opposite. And in my 20s most people knew me as an arrogant, opinionated prick - a searcher for profound truths and methods to capitalize on them - seeing the rest of the species as lazy, stupid, ugly and poor. How did that work out for me? Well, I actually didn't move to Paris and marry that Nigerian law student, nor did I hang out in the Hamptons with the White House staffer, and I never got a second date with scioness on Martha's Vineyard. (Don't marry for money, hang out with rich chicks and marry for love). Funny this particular axis of success and failure I pick. Well it was a dude's night out. And of course I have no regrets. Heh. My middle name is 'no regrets'. And now I am getting to be the greybeard, finally slowing down and waiting for the young folks to eat first - and hearing confessions again.
There are a hundred drunken truths about me, but I'm trying to suppress my prior life and its volume. I appreciate the circumspection of spies and priests. I love handling the truth, it is one of the great rewards of life to hear it from friends and strangers.
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