…I am now an old fart.
Made it to my friend’s house around 6:00 pm to find the Virgo Party in full swing. I filled a cup with Shiner Bock from the tap, grabbed a couple of bratwurst and a mound of hot wings, and set about to fortify myself.
I sat and visited for a few hours, drank more Shiner, ate more food, and listened to a pretty good jam session there under the trees. It was nice.
I wimped out shortly after the real band started playing. By then everyone was well lubricated, and starting to imbibe the hard stuff. I stopped at eight beers, which for someone my size, spread over three hours, ain’t enough to do much.
I managed to sit through a few numbers by the band (who all played their instruments really well, but sucked on vocals), successfully avoided the forty-something chick who called me cute and kept rubbing her hooters on me at every opportunity, and generally behaved myself.
There was a time, though…
…I’d have been out there schooling the baby boomer set on real drinking games.
“You wanna play quarters? Drag the keg over here, sister, and let me show you how it’s done. Find something to puke in first, because once I get this quarter in my hand, I don’t give it back.”
…I’d have responded to the dares to get up on stage and sing.
“Come on AD! Show ’em how it’s done! They need a good front man!”
“I can’t sing.”
“Bullshit! I’ve heard you sing to your kid. Get up there and sing Drift Away!”
“You’re right! Somebody -hic! -hold my beer.”
…I’d have donned my beer goggles, and told Miss Itchy Hooters to bring it on. And invited her to bring a friend.
…I’d have been the last person awake, still exhorting the band at 4:00 am with repeated shouts of “Freebird! See how bad you can fuck that one up, bitches!”
Either that, or I’d have woken up naked in the bathtub, with absolutely no recollection of how I got there. That has happened before.
When I found myself firing up my laptop and checking my e-mail while the other partiers were doing shots at the table next to me, that’s when I realized I had fallen headlong into Old Fart territory.
And I’m not even into my forties yet. Damn.
So, rather than take my buddy’s invitation to crash on the first horizontal surface that struck my fancy, I fully embraced my newfound pussyhood and drank Coke for an hour (sans Crown Royal), and went in search of a hotel room.
I was in bed by ten-thirty. Of course, then I stayed up for the next five hours talking with my girlfriend, being sickeningly mushy and lovey-dovey.
“You know dude, the usual…drank some brews, listened to a good band, hooked up with a honey, got my crunk on till 4:00 am…”
Translation: “I am so whipped all I wanted to do was ditch the party so I could go find some place quiet to talk with my girlfriend until 4:00 am…”