It's been a week of 21st birthdays, and let me just say now that one of them ended with nudity (not mine) and the other one ended with an irate Greek woman poking a bar manager in the sternum and calling him "little man".
I'm not entirely sure I have the physical capacity to become so inebriated that I can think to myself "Now would be a good time to divest myself of my clothing, and go sit on the couch where the birthday girl is sleeping". Never have I had to demand of someone "why didn't you stop me?!", nor have I ever discovered myself to be dancing to some phat beat without the intent of irony.
The story of Miranda's 21st began with a major aerial journey, included a famous Friday's Birthday Blow Job and some major rocking out to Wicked and My Chemical Romance, and was consummated with an unsuspected couch visitor sans vêtement.
Jaci's birthday, however, is a tale of truly bad manners taking a turn for the worse.
I'm not certain where her birthday began, but I do know it involved a herpes-penis (or "spotted dick" as Mrs. Gianaris so aptly named it) cake. It eventually led to Two-Nine. You know, that little red door next to Potter's Place? We had some drinks, my first one was more Jack than Coke and utterly nauseating. My second one was a Miller Chill, which didn't taste as bad as beer normally does. This was, perhaps, helped along by the appalling Jack:Coke ratio. A third (or fourth, for some) round was bought as the cry of "last call!" resounded. A rude bartender walked out to the patio and yelled "Everyone get out!", which we assumed was sort of a joke. A few minutes later a nice bartender explained that they were, in fact, closing, but normally it wasn't this early and we technically had until 12:45 to leave. Mrs. Peterson said we'd be gone in 10 minutes, just long enough to finish our drinks. Less than 30 seconds later, a small man wearing an earpiece stepped onto the patio and yelled "Everyone get out now! The bar is closed!"
While it ended on an amusing note (Mrs. Gianaris poking the guy and calling him a little man), I'm honestly appalled at Little Man's behavior. We were not drunk, for the most part. We were definitely not loud, or obnoxious. I don't even think any of us were laughing at any volume when he came out to yell. If he had asked us nicely, said the bar was closing early tonight and if we could hurry up and leave, it would have been disappointing, but nothing major. But to be yelled at like that, especially after dropping a couple hundred dollars and being completely tolerable, if not model guests, most especially when we hadn't even had time to start, let alone finish, the final round of drinks, was uncalled for.
In addition to the inability to get wasted, I also feel I'm incapable of such petty jag-offishness. Despite the fact that unless you're getting paid as an ass-kicker you're getting paid to be nice, I've found that people tend to respond better and adhere to your wishes if you treat them with respect. You greet them politely, apologize, explain what is happening, and then kindly ask for them to comply. They will be much more inclined to do your bidding, out of respect for you. Little Man has a lot to learn, it seems.
Of all the various tones of voice a person can take with me, condescension is my least favorite. I can handle most other insulting ways of speaking, but an assumption of intellectual superiority mixed with pity has a special way of grating on my nerves. I can smile and be polite in the face of anger, annoyance, frustration, and even outright derision, but the instant the rate of speech slows down, the pitch gets sing-songy, and the eyebrows raise incredulously, my patience drops to zero.
There must be some unidentified gamma ray produced by The Spotlight that enlarges the ego and shrinks the empathy gland of those caught in it. Actors are more famous for their superiority complex than they are for their skill at their craft, directors even more so. Radio personalities are no different, notorious for their "my way or the highway" attitudes. While it's commendable to beat the odds and become one of The Favored Few in any industry that requires creative talent and skill, it strikes me as odd that those who succeed also claim intellectual dominance over those less marketable. Correct me if I'm wrong, but it's the peons and "gofers" who make The Spotlight possible. It seems like The Favored Few should be nicer if they want their precious Spotlight to keep shining.
Of course, as a peon myself, my loyalties are somewhat Viva la Revolution in nature.
It's too bad reverse psychology doesn't work backwards. Which, I suppose, would just make it regular-type psychology, but how is it fair that it's only a one-way process? There's nothing more I would like to do right now than intentionally screw up this Jackhammers game since Il Dusche seems to expect me to, but, as satisfying as that may be, it won't endear me to The Powers That Be. And they have the Pen that writes the Paycheck, an no one messes with the payroll department. Except embezzlers, I guess.
It's beginning to approach that time in my life where there will be a wedding every other weekend; ones that I'm invited to, at least, as opposed to me and my buddy Vince Vaughn looking for hijinks and hookups. It seems that after people graduate college, that nagging question of "now what?" often gets answered with "weddings!". With the recent engagement of our youngest cousin, Linda and I spent some time on our coffee date today discussing things like divorce, preparedness for marriage, and dress code.
You know, the usual topics associated with the impending marriage of a relative.
This being said, I had my first legitimate "wedding plan" thought last night as I contemplated Kate's engagement. The train of thought went something like this:
-Hooray! An excuse to dress up!
-I can buy a new dress!
-Why are we expected to dress up for this sort of thing?
-What if people hate dressing up?
-For my wedding, I'm going to explicitly state that if a) this is an exciting opportunity for you to get dolled up and strut your stuff, by all means, knock yourself out, but b) if you're lamenting having to spend money on a new outfit, hate wearing collared shirts or uncomfortable shoes, then by all means, go nuts and wear pajamas and bunny slippers.
-Instead of having his/hers sides of the church, I could have dressed up/dressed down sides!
At this point, I drifted off to sleep and dreamed about an old friend getting blown up in a pick-up truck, but I think it stands as a milestone that I actually gave a serious moment's thought to an albeit hypothetical, but altogether real future wedding. It's a stereotype that all girls have their weddings planned out by the age of 16, but I've somehow managed to avoid the stereotypical. When I was younger I used to think that I never wanted to get married, because if it goes wrong it's really, really bad. However, I've warmed up to the idea of pretty dresses, fancy shoes, and obligatory spa days. I'll just need to be really, really, really sure first.
10 days until Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows!
12 Tage bis Miranda kommt nach Hause!
13 days until Miranda is 21!
14 days until Jaci is 21!
15 days until Warped Tour!
36 days until GenCon!
61 days until college: the final chapter!
I had one of those frightening revelations yesterday, Independence Day, that just about 7 months from now I'll be facing Real Life. Life has always had a definitive plan, a direct path, and come March 2008 the path abruptly sprouts forks. I'm more of a spoon person, myself, so this fork notion doesn't exactly appeal to me. I suppose I could go to graduate school, but honestly, at this point it'd just be beating a dead horse. Plus I hear loans are a bitch.
Despite three completed years of higher education with the goal of obtaining a piece of paper stating the contrary, I'm not very familiar with the realm of communication. Communication, much like my concept of love, is this sort of grand, romantic ideal that has formed in my head over the years since I've had very few good examples to follow. I'm pretty sure it's the key to a successful relationship, and I've even had imaginary communicative sessions in my head where I, Caribou coffee cup in hand, eloquently deliver my thoughts with poise, and my conversational counterpart is equally as clear and composed as he sips a Chai tea latte. In this imaginary communicative session I listen with interest, making appropriate facial expressions and responsive noises, and I always know the right follow-up questions to ask. Of course, since this is imaginary, that stands to reason, since I was inventing the other side of the conversation myself.
My point? I'm an experiential learner. I need to touch the hot stove to figure out that yes, it is, indeed, hot. So as my life progresses ever closer to those pesky forks, it's becoming incrementally more urgent to actually have a communicative moment or two with certain people. Of course, as with more important things in my life, I'll just put it off until the very last instant, and, because I'm amazing at everything I do, it will go off without a hitch and I'll get an A+. In, uh, life.
What am I going to do without grades to track my progress? I suppose that's what money is for.