Suburbia - Casual Party

Due to the environment in which i live, (the suburbs), i am sometimes forced to leave my house and interact with other adult types in a social aspect, i managed to avoid if for the first few years but then the boyos got older and started doing shit and sometimes this shit leads to parties and since i feel it my responsibility and shit to make sure they're happy i subject myself to these functions, functions were disparate people are thrown together and forced to converse, of course some people know each other better than others and in this my theory of the suburbs being nothing more than a (sorta) grown up version of high school only with balder heads, saggier boobs, beer guts, and flabby asses comes to fruition...

Of course if you've ever been subjected to one of these functions you'll find that most of the gibbering is about jobs and careers and the most vanilla of hobbies.  It's one thing to be into gardening and Oprah's book club and quite another to be into various strains of ganja and say, French Existentialism, one could say they are that not far away from each other, both involve cultivation of plants and reading but let's face it among the polite types of the burbs it's a fucking galaxy apart, hell i might as well announce a penchant for ass-less leather chaps and ball gags and ask the hostess to pass the spinach dip... let us also not forget the various houses of worship that crop up in conversation and this strange unspoken knowledge that i'm supposed to know what they fuck they're talking about, luckily i usually get stoned before i show up and make sure to suck down a beer right quick to take the edge off, granted i can talk to anyone, been doing it for years, but the older i get the less i feel like, shall we say, putting forth the effort and would much rather eat my slice of pizza and gobble baked goods while the munchies are still raging...

Oddly enough i've noticed it's perfectly okay to get tanked at these functions but as i've wound down my drinking the past few years and wound up my grass intake i tend to wander from place to place and sort of drift on the periphery of conversations, not that i'm trying to strike up a conversation about French Existentialism because i'm not, i'm mainly just looking to pass the time until i can round up said boyo or boyos and get the fuck outta Dodge.  There is also the drawback of having no career or ever wanting one, my healthy contempt for organized religion and my love of all things perverse, criminal, and for lack of a better word, artistic... yes i sound like a perfect fucking wanker but at least i'm not reminiscing about the glory days of the big game and the tackles and touchdowns that went with it (who knows someday maybe i'll write some posts about the glory days of hot shit basketball player kono), it's damn near the same problem i had in high school it's just none of my old goofy wasted friends are there to get even more wasted with and attempt to pick up girls, seeing that i'm pretty sure it's frowned upon to hit on the housewives while their hubbies are in the same room, then again i could be completely wrong about that...

And so i plan my strategy, i note the exit doors, i avoid the talk of television shows (i don't really watch any) and manicured lawns, of home improvement projects or which country supplies the best Au Pairs (cuz nannies are so passe these days), i was dumb enough to open my mouth once and say that if i got one of those i'd have to get a fucking job, the joke was like that lead zeppelin, blank stares and a stray giggle and then the resumption of affairs at hand while i slunk off to the periphery of some other room, Jean-Paul's No Exit burning brightly on the marquee of my mind, at least this hell is quite clean and with fine pastries and the soft type toilet paper that sticks to my hairy ass, and like most good soccer moms i've learned to look for the imperfections, for the dust in the corners or stain on the floor, not to sit in the pow-wow of the PTA junta and snicker but in order to make me feel better about my lack of domestic prowess... what's a dope-smoking, (occasional) pill popping, Guinness drinking heathen to do? i watch the clock and have a cocktail weeny...

So i stand and watch the upstanding citizens of my community laugh and converse, i nod and arch my eyebrows and smile as if i understand the language, i dream of slipping out the back and heading to the Clubhouse to pull tubes and drink a few beers, to talk the futbol or hockey or French Existentialism or ganja, to debate the merits of records or writers of a decidedly non-mainstream bent, but alas i cannot, i must stay until that first guest leaves, as if there is some unwritten rule that prevents me from making for the door before anyone else, but i bide my time and tip off the boyo(s) and do my best Davey Copperfield when the time comes, a quiet thank you to the host and hostess, "yes a great time, the boyos loved it" and then out towards the car in hopes of dodging any more talk of play dates or "date nights", i can only handle the same conversation so many times, i prefer the quiet nights of my cold room, the company of the page and the typer and the record player, the creak of the steps, the bubble of the bong, these days it's a party of one, i like it more that way,,,