The Cerebral Catalyst

This week I present a review of a house party I was at in Oakland last Saturday (Feb 26). A party which I did not want to attend; we'd planned a bar tour of Bloomfield of all things (I mean I'd never been drinking out there, so why not?), and it looked promising but alas I was vetoed by my two compatriots (one of them being that Marchetti guy who once claimed to be editor of this magazine), and off we went. Now, as mentioned probably over a year ago in this column, I have a bad knee. But I do enjoy a good walk, so I had to suck it up a bit. Needless to say, I complained the whole forty-five minute walk and Susied it over any ice patch I saw.

Upon entering the apartment complex I noticed a familiar smell. Beer. Glorious cheap beer. As was to be expected, there was a lot of sausage around; the place was packed to the gills with it. Maybe six or seven girls, probably more, but as I remember it most of them were taken. Wasn't really a factor for me, I've been shy as hell of late and it takes about five or six of them to get me to talk to anyone. The keg was of something horrendous like Beast Ice or Natty Light, something I probably hadn't touched since I turned twenty-one, but beggars and drunkards can't be choosers. The conflict was introduced early on, and your burly bon vivant met the challenge head on. There was a giant there, I should mention this, a giant who was palming lesser partygoers and coercing them into performing keg-stands. Well, he couldn't get his hands around my stomach to rip it out and enjoy the bilious fluid inside, so he challenged me to do a keg-stand; something I hadn't done in about six years. What can I say? I've got class and I'm not a 120 lb. freshman. I wanted to get out of it, I did, but after the first person went, I was next. I had to get in there. While I was up in the air, I kept thinking they were going to drop me, or my back was going to give out again. Neither happened, probably to my unconscious disbelief. I could have spent weeks laid out in traction on Demerol dreaming of pixies and post-apocalyptic futures in which women find me sexually attractive. (Trust me it's an issue). It was exhilarating, and it almost made me want to grab up one of the wenches and a leg of lamb and down a flagon of mead, but I didn't.

Back to the women at this party. I'm one of those sappy types who believe in fate. I enjoyed that movie Loser with Jason Biggs, I'll admit that. I felt a bit out of place at this party, but not for the obvious reason that I was 26 and 5-7 years older than most at that party. No, I felt like an outcast, kind of like I did in high school. Hence the Loser reference. There was this tall girl with one of those cherubic-like faces and I swear to God she was six feet tall. These are big plusses in my book. I thought she kept staring at me; I mean I read in some guide on how to pick up chicks that if they look your way twice it's a go, right. I didn't go for anything, until (here it gets interesting) the giant decided to brain someone with a metal Rolling Rock sign. This bears explaining. At some period this giant took this Rolling Rock sign off the wall and began smacking himself in the head with it, Bushwackers' style. Then he took turns braining his friends with it. I had just come in from the outside balcony (which I'll add was covered with ice and tempted a 25 foot drop to Tractionville or a broken-necked grisly death) where I was having a smoke and I walked in on this spectacle.

Well, he tried to hit me with it, and I'll admit it: I flinched. But you have to understand that the reports from the cranial blows were ricocheting off of nearby houses. So eventually, and I'm hoping it was the one guy who looked like Bret Favre, one of them got hurt pretty bad. How bad? I don't know, but he was in the bathroom bleeding. While these two girls were watching the men probably wrap a whole roll of toilet paper around Bret's wound in the bathroom (the tall cherubic one, and another one who factors in later) I regaled them with a tale (a true one) of how I was once at a party where I saw this guy do a header over a balcony to save a goddamn ping pong ball for beer pong and dislocated his shoulder. I didn't get far with it. They were too busy wanting to find out how old Bret was doing. Go figure. Both of these vixens had these real pointy shoes on, so I said to the one with the cherubic girl that I liked her shoes. Adding something like "I'm not gay of course". And it worked, like it always does.

Metrosexuality is a big thing. Not with me, but with some it is. Me personally, I grew up near the goddamn woods and I had buffalo in my backyard, so I'm no dandy. But I do like to complain and be picky; I'm just not a fop about it. So yeah, cha-ching, I'm talking to this girl. Or sort of because the third sentence out of her mouth is something about her boyfriend. That was the death knell for me, so I made up some lie about having to check on my friend and I got out of there. (The giant was gone by then, probably picked up on murder charges. Ho Ho Ho, he was a jolly giant indeed.) I should also add here that before all of this, continuity be damned, that I ended up talking to some girl smoking outside about gambling. Turns out that weekend my dad was playing the doggies up in Wheeling, so I had material. Just when I'd at least gotten somewhere (I think her mom was in Gambler's Anonymous or something) she had to go home. She was a plant, really. Just planted there to say, "Yeah I'm hot, and you can talk to me but only because I'm on the way out." Eye candy. Thanks for nothing, God. How's about more snow while you're at it? Come to think of it, ice is better. Send ice instead.

I was drinking heavily at this party, and ended up having some if not bizarre conversations, conversations which weren't of usual Captain Fun fare. I talked to some kid who wanted to be a cop about his life goals. Turns out he wanted to do more than bash in people's heads, hassle black people, and grow a mustache. I talked to some faggy looking dude about running. I also spent a while talking to the party's host (I think) about Jazz guitar. I have to say he seemed like a really generous dude and laid back. I also think that a member of our party, who I guess I won't name, was being sexually propositioned by his girlfriend (who was kind of hot, maybe she had a zit or two but it seemed strategically placed, like a Jackson Pollock). And the poor guy was oblivious to it. Come to think of it, I was kind of like an accessory to the whole thing. And all of this, the failure with the women, the no-smoking policy of the party, and most importantly, the booze led up to the weirdest coincidence I've seen in years: I ran into Francisco, this guy who I almost roomed with back in 2000.

Francisco was (I believe) a Puerto Rican male in Pitt's Dental program. He had ambitions of graduating in three years; I think Pitt's Dental program takes five, but why not? I answered his ad, his place was on Meyran; I think it was pretty large and accommodating, no complaints here. I showed up drunk to see the place with a cigarette hanging out of my mouth. This didn't bother him; he was a smoker too. We got along well, and as far as I know the deal was sealed. A week later I showed up drunk and decided to coax him out for a few beers. He was only twenty, but he could get into a few bars. We went to Bootlegger's, Denny's, and I think eventually ended up at CMU in some kid's dorm room smoking. As for academics, Francisco had a midterm the next day, which I guess he blew off because the next day I got an email that said something along the lines of he wanted to focus more on academics and that if I was to move in, he wouldn't get the chance to do that. I'm guessing now, it's been four years, understand.

So he's at this party with this girl Lucy. Francisco as I remember was not flamingly gay, but now he was. He was known now as "Cisco," and every other one of his fingernails was painted black. He had a muscular frame and there was a huskiness to his voice; he sounded as if he was trying to play the role of "macho gay," a gay man who wasn't afraid to throw down. Either that or he didn't speak gay that well. And he strutted himself around like a peacock, tried to light a cigarette and was kicked outside. One of our hosts was deathly allergic to smoking he said, and banished Francisco. You have to understand what was going on this time. After the guy who was brained with the Rolling Rock sign went to the hospital, all these weirdoes and hard types came creeping in. I forgot that about house parties in Oakland; they're pretty much open to anyone. It was around three in the morning now. So I went outside, not because I wanted to reminisce with Francisco, but I wanted to see if he remembered me. He didn't of course, and he spent the whole time talking about the Chapelle show or the gay KKK or something or other. The girl who was with him, Lucy, was some sort of rocker chick, sort of looked like that girl from Slums of Beverly Hills, if anyone's seen that one. I don't know what vibe I got from her, bullshit maybe? They both seemed to have a big act on. She, as a hip rocker chick who was unapproachable talking about blowing coke at the Guns n' Roses concert and getting black eyes (I had a clever one for that. I said, "How do you feel about another one?" My humor is lost on most people). And Francisco who'd come out of the closet like a rocket and was not a dentist, had a big act on too. I mean he had to parade around the fact he was gay. Who cares? I've seen gay people before, they look like you and me for the most part. (Don't send hate mail. I can't be P.C.)

By four o' clock in the morning, the place reeked of vomit, cheese, greasy hamburgers, and even of all things Taco Bell. We were kindly ushered out, and me and my compatriots made our way to Lucy and Cisco's apartment, although they spent most of the time trying to escape. Me, I was still thirsty and I have this thing were I get caught up with weirdoes when I'm drunk, the freaks come out at night, etc... So old Francisco, old sport, he decides to tip over a mailbox. Cheeky. Now don't get me wrong, I get into mischief, my name is Captain Fun. But I stopped doing shit like that in ninth grade. Give me sanctioned mischief, like slobbering drunkenly over girls or playing eighteen tracks on the jukebox. That's where I'm at now. At their place, we had a few more beers and played "catchphrase", which I'm told is all the rage now. Whatever. I had a few Pabst's and watched people dance to selections from Hedwig and the Angry Inch and clothing fly across the room. After this outburst, we decided to split, but not without some haul. Someone managed to grab a Tony's pizza from their fridge, and took it along with the Hot Pockets they stole from the party.

We walked home down the gully (or up the gully?) near the railroad tracks in South Oakland and made our way to C.J.'s place. We ate the pizza there and talked about how deranged the whole thing was. Which was fine until I confessed my thoughts about the whole thing. I figured we were going to have some sort of orgy or they would have had all these drugs. I could go into more graphic detail with my fantasy of that night, but why bother? The crux of it was that someone would have had to take it for the team. Truth be told, it would have been more a gangbang than an orgy, but there was gay Francisco and I wasn't the one who danced with him, I'll leave it at that.

Ratings (0-10):

Girls/Women: 5. Slim Pickens.

Food: 2. Nonexistent, ate cardboard pizza.

Booze: 6. Cheep beer does the trick, only three dollar cover.

Adventure: 8. Walked from Bloomfield, went to hipster's house, walked back through gully.

Sex : 0. There was no sex.

Overall: 4. Paltry. I could have just went to Village Pizza for most of it. Maybe paltry was too harsh. Don't make me recount my party history. I hosted better on the South Side.

Visit Captain Fun's Swarthy Archives.

______________________________________
Joseph L. Conty, Jr. wears a buffalo hide tunic and sips peach nectar from a chalice. Known to drink multiple flagons of mead for breakfast and chew bear fat for gum, he would like to remind the public that anyone else who dares to use the moniker of "Captain Fun" isn't fit to carry his merkin.

Posted 03.07.05

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