My life toggles between Boston and LA, as I fly back and forth every two months or so. It is astounding how different the two cities are. Boston is an old historical city with a lot of character and old architecture, is an intellectual mecca of sorts, housing over 50 universities, is full of ugly people and belligerent drunks, honking and evergreens, and suffers through a 7-month absolutely frigid period annually. LA is a relatively new city with virtually no character or history, places zero value on intellect, is full of beautiful tan peaceful cokeheads, there's no honking, lots of palm trees, and it's always 75 and sunny.
The end result is that I went home to Boston last week without a jacket. I spent most of the week in a hoodie, but then the hoodie became covered in cat hair (my Dad recently married a woman and three evil cats) and every time I put it on it would ruin my life. I'm an allergic Jewish man. So I was in short sleeves most of the week. Chilly.
Then on Thursday I stumbled into a 15-person Thanksgiving dinner horribly hungover, exhausted, allergic, and in the same clothes I had worn the night before since my bags were in an apartment I couldn't get into. I don't want to continue writing about this. In fact, I never want to talk about this Thanksgiving dinner again.
What I will talk about is my high school 5-year reunion that happened on Friday. As the former class president, I had the privilege of organizing the hideous event. So while my friends pregamed together, I was driven to the club where the reunion would be by my mother and her inexplicably hot inexplicably young friend,* I put some balloons around (balloons are a phenomenal invention) and talked with the club owner and bouncer about the details of the night to come. It was calm. Then, chaos ensued. Some highlights:
8:00- The reunion officially begins. The crowd consists of myself, a 75-year-old coat-check lady, and Tony, the large bouncer.
8:01- The single most random member of the Newton North Class of 2000 shows up, sporting sunglasses and upsettingly long hair. He and I stare into each other's eyes, both horrified with the awkwardness of the situation. He has a "I can't believe I showed up exactly at 8" look on his face, and then leaves to "go to the ATM," and I can breath again.
8:10-8:30- Joined now by the two other organizers, we stand in the doorway as 50 or so people trickle in, most of whom I haven't seen since high school. Everyone's drunk, and I'm sober. I ask a lot of questions about what people are up to, and listen to none of the answers.
8:30-9:00- The flow increases. Imagine running into a random ex-classmate on the street who you don't really want to talk to, but you have to, and it's a really awkward 40 seconds, and then it's over. Now imagine that that happens 150 times in a row in rapid fire succession, each with a different ex-classmate.
9:00- I make the decision to become "liquored up." I start buying jack 'n cokes and spiking them with old whiskey I had poured in a flask I stole from my mother's liquor cabinet.
9:00-9:30- Suddenly, standing at the door is extremely fun. The rush continues and I begin hugging incoming people, one of whom I've always insisted is a 62-year-old overweight Jewish woman trapped in the body of a 23-year-old overweight Jewish man.
9:30- We've hit 300 people, well over the estimate. I'm thrilled with everything.
9:40- A friend shows up with his 20-year-old girlfriend, who is being turned away at the door due to her age. My friend gives me a pleading glance for help. I pull Tony the bouncer aside and tell him this guy's a friend of mine and ask if he'll let the girl in. He complies. The first and last strings I'll ever pull at a dance club. Clubs tend to find me remarkably unimportant.
9:45- The flow begins to tail off, and I head in to the party.
10:30- The doors officially open to the public. The reunion itself is over, but everyone stays.
10:30-11:00- Apparently "the public" includes every Newton kid from the age of 15-21.
11:00- I run into my 18-year-old sister. It would have been uncomfortable but I was about 31 drinks deep.
11:05- I run into my 16-year-old sister, who's dressed like a whore. Not ideal.
11:05-1:30- This whole chunk of time is a dark cloud of haze in my memory. There are flashes of things I remember, and I'm not printing them, because there's a small chance the 12-year-old I tutor has googled me at some point and found this blog.
1:30- While making out with someone at the bar, I glance up at the crowd and make eye contact with my teenage sister, who's dancing on a table. Somewhere, a fairy dies.
1:45- I get a call from a girl in which I'm called an asshole. Drama ensues. I will not explain further.
And there you have it. My high school reunion. And another Thanksgiving out the door.
*My mother having a hot, young friend is the most random and surprising event since my mother picked me up at the airport two months ago alongside a man everyone knew she had been dating for over two weeks-- only no one had bothered to inform me about the matter, so I had no idea who he was, and I spent the drive furiously text-messaging my sisters from the back seat trying to figure out what the hell was going on.
3 comments:
I don't know you, so I feel okay about asking -- which sister was dancing on the table, the 16 year old or the 18 year old?
Funny story, man.
It was the 18-year-old. I would be happy about that, except I saw the 16-year-old making out with someone later in the night and I've been dealing with nightmares since.
Tough night...tough night.
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