eat, drink, make merry

I am a man who likes to throw parties. Birthdays, holidays, sunny Saturdays with nothing else going on, give me a half a reason and I'll have two dozen people and three dozen hotdogs at my house. You say "Flag Day" and I hear "fill the keg and buy some ice".

See, I like being able to throw down with my nearest and dearest, drinking beer and eating grilled meat or pot luck dishes and cranking up the music 'til we can hear it out in the side yard. I also like being able to wrap up in my own quilt with no worries about driving at the end of the night, no stress about when to leave and whether to sleep over or hold back on the booze. I'd rather clean my bathroom and put Christmas lights up outside than worry about getting from point A(lcohol) to point B(ed).

Plus, throwing a party means I get to make a flier. You can keep your fancy, folded invitations - my aesthetics are based in the punk scene, and my announcements reflect that. Ripped or copied pictures from Horror Comics and old encyclopedias. Spray painted, stenciled lettering and bright images. Lay outs based on Communist propaganda posters or wanted posters. For this year's 5th Annual Parade Potluck Party, I broke out the construction paper and glue. I can't draw Santa, but I can sure cut him out.

The parade parties are my favorite every year because of where I live, right on the route. The Springtime event happens in the morning, and everyone is drunk and sleepy by early afternoon, napping and picking at leftovers. But the Winterfest Parade kicks off at dark, and we wind up carousing into the night, building bonfires and singing songs and, sometimes, hooking up with folks you didn't even expect to see.

Anyway, if you are out at the parade this year and see me and my crew, stop by and say howdy. Bring a dish and a bottle and join us. If you're an asshole, we'll toss you off the wall. But if you're good natured and up for some fun, well, maybe you'll make a few friend or two. Either way, it''s going to be a hell of a party.

ch-ch-ch-changes

Well, there we are. Some of us, anyway. The parade party is such an in-and-out affair. The biggest difference between this year and, say, 2005 (my first spring in the Fives) is all the babies. Look at all those young'uns. I remember going to big shindigs with my family as a wee one, with the grownups disappearing in small groups and coming back smelling funny, meeting other kids that I still run into (mostly, admittedly, in bars and at shows). So I look at my friends' babies and think, here we go again.

As for the parade itself, we cheered nearly every float, beauty queen, marching band, business, politician, community group, poop-scooping prisoner, and boiled peanut vendor who went past my house. Now, there was pretty much dead silence as the Sons of Confederate Vets went slouching past us, with one or two calls of "out with the old south, in with the new!" and "you're standing in the way of progress!" I know, some folks just love the play the martyr, and I'm as proud a southerner as you'll find, but damn. Give up all that crap and get up here with the rest of us. I promise, it's a lot more fun. But I suspect they're not doing as well these days - it looks like they couldn't afford to bring in that one Black Confederate that hires out to groups like that so they can claim not to be racists.

Days of prep, hours of party. Still well worth it.

the mildew state

In getting ready for the parade party this weekend, I decided to take a stab at bleaching my bathroom ceiling. See, I don't have a window or fan, and a year or two ago my hot water tap ran hard for a week and a half. That resulted in a garden of mold spots looking down on the room.

Normally, I don't even think about the problem. It's just one more part of living at the Fives. But friends have described it as "disturbing", "disgusting", and "scary like in that movie Dark Water, where you expect the little blobs to form into one giant blob and kill you." That's not exactly what I want to show off when half of town intends to be in and out of my place, so I rallied the troops and went into battle.

My weapons were two mops and a couple inches of bleach and hot water in the bottom of the tub. My armor, a torn up shirt wrapped around my head so that I looked something like a spice-less Fremen and a pair of bright yellow household gloves.

Ever try to apply bleach to a 9 foot ceiling with a sponge mop while, at the same time, keeping it from splashing into your eyes or running down your arms? The war was lost before I even attacked. I need a pressure washer and a tall person willing to scrub. Or maybe I could just tie one of those magic eraser sponges to the end of a bamboo pole and go with that.

On the up side, though, the rest of my bathroom is now so clean that you could actually reach behind the toilet with no fear of grabbing something that would make you puke. Now all I have to do to get ready for the parade is clean the rest of my house, make a spray paint banner, get a keg, boil some peanuts, and remember not to party too hard the night before.