Last night we Had People Over. This is our generic term for our parties, which can be as small as three people or as large as thirty. My roommate Mary and I both like to throw parties, only it's funny how we can never predict how they're going to turn out. One of our craziest parties was with just six people. Everyone showed up with vodka and, for some reason, cheese (we're near a Whole Foods; the cheese selection is irresistable). At five o'clock people were still smoking and drinking and arguing and I was sure that, at any given moment, people were going to burst into song. Last night's party wasn't as crazy, but we did have the door open (the cats like to hang out in the hallway) and there was a fair amount of smoking on the balcony (though I suspect that drifted into the hallway as well). And because we have the right kind of friends, friends who don't waste time bringing flowers or candy, we had no less than seven bottles of vodka, quite a few bottles of wine, and "an amusing variety of beer" provided by Ollie, who drank most of them, including, I suspect, the Mike's Hard Cranberry Lemonade. And, of course, the usual amount of cheese.
Having people over is wonderful, especially if you live in my apartment building where the neighbors don't complain because they're usually sitting on your couch with a gimlet in their hands. And you can play your own party music, as bizarre as it might seem to others (Ray Charles, George Clinton & Parliament, Dimitri from Paris, Les Sans Culottes, in that order, intermixed with Mary's music, of course, though I put my foot down on Beta Band--too mellow). I wore my trampiest halter top because it's my party and I can tramp out if I want to (and I don't have to go outside).
After taking good care not to be too hungover (see previous entries) I am back on the computer, with apologies to my loyal fanbase of six, who have been lawyerwriter-less for the last week. Sometimes inspiration does not strike. Actually, I'm not sure this is inspiration, but at least I'm back on the horse, so to speak.
. By the way, Les Sans Culottes, if you haven't heard of them, is a fabulous faux-French band by way of Brooklyn. Which means that they are all actually American, but they sing and speak with Inspector Clouseau accents. The music is very late 1960's go-go French mixed with modern rock and techno with lots of harmonies and guaranteed to make you want to shimmy and twist like you're in some Gallic acid-trip version of a Frankie Avalon movie. They really have to be seen to be believed, but luckily, they're playing at Studio Seven on the 16th. Definitely buy tickets and see them--unfortunately I'd be out of town, but otherwise I'd be shimmying with you...