You Can Party Now: It's My 700TH BLOGDAY!

I met an old college friend (this phrase implies that I have a bunch of those, just, you know, sort of hanging around. I don't. I have, um, two.) for coffee in Providence on Christmas weekend. A blizzard was beginning, but he still took time out of his day to drive to Starbucks on Thayer Street and meet me. And, after we parted, I still took time to purchase a wool blazer from the 1940s at a second-hand boutique. Because I'm nucking futs.

Anyway, while we made each other laugh like no time at all had passed, assuredly to the annoyance of the other Starbucks patrons, he asked me about my blog, and, because I am an insufferable megalomaniac, I told him about it. He suggested that, one day, I should invite all of my readers (this phrase implies that I have a bunch of those, you know, sort of hanging around) to some random place for a party.

"But, I don't throw parties," I said.

"That would make it even funnier," he expertly countered. Well, he had a point there.

I was uncommonly silent.

"Can you imagine the bizarre mix of people a My Masonic Apron party would attract? People tossing back and forth your gay catchphrases and there would inevitably be this awkward moment where they'd all look at you with the realization that this... awesome schmuck is the reason they're all together? Oh my God, it would be so beautiful."

"Right," I said, "like the Last Supper, only with pork and more clothes. I would insist on fancy dress, and bacon-wrapped scallops."

This happy little reunion got me thinking about what exactly a My Masonic Apron party might look like. As I've said, I'm not so much into the whole party thing. It's distinctly possible that my stodgy side would come out at such an event, causing it to look something like this:

You might think that nobody could possibly have fun at a party like this, but you can tell that they've just come off a totally raucous game of Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Negro-Manservant, and that the tea was damn good.

It should come, I would hope, as no surprise to you that I am incapable of executing anything as self-indulgent as a party for my blog. Believe me when I say that I am perfectly happy celebrating events like my 700th Blogday as I celebrate a lot of small victories and notables: by myself. My wife, in fact, is out tutoring as I bang out this little post, recognizing my little accomplishment, and the fact that there are no random faces around me is really okay. It's kind of how I want it. It's kind of how I run my life. I'm even okay with the fact that there is no food in front of me that is wrapped in bacon.

700 posts. Since March 13th, 2009. Seven. Hundred.

Some sloppy ol' assbubble should be opening up a bottle of champagne somewhere, don't you think?

The plain fact of the matter is: I don't like parties. And I like people about as much. That's not to say I wouldn't like you if I met you-- don't get me wrong-- I just love being at a distance. It's so... safe. That's, after all, what we love about our little internet, isn't it? The safety. The avatarness of it all. The fact that we don't have to answer to anybody except our own demons and, if life gets too hot, there's always that little "x" in the upper righthand corner of the monitor.

x

That's not to say I wouldn't wholeheartedly support your hosting a My Masonic Apron Appreciation Party in my honor. Do it. I encourage this. I endorse it. Have your guests dress up as their favorite G&S character. You be the Duke of Plaza Toro. My reader in Waterbury, CT can be Patience. Tampa can be The Fairy Queen from Iolanthe. Take pictures. Put them up on The Book of Face.

You bring the bacon.

Tell me all about it.

And I'll send content, sincere, half-frown smiles from home.

Are You Ready For Some Football?

Mrs. Apron and I went to a party on Saturday night.

Didn't you feel the seismic activity?

It was a relatively small gathering for one of Mrs. Apron's friends who is turning 30 today. 30 is generally a big-deal age, though I don't quite remember it being so for me. Maybe it was. I don't remember. I'm 30. I can't remember what this blog is about or why I'm wearing socks.

Anyway, I get pretty jumped up when I have to go to a party. As a non-drinker and non-socializer, putting me in a room where people are drinking and socializing is pretty much all the ingredients you need for a full-on disaster.

"What if I throw up on somebody?" I asked me wife earlier in the week.

"You'll say, 'excuse me,'" she suggested demurely.

Mrs. Apron likes to tell me that I flourish at parties-- quick-witted, polite, affable are words she has used to describe me -- but, in party situations, I view myself more like somebody's whiny, Jewish grandfather trying to seduce the editor of Vogue. The painful awkwardness is enough to actually hurt people. I'm talking like bloodshed. And nobody wants bloodshed, (or vomit, for that matter) at parties. Unless they're Roman parties. They loved blood and vomit at their parties. Oh, and lots and lots of jeet.

Fortunately, my jangled nerves about going to a party were at least calmed in one respect because the party's host deemed that this would be a "Mad Men"-inspired party, and encouraged guests to dress up. Don't you know that my wife made her dress? Of course she did. Don't you know that I didn't have to make/buy anything special? Of course I didn't. I had my pick of vintage 1950's-1960's blazers, skinny ties, fedoras, and prescription-ready chunky eyeglasses from which to choose.

And choose I did.

However, awkwardness ensued anyway, even though Mrs. Apron and I were the best-dressed couple there, down to her handbag and my Florsheims.

"Who's feeling like they have more upper body strength than me?" asked a rather broad-shouldered, Israeli female partygoer. My wife turned to me. I wanted to disappear between the floorboards.

The chick was trying to uncork a bottle of "Menage a Trois" (a white wine made from three different grapes-- how clever) and was not having much success. I sat and watched her struggle for a little while, content to not participate in something which I knew nothing about, but she turned and looked at me with a look that said, "Why aren't you coming over here to help me, you asshole?" and so I did.

I don't need to tell you that there are lots of things in this world I've never done. Like have sex in a minivan. Like ride a camel. Like watch an entire episode of "Maude." I'm sure you won't be the least bit surprised when I tell you that I've never uncorked a bottle of wine. And yet, there I was, on Saturday night, in my skinny tie, ardently working to uncork a bottle of wine.

And I did it. And I was praised. And I was sweating through my wool sportcoat.

Awkwardness continued when my wife and I sat down to chat with another couple to the left of us, when three bovine, middle-aged women seated on the sofa in front of us started making faces at us-- actually scowling at us. One of the women was a midget, her feet dangling in front of the sofa, not touching the floor, and I thought perhaps she wanted a footstool or something. I then realized that my wife and I were blocking their view of the television, which had on the Colts and Jets, who playing football or something.

"We're trying to watch the game," one of the middle-aged sows mouthed at me, gesticulating impishly towards the television.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I said, scooting over to the side, "I forget that some people actually like football."

What I should have said was, "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought people were here to celebrate this young lady's 30th birthday, not watch a fucking football game. If that's so important to you, why didn't you just stay home with your miserable, bubble-butt, dump-ass, midget self?"

I'm no etiquette pro, especially when it comes to parties. I routinely make off-color, inappropriate remarks, and I am loathe to eat in front of people (I had three slices of pepper, six grapes, five crackers, a bit of cake, and two mysterious, Russian cured beef slivers the entire night) but I like to think that I have enough knowledge of what is appropriate to know that you don't go to a person's birthday party to watch fucking television.

Even someone who's never uncorked a bottle of wine knows that.