Over the weekend, in a doomed effort to get our minds off all things criminal, Bridgette and I hosted a number of friends and family in a joint celebration of our 30th birthdays this summer. It was a wonderful testament to the power of friendship and watermelon slices.
Now I will tell you about this party. Read it.
Ted served as our party’s sturdy grillmaster. Manning two propane grills with the deft dexterity of a circus performer on meth, all the meat in the viscinity was filtered through him and rendered unto him. From raw slices of bloody red sloppiness to charred husks of gray loveliness, he served as the sun to our universe of birthday shame.
Here is an illustration that Christine made of him. It captures his vitality and triumph with the skill of Michelangelo and Jackson Pollock combined.
At this time I would also like to note the contribution made by our friend Allen (fiancé to Bridgette’s best friend Tami) to our evite invitation. In his late reply, he wrote:
I’m in. Shall I bring a Piñata dressed in an oversized white t-shirt and black do-rag? Maybe Three? Great Way to: 1) Get out Frustration. 2) Send A Message. 3) Potentially get arrested for a Hate Crime.
If only we had read his message in time, the party might have been an unmitigated success, rather than the sullen, bloated exercise in pointlessness and discomfort it proved to be.
As usual, the aftermath of this gathering was marked with remorse and slurred resentments. This is, of course, the way of things in North Minneapolis, where gun ownership is discussed among my neighbors with increased sincerity.
And by the way, the three kids with oversized white t-shirts and black do-rags rode past the house a few times during the party. We forgot to offer them a burger and soda to go with my iPod.