A couple of months ago, after a bit of drama, it happened that there was an opening at the San Diego Reader for their Party Crasher position. Basically you get paid to go to random parties and write about them. This sounds like the best job in the world to me, so I sent a couple of samples with an irresistibly whimsical cover letter. In the end, though, they gave the job to some other dude, presumably because they felt my articles were more fit for Harper’s Weekly or The Atlantic.
So the upshot is I’m posting it here. Hope you like it better than they did.
My friend Greg, a Bay Area resident, called Friday night asking whether, were he to purchase $115 worth of booze and snacks, we could have a party at my place. Also, could I pick him and his girlfriend up from the airport? I cancelled plans, picked up the unexpected visitors, and we walked to CVS where our bounty included booze, champagne, pork rinds, a poinsettia, and six Tommy Bahama straw hats. Greg asked the cashier about their return policy, saying they looked like what he needed but might be the wrong size. Buoyed by our successful shopping spree, we marched the cart right into my living room, where it stayed the rest of the night. We celebrated, but the bigger event was Saturday.
Historians agree that the Nut Brown Cup began circa 2007, when a man known as Conor Lastowka misidentified a pitcher of pale ale as a “nut brown,” even though any drunken toddler could tell the beer was yellower than a lemon party. Ridiculed by his friends, Conor boasted with extreme hubris that he could pick beers from a lineup better than anyone, and the Nut Brown Cup was born. Some historians say Conor actually went on to win that first contest but most were too drunk to remember the outcome.
The third Nut Brown Cup came with sloppy joes, due to some masterful crockpottery by co-host Ashley. Overwhelmed by the delicious smells from the kitchen, I lost control and mock-humped Ashley’s husband Adam with a bottle of Pliny. Adam snapped at me for the lewd display and I slunk off, but he later came to apologize, blaming too much coffee. Then I saw him apologize to two others for making snide remarks, again explaining that he was cracked out on the jitter juice.
After dinner Ash brought out numbered cups and scoresheets. Our job was to match the cup to the name of the beer, and, as I understood, finish all the cups. Later I realized I may have been mistaken since I had the only stack of empty cups, and also that I was the only one visibly drunk. After the tasting Ashley announced the winners. Tied for third was yours truly. Second place, Conor. When Doug was announced the winner, he let out a woop and a swear, then stripped and skipped down the street.
An impromptu dance party flared up, and then we put on the hats. Someone started chanting “HATS! HATS! HATS!” while we passed the hats around. Adam brought out more –who knew a man could own so many hats? – and everyone now had a hat. The chanting spun out of control and I had to escape to the hot tub.
Sunday was soaked in bloody maries. Greg returned the hats without so much as a “why do these smell like 12 varieties of craft beer were spilled on them,” and we medicated our hurty heads with coffee. Except Adam, he’s trying to cut back.
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