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.

It’s a rare occasion when something you did in high school that you thought was funny back then, actually kind of holds up a dozen years later. Also, it’s a rare occasion that I post on this blog these days, so today is a special day because you get both.

So I was to be Valedictorian of the class – no big deal – but it was a few days before graduation and I hadn’t prepared a speech. Instead of actually trying to come up with something meaningful to say, I dicked around and wrote a few “pretend” Valedictorian speeches to pass around to my friends. I came across them again when I was digging through my old junk at home over Christmas, and discovered that (1) they are surprisingly still a little funny, or at least cute in a moderately offensive way, and (2) I had the handwriting of a learning-disabled 5-year-old.

I also found the text of the actual speech I used but, even though I know my dad still raves about it, I’m afraid that one didn’t stand the test of time. Like, to the point of being really embarrassing. So these are all you get…

1998 HHS Valedictorian Speech, Draft #1

Hillsboro High School has had a history of producing some great classes of students.

No doubt, incoming students are the hearty sustenance of any school. The down-to-earth, hard-working, and gritty of us were the meat; and some, the sweeter students, maybe more like a dessert to keep a happy balance. But the point is, once we were brought together, we mixed well.  Our teachers churned us through their classes, injecting volatile facts into the mixture to break apart stubborn old ideas.

We traveled the long, winding path of our high school careers to arrive here, at the cusp of our exit [Editor’s Note: I think we can see by now where this one’s going]. We can see the light at the end of the tunnel. For some, it was a struggle for the school to pass us. Others slid right by without any extra effort. But we are here tonight. With one final, satisfying movement we will be pushed out into the world. We entered this school separately but we leave as a single unit, molded together by our experiences here, and ready to be deposited onto society. Class of ’98, make a splash out there!

Draft #2

We have had many years of education at this school, but we’ve learned very little about the most important subject of all: death.

We all die, whether it’s in a gruesome car accident, lying peacefully in our beds at night, or even decapitation. It’s all the same. All the goddamn same.

I challenge you tonight, seniors, to start brooding over what’s most important to all of you, namely, your untimely demise.

It will happen to you someday. So why wait? – set a time and date and end it all… and if you think you should take someone with you, go ahead, it’s probably for their own good. Knock off a member of the faculty or something, but make sure you plan ahead! Remember, the Grim Reaper is waiting. [Editor’s Note: This was before Columbine so get off my back, ok?]

Draft #3

Our career at HHS has been a regular orgy of learning and new experiences [Editor's Note: Oh no.]. We started slowly in junior high, grabbing at knowledge and handling new concepts gently. It was at this time that the teachers began to uncover the most interesting subjects, revealing everything they could. This new knowledge excited us, and we were ready to stand up to the challenges before us.

Before we knew it, we were thrust into high school. We quickly found that the harder we pushed, the more we got from school. Most of us also realized, however, that we couldn’t go too fast for fear of bursting under the stress.

Eventually it became routine, going in and out and in and out of that school building. But all the while we knew that we were building up to something big, something wonderful.

And here we are now, at the climax of our high school career. After tonight, we will explode out into the world, each of us traveling down our own paths. Some of us, if we succeed in life, will eventually reach our own little nest egg. Others will not be so lucky. But wherever we end up, we will know that we were the cream of Hillsboro’s crop.[Editor’s note: Um, sorry.]

So as you can see, I discovered metaphors at age 18 and hung on for dear life. Also, this exercise makes it easier to understand why nobody wants to read anything written by teenagers.

And that’s all for now.

After some confusion about the results (since the web and print version had different ordering) the official Fiction 101 contest results are in. I got 2nd place and Conor 3rd. They also printed a bunch of stories outside the winner’s circle and Greg, Conor and I had additional stories printed there.

Also here is a bonus story for your enjoyment, my third submission that didn’t get printed:

Amsterdam

The bartender reached inside a locked cabinet for the absinthe and we shot it alongside a flaming spoon of sugar, but we didn’t go on any psychedelic trips or anything. Dejected, we wandered shadowy cobblestone streets and climbed down an open manhole into a multilevel underground brothel, where the madame floated out wearing phosphorescent sequins and waved a crystalline uzi toward her ladies. I chose the mermaid, who dragged me inside an ice cube, pulled off my skin, and charged me 45 golden narwhals. I can only imagine how crazy the night would have been if the wormwood ever kicked in.

This year I wrote several 101-word stories for the CityBeat Fiction 101 contest, but we were only allowed to submit 3 entries. Here are the ones that didn’t make the cut. Maybe you’ll see the other three in print.

News for Pets

Mr. Meowface was hungover on catnip and passed out in the litterbox when a slobbery ball screamed through the window and nailed his hindquarters. A message from The Rude Dogs – must be close. Meowface was field journalist for News For Pets. Yesterday, before hitting the ‘nip, he linked the murder of a young Chihuahua to underground gangs providing show dogs smack to help them chill out during performances. The champ was on the stuff and this underdog was about to squeal. Meowface took a slug of catnip, rubbed his ass and thought, “this goes all the way to the top.”

B.O.

Their eyes met on the bus when a terrible waft of B.O. arose in their vicinity. Doug gave Amelia a secret smile to exonerate himself from guilt, but she took it as a sheepish apology and recoiled. Doug lifted his collar to his face, sniffed inside his shirt, and realized it really was him. In a flash of confidence, he slid over and put the moves on her, since, what the hell, the embarrassment couldn’t possibly get worse. He was wrong – somehow his balls had been hanging out as well. The police were waiting for him at the next stop.

Online dating

“My stylist calls gel ‘product’. There’s countless ‘products’, how come hair gel gets to be called ‘product’?”

Sarah sighed. Her date only spouted one-liners.

“Must you talk like Twitter?”

Ryan removed his sunglasses. “Listen carefully. These glasses have monitors and a wireless computer. Before I was just a geek messing around, but recently — brace yourself — the Internet became sentient. It studied us through Twitter and YouTube and now it’s invading reality through me. You’re dating … the Internet.” He replaced his sunglasses.

“Oh, for the love of God.”

“I give the new Rambo 5 out of 5 stars!”

Six Seconds on a Parabola

“Why are you doing this?” The wind whistled so loud Dave had to shout. He pulled off his helmet.

“You know why,” Jake shouted.

“Her?”

“Dude,” Jake tore off his helmet and turned around. “I saw her first, then you stole her away just because you can.” He let go with his feet and hovered above the bike.

“Dude, sorry, I didn’t know it would hurt you. But this seems a little, I don’t know, extreme.”

“Love is extreme, dude. Love is totally extreme.”

The motorcycle completed its graceful parabola and landed with a crunch at the bottom of the cliff.

Overnight stays only.

New Orleans, LA
Miami, FL
San Diego, CA
Hillsboro, WI
Pala, CA
Austin, TX
La Bufadora, Baja, Mexico
Lake Delton, WI
Madison, WI
Chicago, IL
Lima, Peru
Cuzco, Peru
Aguas Calientes, Peru
Buenos Aires, Argentina
Iguazu, Argentina
Julian, CA
New York City, NY
Hermosa Beach, CA
Montreal, Canada

Here’s to pins on maps in 2009.

I’ve obviously been slowing down on the one 101-word story per day streak that I had going during the month of October. I enjoyed it while it lasted but, as with most of my little pet projects, I started to lose steam after a while. On the bright side, it lasted way longer than most of my other flights of fancy (Thai cooking, the guitar, Arabic coffee, and microprocessor design, to name a few). The death knell came when, chatting over wine after Thanksgiving dinner, my mom told me she likes the old, longer posts better. Since the whole weblog idea came about solely to keep her updated on my planetary location, she has an influential vote on the Board of Directors at Sqrabbit, Inc. So starting now (this post > 101 words), unless there is a major outcry, I will return to my old rambling style.

In related news, there will be a public reading of the 23 stories from the Fiction 101 contest, of which Conor and I wrote 6 (as I may have mentioned repeatedly), at Caffe Forte in North Park on Monday 12/8 at 6pm. See y’all there, y’all.

“I’m Billy, and that’s Jake.” We were catching some air outside the club when she sat down, and it took only a couple of minutes of chatting for her to reveal an unpleasant personality. Her friend came over and she introduced us.

“Vanessa, this is Bobby and Jack.”

Billy stifled a cough, then said “How do you remember names so well? I’m always terrible at that. Do you have a system?”

“No, just a good memory I guess.”

“Hmm. Well it’s very impressive.”

When they walked back inside, Billy smiled at me and said,”So I guess we’re the Kennedy’s now?”

I work in research. The rat feces lab is right across the hall from the rat faces lab, and each looks down on the others’ work and think that it is silly and pointless. Sometimes the rat faces lab throws rat faces into the rat feces lab, and sometimes the rat feces lab throws rat feces into the rat faces lab. And on it goes, every goddamn day– feces flying, faces flapping, feces fuming, faces festering. The only winners, of course, are the rats, except those poor bastards have to part with their faces and feces. This place is wild.

She has finished talking and there is a pause. I am thinking. At this scale, at the level of the human drama, everything is a silly game with arbitrary rules set over the millennia and mostly for historical reasons. But knowing the rules and that they don’t matter doesn’t put you above them, doesn’t give you the ability to step around them. Or does it?

I experiment. “What is the shortest sequence of steps I can take that gets us from this lighthearted conversation to making out on a couch?”

She takes my hand and leads me out of the building.

We will not truly have a theory of everything until the repeated application of that final, singular equation – because eventually the physicists will be able to reduce the entirety of the bouncing, buzzing subatomic zoo down to a series of lower-dimensional projections and broken symmetries stemming from just one beautiful equation of infinite dimension, ornamented with pi and c and a spanakopita of Greek letters — until that equation, crunched a googol of googols times on God’s calculator over the history of the universe, produces the brown argyle sock hanging like a tongue over the edge of my dresser drawer.