I was invited to a Hurricane party tonight.
Considering that I’m located far enough inland to make hurricanes a topical accoutrement rather than a tropical nemesis, I declined the invitation. Maybe I should send a gift though. Hey, I know! Scotch tape, a ream of multipurpose paper and a bag of diapers–in lieu of duct tape, plywood and balls.
By the time most hurricanes make it here, they’ve already blown off more wind than a Senate sub-committee. It’s about as anti-climactic an event as you can find this side of Ben Affleck’s post Good Will Hunting body of work. We don’t need plywood in this neck of the woods so much as a ginormous spit shield because hurricanes are carrying less torque than a grossly overweight ballerina by the time they hit town.
Rain, we get that. And with the mass of this Hurricane Irene, we’re certain to get plenty. Enough to fetch Noah that CEO gig at Virgin Holidays Cruises if he wasn’t such a PETA nut.
Of course, the ‘Hurricane’ Partay had absolutely nothing to do with end of the world occurrences. It was all about hooking up, drinking up and well, finding a spare bedroom.
Actual phone conversation:
Friend: “Dude, we’re having a hurricane party tomorrow night. You in?”
Me: “No, I’m not in. You always start with the same bullshit. Are you in means bring the good beer. I’m not wasting the good shit on a crowd that thinks Miller Lite is fine dining, sorry.”
Friend: “Come on man. It’s not like that.”
Me: “No? Well if it’s not like that, it must mean you’re trying to get laid. Who’s the poor girl?”
Friend: “Maria. The pharmacist?”
Me: “Oh yeah, the redhead. She’s the one with the Kanji tat. Yeah, she seemed nice. Really? How’d that happen?”
Friend: “We went out last weekend and she drank me under the table. Dude, I woke up on the couch at her place. It was wild.”
Me: “Just think, some day? You’ll have a cute story to share with your grand kids.”
Friend: “So you’re not in?”
Me: “No, Johnny Bravo. I don’t need to aid and abet your lack of female companionship. The fact that you’re using a hurricane as your wing man is pathetic enough.”
Friend: “That’s cold.”
Me: “Say hi to Maria for me. And tell her to stock up on Prozac with her employee discount. She’s gonna need ’em.”
Friend: (Laughing) Fuck you!
All kidding aside, I abhor the very idea of having a party to honor a natural disaster. What’s next? Are the Brownies going to make up the diff on their shrinking profit margins by holding “Quake Bakes”? Are we going to see “Tongue Twister” love shack shindigs? What about a party for crafty folk? Coin it “Tsunami Origami”.
Now, I could brave the elements tonight if I really wanted to. But my power boat is out of service- as in, I do not own one. And besides, I have plenty of candles, water, food and most importantly, alcohol.
It sure beats the hell out of waking up on Maria’s couch tomorrow morning.