2002-02-23 - 9:58 p.m.

So My S., her roommates, and this chick she knows decided to throw a Valentine's day party. She gave me a very clever invitation at work--it was a photocopy from a tacky porn mag with the date and address scrawled onto the page. Everyone got a different picture. Mine had some skanky blonde chick, legs akimbo, sucking two dicks at the same time.

Unfortunately, My S. hadn't been working at the Big Company that much of late, so she kinda left it up to me, I guess, to invite whomever she didn't.

I mentioned the party to a few people. C.(from work) was interested in attending, and so was this crazy Romanian girl.

Unfortunately, My S. lives in a pretty wacky part of town, and of the three of us, I was the only person who knew how to get there.

So I printed up some directions to My S.� house, and included directions to mine.

Most people at work weren't very interested in attending. Randy Research was a maybe. And then this kinda Spazzy dude that everyone loves was a maybe too.

So the crazy Romanian Chick and C. (from work) agreed to meet at my apartment (easy to find), drink some beers, and then on to My S.�

I filled in the afternoon doing some housework and what not, and a game or two of pool.

Played some music with the Girlfriend. That was fun--I was in a really good zone, which is rare. There wasn't one of those what-do-you-want-to-play?--I-don't-know-what-do-you-want-to-play volleys between songs, and I was figuring out songs I hadn't tried before in my head.

We were in the middle of Linger On, You're Pale Blue Eyes when C. (from work) rang the buzzer.

I put the guitar on the rocking chair and let her in.

Good times, and we waited for the crazy Romanian Girl to show.

When she did, she came bounding up the stairs. She was decked out in crazy makeup, and was wearing tight pants, beige platform shoes, and this ridiculous zebra-strype blouse.

She saw the guitar on the rocking chair and asked to hear some music, so the Girlfriend and I played (songs where the Girlfriend sings, of course). It was fun, and we drank some beers. Then we left.

I kinda didn't want to go. We were having a good time, and I kept getting these flashes of My S.'s last party, which was a snoozestravaganza. Kitty allergies. Maybe 12 people. Some kinda scary dude I know from work being scary and smoking way too much pot. We all ended up watching a Matador Records video compilation, after which I left with H.

But we did leave, to get the 66 to Harvard, then the Red to Dorchester. Remembering all the beer I had left behind at My S.'s last party, I got a 12-pack of PBR--so I'd have beer to donate, but it wouldn't be the greatest in the world. And PBR is kinda cool right now. So there. C.(from work) and the crazy Romanian Girl got the 3 for $10 wine deal (all red).

The crazy Romanian girl is kind of impulsive, and hasn't quite mastered the English language (although she has progressed very, very much since coming to America). This combination doesn't allow for much linear conversation.

Over the years, I've learned how to tell a story in front of other people that aren't being forced to listen.

If you do not follow these rules, you will be cut off, and will not be allowed to speak for the rest of the evening.

Well, although the crazy Romanian Girl doesn't usually break these rules of storytelling, she also won't listen to a story or follow a linear conversation.

You know the type? They'll take a minor snippet of a story or conversation and use it as a cue to change the topic?

I didn't really mind, but it did pretty much shut me up for the trip.

On the Red Line, this wicked hot faux-redhead got on the train with a couple of other people. She had dreads (PSA--hot on chicks and on black guys, but I want to punch white dread-dudes in the face) and a skateboard, and was decked out in all the latest funky-hippie regalia.

C. (from work) and the Crazy Romanian girl both turned their noses up, so I felt obliged to point out that I thought she was kinda hot.

That changed the topic pretty fast and the crazy Romanian girl was pretty loud about it, which made me blush. Everytime I turned my head to the right, she gave me this knowing glare.

We got off at My S.'s random T-stop, and the Skateboard chick and her party did as well. I kinda figured that they were heading to the same party, and I was right.

We were instantly recognized from the third floor window.

My S. came down to greet us. She had cut her hair.

Oh my God, S., you cut your hair!

Wow, S.! You cut your hair!

S! Good to see you. You look so pretty with that new haircut!

I was the last one in, so (naturally)

OH MY GOD, My S., YOU CUT YOUR HAIR! YOU LOOK SO PRETTY! (Just for kicks.)

We got up the stairs, and My S.' roommate made it a point to introduce himself.

My name is A. Welcome to my home.

I shook hands with him and told him my name. In my head I was all like yeah, I've already met you more than once, and don't be so anal about having a party n' shit. But then I realized that I forget everyone I meet too, and that I would say something like that if I was having a party and didn't know everyone invited.

Instantly opened a beer and kinda hid the rest to the side of the fridge. The place wasn't quite packed yet, so My S. played hostess duties and introduced all to all.

Everyone was so hip looking, and here I was dressed straight outta 1997, with a flaming red semi-mullet to boot.

As usual, I identified the hottest chick in the room (not to talk to and bother all night, just to look at from time to time).

She was tiny (not usually my type), with roundish-triangular Elvis Costello glasses. She wore a flowing ball-gown, which swept the floor as she walked. Her collarbone was exposed, and so was the slightest hint of her a-cup.

Jeezus.

And then I was introduced to another cutie, with curly blonde hair and a smile to die for. Now she was my type--cherubic, and yet another gown. This one was strapless, and she was busting out of it. I heroically made the greatest effort a man has ever made to look her in the eye when I spoke to her.

I hope I succeeded.

( Girls should be able to dress very sexy whenever they want, and at the same time shouldn't have to endure obnoxious guys hitting on them 'till kingdom come. But, when they do dress ridiculously sexy, they should expect a leer here or there. I get kinda angry when I overhear conversations where a complaining girl will admit to dressing up to attract the attention of a prince charming, but then instead draws a look or two from a loser. Especially when the inevitable nods of approval from her friends ensue. Don't discriminate. )

We talked about photography, a subject of which I know very little. I sounded like an idiot.

Oh no! The first girl turned out to be My S.'s seventeen-year-old-sister!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I had assumed that since she was at a party, she was in fact not seventeen years old. I hadn't hit on her (I didn't hit on anyone), thank God, but jeezus!

After I had learned that she was My S.' sister, I watched her a little differently. She was actually kinda terrified. She followed My S. around, as if hoping for instructions.

Mindful of her age, I made a couple of attempts to talk to her, so that she might have someone besides My S. to talk to. Each attempt backfired, and made her more and more scared of me. I gave up the project, so as not to terrify her even more.

Oh no! The second girl turned out to be this girl!

Just goes to show what an idiot I am.

In the kitchen, the crazy Romanian Girl and C.(from work) wanted to bust open their first bottle of wine. Unfortunately, there was no wine opener to be found. The crazy Romanian Girl answered this challenge with an age old secret from Romania--jabbing the cork with a steak-knife and then vigorously muscling the knife towards her crotch until she could somehow get the cork out. Yes, folks, from the same country that gave us Vlad the Impailer.

She got the cork out a nub, and I was so concerned that she'd give herself a premature hysterectomy that I stole her wine bottle and pulled the nub cork from the bottle myself.

I hadn't realized that people were intently watching this ritual. If I had noticed, I would have spiked the cork, Tom Brady style, after I had freed it.

In the living room, He-Man (My S.' I-don't-know-what-the-hell-he-is-to-her-anymore-and-have-stopped-bothering-to-ask-friend) was spinning records. C.(from work) asked him to play Two Silhouettes on the Shade by Peter Noone. Good choice.

Earlier, I had given the Spazzy-guy-from-work-that-everyone-loves-so-very-much directions over the telephone. They turned out to be accurate directions, but the kid ended up getting wicked lost anyway, and I got some evil glares as a result.

Not my fault he's a spaz. He arrived to much verbal cheek pinching.

(By the way, I actually like the Spaz-that-everyone-wants-to-make-cookies-for. I just don't see in him what warrants that much attention.)

The crazy Romanian chick has a secret crush on the Spaz-that-everybody-fawns-over. He made it a point to tell C. (from work) and I that he wasn't interested, and could we run interference for him. Then, he stole some chick's pizza.

Asshole.

My S. and company had obtained the services of a Berklee band. They did some Vegas-oriented stuff in her kitchen. All of a sudden, everyone was in that room. That's when I grabbed C. (from work) and nudged her towards the living room.

OK--so I'm antisocial. Whadda ya gonna do about it--provide me with airfare and accommodations along with $1,000 and send me New Orleans for Mardi Gras? Go ahead. In fact, I dare you to...

The band did its job. They riled everyone up and made 'em dance, which wasn't too much of an accomplishment, since that was what they wanted to do anyway.

The band sounded like a real band trying to sound like a karaoke tape. And I'm not talking equipment limitations here.

A., the guy that had sternly greeted me at the door, was intent on halting their performance.

Asshole, I thought (even though I was relieved).

But then again, I realized that I too would have taken such precautions against a visit from the fuzz.

C. (from work) decided that it was time to open another bottle of wine. She made an attempt at the age-old Romanian technique, and I blocked for her. It was pretty crowded, and I didn't want anyone bumping into her as she was on her knees, trying to jam a steak knife into anything besides her wrists, crotch, legs, or belly.

The crazy Romanian Girl saw C. (from work)'s feeble attempt at her people's age-old tradition and took over the process.

I was now instead blocking for the crazy Romanian Girl.

Suddenly, from her came a scream. And then red--all over her face, all over her hands, all over her shirt.

All over the carpet, and it stained.

And she was crying.

Holy shit!!!!!

(Stay tuned for part the second. And if you act fast, I just might edit this mostrosity.)