Saturday, January 12, was a day of unrealized potential, of
disappointment. This is how Saturday was supposed to go: Watch the
Seahawks beat the Packers in the playoffs. Rejoice. Go to a triple
kegger in Wallingford and celebrate. It was going to be perfect. This
is how it actually went: Watch the Seahawks get humiliated by the
Packers. Mope. Go to a sparsely attended single kegger in
Wallingford and diminish.
When I show up, my host Gabriel is already trashed and
apologizing for the low turnout. He’s mumbling something about how
there were problems that day and that he had nothing to do with the
party, but there’s still one keg in the basement and some DJs down
there. I mill around, making small talk with various circles of guests.
One guy tells me a story about being up for days on acid and Ecstasy
and weed, and something about dead babies full of heroin. He closes his
story by declaring: “Uncle Sam is a douchebag.”
The bulk of the party is down by the keg, dancing to the DJs. In the
living room, three people are having their own dance party to a stereo
pumping Lil Jon. Upstairs on the couch, a girl is lying down and a guy
is softly caressing her ass. Occasionally, drunk dudes will come
to fill their cups and yell, “Seahawks!” in sad desperation. When the
keg has been tapped I also feel empty. Gabriel has now drunk himself
into oblivion. I think about all the sweet triple keggers they must be
having in Green Bay right now.
Think The Stranger should have better sense than to let
its emotions be controlled by a barbaric game? E-mail the date,
place, time, and party details to partycrasher@thestranger.com and tell us how foolish we are in person at your party.