I went to Birmingham last night for a keg party at my friend's loft downtown. I had heard there were going to be a lot of people there, but when my friends throw around gues(s)timates like 150, I usually just scoff and continue sipping Gentleman Jack in our inner circle of 4 or 5. But, lo and behold, this thing did get blown wide open. I suppose it had something to do with him still being in college and whatnot. And kegs. Which were on the rooftop deck. Which was probably a good thing, because the crowd had definitely become a fire hazard. Not that I'm sure Killian's would put out a fire. Or that anyone would waste beer on flames.

I like the point when you're walking up to a big party (in the street, stairs, elevator, whatever) still relatively sober with a group of your friends and you kind of “run in” to another group of friends you don't know, and then there's this sort of “pre-party” bond that occurs. Ours happened in the elevator. Which made the moment really stick out, because there was that initial “elevator silence” among 10 people before someone farted to break the ice. And scent is the strongest sense tied to memory.

At about 2am, I really hit my drinking groove and started downing cans of Natty Light after the keg had run out. Then I had this very frat boy moment, when a girl I had been hanging out with suddenly said, with a proud fatherly tone, “Wow Court, I'm really impressed with how much beer you can drink. I mean, you're not really a big guy, but you've put a dent in that case.” Note to potential friends at future parties: please do not provide that sort of additional encouragement after I'm already drunk. If I needed an enabler, I would have brought along my a photo album of third world children dying of thirst.

I also thought this party would be a good time to do something I've wanted to do for a long time: lie to girls about what I do. Not just little lies, but incredible, challenging lies in areas I have no expertise in. My favorite was convincing one girl that I am a part-time drummer with Ben Fold's Five, newly renamed simply, “Ben Fold's,” since he no longer has permanent band members accompanying him. The catch was, I only play the snare. Ben hires separate people for the snare, the cymbals, and the bass because it's cheaper than hiring one person who can play the whole drum set. Plus, it adds what I liked to call, “spontaneous beat variety.” Something I'm sure would NOT fuck up Ben's sense of rhythm during a show. I really need to start lying to strangers more often.

A friend of mine in California just texted me with, “Is Katrina near you?” Not joking, I responded, “Whats that”. So I just found out there's some big evacuation going on in New Orleans right now. Seriously, I don't do weather, people.

I just made up a joke: What did the necrophiliac mortician say after having his way with a recent intake?

She sure was good in the sack.

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