The way I remember it is something like this, and it's really the beginning (and tragic end) of so many party stories: Everything was going fine until somebody brought out the bottle of tequila. Just for the record, I believe that somebody was my wife. And when I say "everything was going fine until ..." I mean "for me."

And here's the thing: it was only Thursday night. Friday was July 4th. Friday was supposed to be the night. Not Thursday.

Demon blue agave. You and me are not on speaking terms, brother.

I only partially blame C. The real culprit is K, whose promises of new postings on her blog lead me to set aside my own misgivings of watering a bellyful of recently-planted IPA Hops with Patron shots. I think there were only three. But three was enough. The hickory flavor of E's slow-smoked ribs was so good that night, but the next morning I would have given anything to shake that scent from my nose. It seemed to be everywhere. And it probably was.

I'm not an idiot ... I mean, I know the "beer before liquor, never sicker" mantra. But honestly I've never had that much of a problem mixing alcohols in the past. When I was twenty-three and tending bar, it was not uncommon to chase beers with shots of tequila as a matter of good form and proper etiquette. (I'm nothing if not polite.) In the morning I would feel a little like the inside of a small clanging church bell, but the sensation would go away with water and breakfast. Somewhere in the last eleven years, though, the church bells have gotten bigger, and they've begun to ring louder and deeper. And they can put a frightful shakiness in my belly. And so I have new respect for the axioms I learned in college.

It took all of us a while to get going on July 4th. Particularly me. I felt bad not emerging from my room until 2pm. But that's the nice thing about close friends and an understanding wife: they'll cover for you when you're down. I owe them. For icing down the keg. For setting things up. For taking Honey out at 6:30 am. When I finally made it downstairs, shaking and about ten pounds lighter than I was the night before, the first of my neighbors began showing up with their July 4th game faces on, all full of energy and wondering what the hell kind of party this was where everybody was chewing Rolaids and talking about hairs on dogs and squinting at each other from behind sunglasses under drizzly skies.

And let me go ahead and apologize right now. To all of you. Because the details of this post sound like they came straight out of some college student's MySpace page. Let's see ... there was a keg. Check. Somebody got sick from tequila. Check. A trip to the Urgent Care was made. Check. The cops came. Check. Okay, nobody engaged in any sloppy make-out sessions in the basement (at least I don't think they did). And okay, there was no beer bonging. Oh, and nobody streaked down our street naked. But still, all and all, this had all the crucial ingredients of a college house party. And that's sort of embarrassing ... since, with the exception of a few twenty-somethings, we were mostly of the thirty-something-not-quite-willing-to-admit-we're-really-that-old demographic.

It weren't pretty.

And yet, it really was quite a beautiful thing. Because beneath all of these details which, on the surface, seem so horrific and clichéd, there was, at root, the undercurrent of a really good time. The kind of time you don't want to end: Catching up with friends. Sitting around a fire (in July!) listening to music and telling stories. Laughing. And bringing a little Texas Backyard BBQ to the New Jersey burbs.

The urgent-care visit actually had nothing to do with alcohol consumption and everything to do with a spider bite on my foot which I had let fester for over a week and which had become gruesomely infected.

And yes, the cops did come. Because my neighbor Ax brought over some fireworks. And let me just pause for a moment to say this: when your new neighbor tells you he'll bring fireworks over to your 4th of July party and you say something like, "Aren't those illegal in New Jersey?" And he responds with something like, "Aw fuck 'em," and you both share a hearty laugh at your mutual contempt for authority, you should trust that little stream of a conscience flowing through all those overgrown weeds of hutzpah. Here's what I found out about Ax that weekend: he's really good at being a rebel, as long as the rebelliousness takes place at somebody else's house. When the cops showed up at my driveway Friday night, it was just me and my friend E from Texas out there to greet them. Every yellow-bellied Yankee neighbor — these people who had kids and respectable day-jobs and upstanding lives — had disappeared inside. E was standing there holding a lighter in one hand and a bottle rocket in the other. And I was holding a black plastic garbage bag full of spent fireworks. The cop was actually quite nice about the whole thing. He said he didn't want to ruin the fun, but some neighbors had complained about the noise. We apologized, and he went on his way, but not before asking me what my address was. So here we are: only four months living in New Jersey, and I'm in the police database. Which means next year we're doing the fireworks at Ax's house. Or I'm leaving Jersey altogether.

So here are my lessons from this July 4th:
And most importantly:

link to this | comments (6) | File:  NJ  Neighbors  Friends 

Related Photos: