Alas, the best times are already behind us. Jubb's birthday party, known to inside-joke aficionados as "the Jubb party," lasted until about 1:00 last night, when an ill-informed security guard and the Ormsby RHD came by to bust it up.
Something about having live music without a permit. The windows were open, so I'm sure you could hear us from anywhere on campus. Thanks to Stantonk for ruining that picture forever, by the way.
Here's the rest of the band. The guitar player in that picture, who I once referred to as "a gnomish guy with a Weeble-Wobbles shirt on," coaxed some musician friends of his into playing for free alcohol and a couple of bucks.
I'll spare you the obligatory crowd shot, mainly because there aren't any I like. Suffice it to say that we had a lot of people, but the party started slowly, as usual.
I blame Lawrence Time, the tendency of students here to show up at least an hour after the official start of a party. The entire school wants to be fashionably late.
(At home I had to deal with Tom Time, my father's disingenuous way of estimating how long a given chore will take. Example: Move the shed? Five minutes. Actual time: six hours.)
So we started pre-partying at, well, six. And by eight Jubb was playing shot checkers with Alan while Amelia II and Our Bold Hero downed some delicious busticators.
The busticator! It'll fustigate ya!™
The Recipe for Jubb's specialty drink?
3 shots vodka
2 shots peach schnapps
2 ice cubes
Fill glass with 50/50 orange-cranberry juice mix
Graham had about seven beers before the party. Yes, that's right, he came. Here he is with local celebrity and fellow blogger Rock Show Girl.
I'm a terrible and reluctant host, but this seemed like a good weekend to entertain because I wouldn't have to make any social choices for my guest. Of course we're going to the party, it's in our room.
Graham got here around 10 on Friday, after getting a little lost from my haphazard directions. Graham's car heater was broken (a huge problem, as I discovered when we drove Ben to the store) and he seemed cold and tired. We went to the V.R. for a pitcher.
The strangest thing about Graham's visit was how impressed he seemed to be with Lawrence. It was like hosting a wide-eyed prospie.
Saturday, we cleaned. Most of the living room ended up in Jonas and Bill's room, and our side was converted into a bar. A well-stocked bar.
People trickled in — at one point we had a family of some sort here — and by a little after 11 we had a good-sized crowd. Not bigger than the Wop Party, I'd say. But big. The Politician and his Intended worked the bar, which also had three fridges full of beer and various mixers.
Before long it was gone, all gone.
I drank Yukon Jack at some point. Ben bought it for Jubb because the grocery store was out of Jäger. There was also a mix known as the "mystery shot." Blech.
Otherwise, I was in an informal drinking contest with Jubb's girlfriend, the aforementioned Amelia II, for most of the night.
She won, proving once again that I'm a featherweight. Then again, I probably didn't want to win that contest.
There was a better contest, actually. We started a pool, betting on when and where Jubb would pass out. The winner got eight bucks for guessing that Jubb would pass out on the floor, between 1:30 and 1:45. The other eight went to the band.
While I was sousing the night away and a few dozen people were dancing in our living room, Graham was stumbling around Hiett looking for an empty bathroom. After a prolonged misadventure, he wandered into the room below us and managed to use the facilities before realizing his mistake.
Jubb was in one of our bathrooms prettymuch constantly. He cut his foot on some broken glass behind the bar and had to get his cut stapled shut by Logan, an experienced mob doctor. Better than a trip to the emergency room, but he can only hobble, now.
He broke free to dance dance dance, but soon returned to deal with a sick girl. He actually got less drunk as the night went on, leading Jagger to complain (perhaps rightly) that her "not" bet in the pass-out pool should've won.
Where was I? Wandering around. A friend of my brother's who lives in Appleton had shown up, and was trying to pass out on our couch — only to find the room too crowded and concerned. I checked in on him, nursed a screwdriver, and hung out by the bar, where an increasing alcohol shortage had created a last-days-of-Rome atmosphere.
Representative Man, my boss at the Lawrentian, apologized today for the knee-tackle takedown. My memory may be a bit spottier than I thought.
At 1:00, we got busted. Apparently security broke up all three of the big parties going on that night; we were second in line. Everyone cleared out of the room within minutes, leaving behind a queen's ransom in hats and mittens.
I crawled up into bed, glad that we hadn't chosen to bunk this year, as Jubb and a few of the remaining guests tended to Amelia II. I could hear wind-down chatting from the living room.
For some now-unfathomable reason, both the siderooms were locked later that night when Graham and the Politician came looking for places to sleep. My only friend ended up in a sleeping bag, the Politician covered himself with coats and slept on the couch.
There was a lot going on that night. Epic, like last year's party. That's a file folder in my head, "epic."
Graham left this morning, and Jubb still has to rely on the river's gift (as he calls this particular walking stick) to cover long distances. But: the bars tonight? Might be a good idea? We'll see.
Here's a good morning-after shot.
