So yesterday was Grace's birthday. She's a regular at Monday night bar night at the VR, so as a fellow regular I got invited to her birthday dinner in addition to the downtown festivities planned for later that night.

The dinner was only a block away from campus, at Ben and Kay Schneider's house. Ben is a former professor of English at Lawrence, specializing in Shakespeare. He retired years and years ago, but he's still known around campus as the English professor in this anecdote:

Professor Chong-Do Hah, who teaches government at Lawrence, doesn't speak English as his native language. Once, after receiving (in most versions of the story) a "D" on an essay, a student became irate and suggested that, because he "can't speak English," Hah was ill-equipped to judge student work. Hah suggested that they submit the paper to Prof Schneider, whose English skills were never in doubt, and allow him to judge whether the grade was fair.

Prof Scheider read the paper, looked at the grade, and gave it back to Hah.

"You're right," he said, "this paper does deserve an F."

Before giving it to Schneider, Hah had changed the grade.

Ben still remembered the event when I mentioned it to him, and added that he and Hah had discussed it recently. Curiously, he seemed surprised when I mentioned that Hah had supposedly changed the grade, though he was certain that he'd certified the essay as an "F-"

There was hors d'oeuvres and wine before dinner, and in a subtle affirmation of traditional gender roles, the women guests did most of the work in the kitchen, setting the table and bringing out the food.

The Schneiders, for various reasons, can no longer drink alcohol themselves, but Kay said that they loved to see young people drinking. Carry-Out Carrie uncorked the bottle of white wine that I ended up more-or-less monopolizing for the five hours we were there. I'm useless with bottle openers.

The house was perfect for entertaining, somehow warm. Maybe it's because I feel strangely comfortable around large quantities of books, and there were full bookshelves everywhere. In any case, everyone was dressed up and it felt like a real dinner party.

After chat and hors d'oeuvres (I'd write "appetizers," but I associate that word with jalapeno poppers and Buffalo wings, not hummus and crackers) we sat where the little cards with our names on them told us to sit. The table was actually a big round piece of plywood on top of a much smaller table, concealed by a tablecloth. That innovation struck me as more clever than it is, at the time.

It was Thanksgiving in February: stuffing, turkey, ham, bread, and salad, though not in the massive quantities typical to that holiday. There was a prayer before the meal, but it was so bland and godless that I decided I could join in without patronizing anyone's beliefs.

More sparkling dinnertable conversation. I only slipped up once, when I mentioned how annoying it was that Jubb had been drinking straight from a wine bottle last time we played King's Cup. Those waterfalls were murder.

The Lawrentian a few seats removed from me was a Parsi, a fact I'd kinda known but never realized the implications of before tonight. Especially after he demurred from putting out a candle, everyone found themselves very interested in Zoroastrianism.

Between dinner and dessert we spent about 30 minutes or so telling stories, after Kay insisted that each of us tell the group about an interesting performance, of whatever sort, that we'd once seen.

Carry-Out's fiance, an Australian, described how he was almost conned out of his airline tickets during a trip to India. Ben Schneider described a Kabuki version of "King Lear" he'd seen in Berlin. Meg(h)an described a play on the Bodensee in Germany, near where I lived as an exchange student. Everyone seemed to have a good story to tell.

You know where this is going. It was mildly embarrassing not to have a good story to tell, but I haven't witnessed any incredible performances. I resisted the temptation to describe Graham's commitment his amnesiac persona back in grade school, even when I was lying on the ground bleeding from my head. That story isn't essentially about a "performance."

I opted instead for the Eels concert I went to in D.C. the summer before last. The aforementioned Indian, the last to speak, upstaged me with his description of a packed Michael Jackson concert in Bombay.

We sang to Grace and she blew out the candles, then, following a tradition passed down from Kay's family, each person took a lit candle, made a wish for Grace, and blew it out. I have never had cake and ice cream as good as what I had that night, and I fear I never will again. Angelfood with a heaping tablespoon of cocoa in the batter, paired with high-quality vanilla ice cream. Pecan sauce dribbled over all of it.

I finished my bottle of wine and drank the requisite glass of champagne with the group, then we left for Lawrence.

I had a little time to sober up and change before Grace's group called again, done with the preparty in ORC and ready to meet up with others at Park Central, a mildly sketchy complex of dance clubs located a few blocks west of campus.

The dancing was fun and the old music videos were hilarious, but I only stayed for an hour or so, leaving with Rock Show Girl, Frisbee Matt, and Jinx's roommate, Jagger. Alan left even earlier than I did, probably after realizing that he had no desire to dance.

While we were at the club Frisbee Matt and Rock Show Girl both got hit on, and I tried to start a contest with Jinx to see who could get hit on by the most townies.

Carry-Out got checked out (there was obvious nudging) on the stairwell, and I called her "chotchbait," a coinage I still consider hilarious. She thought it less so.

Back at Lawrence I had an ill-advised (because of the price) glass of Blue Moon at the VR, then wandered home. Slight headache today, for some reason.