So I went to Dylan's this Saturday for Michelle's birthday kegger — which is funny, because I think her b-day party last year was the last time I'd seen Dylan.

We're working on that, if the drunk talk this weekend is to be believed. We're neighbors now, sort of, and Dylan and I have always been able to pick up our friendship right where we left off.

The party. I think I'm getting better at socializing with strangers, although for all I know they were all patronizing me. The line between polite interest and bemused disinterest is hard to pinpoint at a kegger.

We played some foosball, did a shot, and (with the declaration "Sir, I studied under Aaron Jubb!") I entered and lost a chugging contest.

I have never seen anyone finish a cup of beer that quickly. This wasn't "wow, you're fast," it was "wow, I didn't think that was physically possible."

Dylan had an "Obama on a stick" sign from the state fair, so there was some talk of the election. On the way back from Stillwater last Friday I'd gotten into a typically combative conversation with Graham, so it was nice to talk politics with people who keep the emotional stakes low.

(Move to Minnesota, Bill: I don't care that you've reversed polarities. And I'd extend the same invitation to Alan if he weren't on the moon or wherever it is that he's gone now.)

I've become weirdly averse to sleeping on people's couches — I think it's the autonomy issue rather than any worries about being a bother — so I stopped drinking right before they unveiled the Disney princesses ice cream cake.

My piece had Ariel: this has been the month of The Little Mermaid references for some reason. I hope, hope that I didn't sing Shelley's cigarette version of "Part of Your World," but I don't remember and it seems at least possible that I did.

Oh, ice cream cake, how I love thee. Hurrah for birthdays.