At a certain age, the prospect of going to a themed house party can elicit the same emotions as a trip to the dry cleaners. Sure, playing dress-up and getting hammered is fun when you’re in college, but when you’re able to drink in bars without having to convince the door-guy that you really are 29, 6-foot-8, and from Juneau, going to a themed house party seems like just an unnecessary hassle. That, and, um, you usually end up doing way too much nitrous.
Anyway, there are a few exceptions, most of whose appeal is directly proportional to the ease with which you can fit the theme. Unless you’re really into needlepoint and/or a little touched in the head, a World of Warcraft party, for example, might not be for you. And I’ve been to so many ’80s parties over the past couple of years, I’ve actually started wearing my “costumes” during non-drinking hours. (“What?!” I explain. “I’m just being ‘retro.’ “)
On the other hand, a themed house party like the one I was recently invited to – a bathrobe party – was right up my comfy, drowsy, litter-strewn alley.
I’ve done a lot of drinking in my house clothes but typically when no one else was around. The idea of full-throttle partying with only a single layer of terrycloth between me and a potential future ex-wife sounded, I admit, damn enticing. So off a couple buddies and I went.
Things couldn’t have started off better. A screamo band was playing, you couldn’t throw a slipper without hitting an ice chest full of delicious alcohol, and, yes, there were gals there – cute gals – whose presence indeed made me feel a little like that famous, lecherous old guy who lives in a mansion inhabited by barely dressed silicone dolls. I forget his name, but the sensation that I was he became encompassing.
And that’s when things went downhill. Quickly.
My 14 Budweisers had magically turned into seven, and the rich amber contents of a full fifth of Seagram’s that I’d brought – it was full when I got there! ask my friends! – had suddenly vanished … along with my bathrobe, leaving me in nothing but my board-shorts … and along with my common sense, reducing me to some heretofore undocumented species of primate, the kind that thinks sabotaging female homo sapiens’ bathrobes is a suave come-on and that also slumps into oblivion when he wants, where he wants; in this case, on a cooler fewer than 15 inches from an earth-shatteringly loud screamo band.
“Do you think he’s gonna get up?” one onlooker reportedly asked between songs. “I dunno,” said another. “I seriously doubt it.”
Were I conscious, I just would have shaken my head in amused contempt and coolly replied, “Dudes. You invited me to, basically, a pajama party. What were you really expecting?”
