Anniversary Party

Last night, I was bidden to attend the 25^th anniversary party for the parents of an acquaintance of mine. I had met The Happy Couple only a few odd times in passing at high school speech banquets, and was glad that, at no point in time,  I was asked how I happened to know the hosts.

The party was a particularly Minnesotan affair. Pulled pork, pulled turkey, and sloppy joes were on the menu.

“I made the sloppy joes,” informed The Daughter, my acquaintance.

“Yeah, but I mixed the sauce,” offered The Boyfriend of The Daughter, “So if you have any compliments concerning the sauce to meat ratio, you can give them to me.”

I had managed to eat an entire frozen pizza while watching The Office back home, and was in no condition to eat more. That frozen pizza followed the one I had eaten at 3 AM that same day, and I was terrified that my bowels would never function properly again.

“How do you like Mankato?” I asked The Boyfriend, a Jew from the California suburbs.

“It’s nice,” he said, “very Midwestern.”

“Yeah, totally,” I laughed.

I wouldn’t admit it, but I was desperately trying to find ways to identify with The Boyfriend, who I assumed was more cultured and more interesting than the middle-aged Methodists that I was currently surrounded by. But he wasn’t much of a talker. Not about California, not about UW Madison, and most certainly not about fashion. He talked a lot about smoking weed in the afternoons. And drinking at night. And about how this was a process that was often repeated, day after day.

“I mean, if I wake up with a hangover, the best way to deal with that is to smoke, you know?”

“Yeah, totally,” I said, disappointed that I managed to find what I imagined must be California’s only remaining philistine.

“And by the time I come down from my high, it’s normally like four or five, time to start drinking again.”

It was around this time that some relatives of The Happy Couple sang some songs from their wedding. A John Denver tune, another from Ice Castles, and an original. The guitarist was The Wife’s brother. He had a receding hairline, and a full head of hair in back. His voice reminded me of the folk songs from the 1978 cartoon version of The Lord of the Rings. He rhymes “so” with “know” and his accent, my accent, is made startlingly clear.

The siblings finished their backyard set to a smattering of applause.

“You should sing at my next wedding!” shouted a rowdy audience member, to the pleasure of all in attendance.

“I’m already singing at your wife’s,” replied one of the singers, causing even louder bellows of laughter.

The Husband took the opportunity to share some words with attendees.

“It’s been a great ride…” he began, appeasing the more drunken male guests.

Faced with the prospect of continuing to jaw with The Philistine, I made a trip to one of the several beer-laden coolers populating the tiki-torch lit backyard. Coors light. Bud light. Michelob light. I checked another. The same thing, plus some expensive looking bottles of Icelandic water.

One of these things does not belong.

I tried my best not to be a pretentious ass about the beer. No PBR, the hipster’s beer of choice. No microbrews, with names like “Weedwhacker” and “Your Grandma’s Chaise.” You know why Coors invented the vented wide mouth? So you can drink more of it without ever having to taste it. You’d be better off with an alcohol IV. And you’d save on calories. I grabbed a Bud, thinking I could make it a conversation piece – they were bought by a company in Belgium, donchaknow?

I informed The Philistine of this. He proceeded to tell me about a time he shotgunned X number of Bud lights in a row. Hopeless.

I moved over to the fire pit where The Husband, a John Goodman type, was telling a fart story. These are my favorite.

Compliments were given to the stoker of the fire, The Daughter. Someone called her an Eagle Scout.

“Hell, you don’t need to be an Eagle Scout to start a fire,” The Father insisted, “Hell, I could go over to the neighbor’s house right now and burn it down. I don’t need to be an Eagle Scout to do that.”

I am an Eagle Scout. But hell, he had a point.

I made a mental note to, under no circumstances, piss off The Father.

On my left was The Wife’s bowling team and on my right were the parents of highschoolers. There was talk of Sheryl Crow, of Kid Rock, of Sheryl Crow and Kid Rock, of camping, and of high school football. The Daughter mentioned the “Cap n’ Trade” Bill and things grew uncomfortable. I got up to grab another Bud light and to tool around the yard, waiting for the awkward moments to pass. I wasn’t in the mood to argue.

When I returned, I basked in the fire, the cheap beer, and the unassuming company.