Every once in a while someone will make some comment about the fall of our drinking group, only to see it stay alive and thrive as a loose motley collection of people growing together, if not growing up, then growing our livers. Only a fool would pronounce the gang dead.
Since I am merely a clown, I’m just putting it on life support.
Times are bad, y’all. People hiding from the party, people worried about their status at the party, people actually being afraid and intimidated by the beautiful people. “We don’t belong here,” is a refrain I heard, hopefully, half-jokingly too often at a party a building you may have heard about recently.
What? The? Fuck?
Since when were we intimidated by people? (Mostly gay ones, actually, not that there’s anything wrong with that.) If I heard one more time about how someone couldn’t handle how beautiful the people were, I’d drink another beer. Oh, wait, that’s what I did. I mean, we never fit in! That was our calling card! We brought the party and then we dominated it until we were kicked the fuck out. That’s how we used to roll.
But like an athlete past his prime who knows it, we were hesitant, unsure of ourselves not knowing if we still had it anymore. Like George and Weezie, we had finally gotten a piece of the pie, but we thought it would be too fattening, so we ran away. Beans done burn on the grill because we goddamn abandoned it.
Where was the pride? Oh well. After years of wondering if the party is about to end, I’m getting the feeling that’s a legitimate question. Well, maybe it’s a fitting end, but I can’t believe a group that has survived near-arrests, jungle juice, ill-advised hookups, broken teeth, blood feuds, mean practical jokes, and Schaefer is going to be beaten by the greatest apartment building ever.
Well Whiskey Friday 