The Adult Prom

2/15/06

This past weekend your intrepid reporter attended an event that became affectionately known as "Adult Prom." I know what you're thinking and no, there was no nudity. That was my first thought as well; put "adult" into the title and visions of baby-oiled orgies dance through my head like sugar plums. Sugar plums with boobies. The Adult Prom was, in fact, an opportunity for people far out of high school to get gussied up in dresses and tuxedos without looking like mental patients, dance and imbibe alcohol amid amusingly ironic decorations with captions like "Don't Be Afraid To Bump And Grind." In short, it was a raucously good time.

The shindig was held at a friend's place of business downtown so we didn't have to rent a hall, seeing as how none of us have vocations you could call "successful." Yours truly cut a dashing figure in a genuine, vintage 70's, 100% polyester, powder blue tux complete with dark piping down the sides. And there was no shortage of eye candy about the place; all of the women I know are already attractive (what, I'm gonna hang out with ugly people?) and when the gowns and sweet, sweet perfumes were added on top of it, well…let's just say it was a pleasure overload for the dopamine center of my brain.

There was also a delightful amount of socially lubricated dirty dancing, you know the kind where the woman bends over and rubs her ass in your crotch? Yes…well done there.

I could go on and on about the virtues of the this event, including the ample amount of crotch shots due to a limbo contest and the fact that it was really nice to do something different on the weekend rather than just sitting alone in a semi-dark room and trying to drink until my heart stops. Much revelry was had by all. No, what you're really here for is how I embarrassed myself. I shant disappoint.

First of all, I broke my camera. I have (had) a very trendy 6.3 mega pixel digital camera which I dropped on the hardwood floor of the establishment, dislodging the lens so that it now dangles not unlike a flaccid penis from the chassis of the once mighty piece of technology. That's not the funny part…

Just like any self-respecting alcoholic, I have a heroic tolerance when it comes to spirituous liquors. It ranks somewhere between Liza Minnelli and Earnest Hemingway. This is great, so far as it goes, but if I do hit that threshold where I'm obviously drunk, I'm hovering around a 0.25 BAC. This only happens once every few months, but when it does occur it manifests itself in…odd ways. Like disappearing for long periods of time and sleeping in odd places for no damn reason. Once on a camping trip I ran a quarter mile through the woods and slept on the ground beside a pond. Another time, at a wedding reception I meandered away and slept for about two hours next to a lake. I don't know what it is with booze and bodies of water, but when inebriated they call to me like a homing beacon.

The Adult Prom started around 8pm and we after-partied at a friend's house. 'Round about 3am it would be safe to say I was hammered. Some booze-soaked toggle flipped in my head and I wandered off by myself. With no body of water handy I smoked a cigarette in the garage. Said garage contained a vehicle and at the time it seemed like a really good idea to take a little lay-down in the backseat. Forty five minutes later I decided that 1) It was about 4 degrees in the garage, and 2) Those big sun visors you put in your windshield aren't very insulating.

Staggering back inside I am greeted with a wall of darkness, as everyone has gone to sleep. No fewer than four and possibly five people are in the living room, safely ensconced inside blankets with their tender little heads rested on soft, comfortable pillows. That was, until I walk in and Allison wakes up and screams as if she's being accosted by Leatherface. Assuring her in my slurred speech that I was after neither her belongings nor her virtue, I went down the hall and belatedly realized there was nowhere to sleep. Wallowing in the car in the garage like the asshole I am I had missed that crucial handing out of bedrolls and assignment of quarters.

Rallying every ounce of my capacity for rational, 80-proof thought, I raided the bathroom where I found a total of two towels, and not beach towels, either; small, damp, used towels. Rolling one up underneath my head and draping the other over my frostbitten feet I curled up in the hallway and slept in ten minute increments permeated by long stretches of time in which I wished I was dead. Bear in mind I'm still clad in a polyester tuxedo…and I was still cold.

Fortunately I don't suffer from little to no sleep or hangovers, so I was glad to accompany everyone to lunch the next day at the local Thai house where I delighted all with my tall tale. I distinctly remember an old woman at the next table staring at me when I belted out the word "testicles" without using my indoor voice. I think I was still drunk.