It's That Kind Of Party.

Location: Athens, GA
I like to throw parties. Used to be I would have one at my house every month or so. I inherited this appetite from my parents who also had the fever, though in retrospect, theirs had a suspicious "Ice Storm" flavor to them.
I would secretly roll around in all of the guests jackets, which were tossed onto an upstairs bed. I would inspect the pockets for treasures, route through purses, smell each coat deeply, especially the collars, and I would guess which guest matched which coat. It was warm and strange and it fascinated me.

My mothers father, the original Gibbs, was the one who inspired my parents. He was a viciously proud Princeton Tiger who hunted ducks, fly-fished for trout, drove great cars, dressed elegantly, never seemed to work, and always smelled like smoke and bourbon.

Here's a good example of his legacy: a guy painted my house last year and told me this: "I painted your grandfathers house a long time ago. He would stop us everyday around 3 and demand we all relax and have a drink and a swim in the pool. Took us all summer to finish."

How I have made him in my mind, and not actually who he was, is a constant inspiration to me.

So last week after the big mountain ride, I brought up the idea of a party at the house with my Athens housemates. I agreed to bankroll it if they agreed to take care of party rule #3, which is invite three times as many women as you expect to show up.

Now the point was not to ingratiate myself to anyone, I just like having a good time and I like enabling others to do the same. I just like doing shit for people who can't do it themselves. It's not charity, it's pay-it-forward.

Here is my recipe for a successful party: (1) have more alcohol than you think you could ever possibly consume in one night (2) invite a mix of people across all friendship circles, (3) previously stated (4), music must not be genre-specific and loud enough to dance to but soft enough for conversation, (5) discourage sitting, encourage movement, (6) lighting should be just dim enough to make people slightly disoriented but not frightened.

Fire pit. Outdoor lighting. Three huge coolers scattered strategically. 20 cases of beer. Wine. Booze. Two stereo systems from WalMart that we would return the next day. Lottery tickets for the first 20 women to show up. Snacks. Smores. Mouthwash and cups in the bathroom. Glow sticks.

7:30PM: First guests.
8:45PM: Someone's balls come out their pants.
9:00PM: Available female count: 2 out of about 40 guests.
9:30PM: A german has his first smore. Has 20 more.
10:00PM: Ottoman racing. That's pushing people down the driveway on a wheeled ottoman, to be clear. These things happen when the available woman ratio is 1:20.
11:00PM: Half of the guests begin to leave (see 1:20 ratio.) There is talk of wrestling and/or getting into a fight. A police baton is produced and passed around with curiosity.
12:30AM: Emergency texting/booty calling. Oddly quiet.
1:15AM: Booty calls begin to arrive.
2:30AM: The bottle of Jack Daniels makes round the fire as those left decide it's safe to get ragingly drunk. They will not miss anything.

4:00AM: A couple of beers get poured on the fire and lights out.

Idea was a 10, prep was a 8, execution was, eh, not so much.

The upside is that we still have about 12 cases of beer, so we are just another party waiting to happen. Also, everyone who did come enjoyed themselves, so that's a big plus.

The downside is that we have a reputation for throwing sausage fests. Eh, try and try again. You don't bake the perfect loaf on the first attempt, and I know the right formula will eventually reveal itself.

The next day four of us went out for a pedal. I just wanted to have a sweat, and that's about it. But Phil thought it might be fun to try and kill us with a three hour ride with three ten minute intervals.

Here is the problem with that: he didn't tell us until we were already over an hour into it. We all hung in there but there were heavy legs (at least on my body) and complaints of dehydration. We did a fourth unplanned interval when we surprised a pack of wild pit-bulls. There were no less than 25 of them, and did not take kindly to our pack invading theirs. Thankfully we were all in our big rings and they were pretty docile.

Along the ride we were entertained by Oliver, who, off the bike, doesn't say much, but on the bike, is the never ending story. He would pepper the end of sentences with things like this; "And that's not speaking in hypothetical, bro, that's how that shit goes DOWN!", and you can be sure that the shit does go down like that.

He's a perfect example of the guy is happiest on his bike. He whoops and smiles and spontaneously sprints off into the distance, then soft pedals until we re-join. I look at people like that and I admire it and I also get confused. It's a goal of mine to see the simple joy in everything, but I don't think it's my bag. I don't think I'd be where I am or doing what I am if I were that blissful, but it's a blast to be around someone who is.

I kind of need a day by myself I think, on the bike. While group rides are fantastic and the time does fly by, I don't get to set my own pace and have a look around. That's on the immediate future schedule.