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Blackjack OK, so I have failed at finding something besides myself to talk about. This time. Recently I was talking to one of the fine folks at work who was bemoaning her lack of 21-ness to gain access to certain clubs that have such restrictions. I was reminded of my own pre-21 angst, and the fete de freedom I enjoyed upon reaching the 21st day o' birth -- not so much for the legal access to alcohol but for the access to music I had been previously denied. My 21st birthday party was about the coolest thing I never dreamed of. My divine friend K (who is now married and living in Turkey) offered up her digs for the shindig, as my own apt. was woefully tiny at the time. We got the obligatory keg, invited everyone we remotely knew, and had live and lively music. This is the part where I show off and name-drop, as I am one of the fortunate few who can say that John D. the Mountain Goat was one of those who serenaded me that night (ok, he really didn't serenade me specifically, but a girl can dream, can't she?). We all had a grand time, and eventually a horribly absurd mosh pit broke out in the alley outside (have you ever seen a bunch of nerdy indie kids form a mosh pit? It's bizarre.) At any rate, I had a great time -- until the end of the night, when John came outside holding his guitar in a fury. Someone in the course of the evening's revelry had smashed a little hole in the back of his beautiful twanger. Boy, did I feel shitty about that. After we brought the keg back home we offered it up to our neighbors, who finished it off and also finished off their relationship in drunken fit of infidelity. Wait a minute, this story isn't cool at all! At any rate, like everyone else I was glad to be 21 -- even though I only had two months left to college it was a relief to be free from the shackles of youth. Of course, after 21 there's the struggle to not be old, jaded, bitter, lazy and embarassingly flattered when you get carded... |
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