The lovely folks who carefully monitor my “Park” posts (all three of you) are most likely expecting a continuation of the last “Park”, wherein I shared bittersweet bits from my childhood. This is an honest expectation, as I ended that post with a “more to come!” teaser tag. In a decent world, this means that I should now regale you with further tales of a happy sad little gay boy trying to survive the wretched backwaters of suburban Tulsa, Oklahoma.
That’s not exactly what is going to happen with this post.
Let me present to the court that I did have good intentions. I awoke this morning, as I usually do, flush with the promise of attempting to validate my life in some way. Then I actually got out of bed, and certain impediments tripped me up on my way to the sacred coffee maker (all hail the caffeine bean!) and my supposed and eventual positioning in front of this laptop, wherein I wreak havoc on the English language and any degree of civility.
My partner got a group text on his phone. He gets texts all the time, naturally, no big, but this time I was involved in at least a peripheral way. His little friends (who are actually my little friends as well, but I often pretend to not care or I would go insane with the mind-numbing manner in which a group text turns into a massive orgy of pinging responses) wanted to know if we were still meeting them at Mario’s.
Oh, right. A few days ago, I had given my consent to such a meeting because it was a few days ago and I thought I had plenty of time to come up with an emergency-surgery excuse. Then I completely forgot about the proposition and did not adequately prepare my eventual rebuttal. (Fair disclosure: Said friends are actually a hoot and I do enjoy them, but as any of my fellow introverts will attest, it doesn’t matter how interesting other people may or may not be, the mere thought of interacting with them requires intensive therapy and a strong will to live.)
In any case, we were now expected to arrive at Mario’s at 4pm. So we did.
And things actually went quite swimmingly, initially. Everyone was super sweet and managed to give the impression that they were thrilled beyond words that I had broken my self-imposed seal and ventured out of my Fortress of Solitude. We hugged and we chatted and we caught up on the various conversational threads that permeate the atmosphere of group meetings where everyone isn’t always there, meaning that nobody has the full story on anybody and that’s the way, uh huh uh huh, I like it.
Still, I was a bit uncomfortable, because that’s in my DNA. So, when the waiter arrived to take my drink order, I nearly humped him on the spot out of sheer joy that he was doing such. Please intoxicate me now with a swirl margarita.
He was on it. “Would you like the small, the large, or the jumbo?”
Jumbo? I had never been more aroused in my entire life. “I’ll take the jumbo. With an extra J.”
Two seconds later, he professionally slid a vibrant concoction in front of me, instantly earning him a generous tip for his expediency.
Two seconds after that, I was completely lit.
I don’t know what the hell was in that drink, but it moved mountains and realigned the planets and my recalcitrance. I suddenly loved everybody, even that one guy at the other end of the table whose name I can never remember. I was so giddy with this unexpected fellowship that I ordered another Jumbo at some point. Two seconds later, I was singing Jim Croce songs and caressing my nipples. It was that kind of moment.
And somewhere in the midst of the caressing, I had the most fabulous blog post idea that I have ever had, bar none. The creativity was swamping my brain, along with the Jumbo, and I couldn’t wait to get back home and compose a thrilling piece that would have everyone acknowledging me as the best thing since Harper Lee.
Then the food arrived, with my personal platter composed of alcohol-absorbing sponges drenched in queso.
Then we drove home (well, Partner Terry did, because I didn’t need to be doing such), and we watched a creativity-absorbing documentary in which presumably-scholarly people explained that the “Trojan Horse” concept in Homer’s “Odyssey” was probably a bunch of crap. I briefly fell asleep during a critical moment in the narrative, caressing my nipples, so I don’t know if they proved their point or not.
And now it’s hours later. The beautiful blog epiphany I had betwixt the Jumbos has long-since faded and I am left with nothing but a mild headache and a dream of what once was. But I wanted you to know, dear readers, that I did think of you, however fleetingly, during a festive session with friends, and really, who wouldn’t want to be thought of when I’m singing a Jim Croce song?
Categories: My Life