"Let him collect himself, again" - Georg Levin, Let There Be Love
We'd be at a house on a hill soon after midnight but the Curson house, where we watched the ball drop and kissed friends and acquaintances to ring in the new year, is the one I'm envious of. With the pillars at the entrance and the traditional backyard with the orange tree and the small one room guest house and the second floor and the balcony? Yeah, it's the one that I want (the one that I want) ho ho ho honey.
I don't want these drinks, though. We should say no to cheap vodka and Everglo and Hypnotiq. Your adult beverages shouldn't look like a new flavor of Mountain Dew. Everglo actually glows. Green in the glass. Or red solo cup at this party. Do I get a special toy with the happy meal and the hangover?
I'm not complaining much, though. The boys that live here have actually tarped the backyard in case of rain and brought in a heat lamp. I might mock the poor bar they've provided but I will do it from the comfort of these blue flames overhead.
Hov is standing with me. There's a lull in the party. I tell her to come talk with me for a bit. I whisper, probably loudly, "So, why did the shoe salesman and his boy wonder bring whores to the party and pretend like everything's normal?"
She looks at me. She's high. The two ladies I'm referring to are sitting on a picnic table bench 20 or so feet away shrilling into a phone about something asinine. I point in their direction. Hov turns and snorts.
I die laughing.
Now, I'm not talking about "hoes." This isn't a Ludacris video or Jigga's Big Pimpin' (although Hov and I do throw up the Roc whenever appropriate). And, it's not as if there aren't other odd ducks here. We've got the Texans in for the Rose Bowl, one of whom is exactly what you think of when someone says "a Texas boy." If only he had his cowboy hat. He told me he left it at the hotel. We've got the sitcom co-star comedian who, as he does at every party, dropped his pants. For 30 minutes. And we've got the lady in white. All white. With no shirt, opting instead for the tight jacket with one button buttoned so that we could see the quality of her magnificent boob job. Magnificently spreading. Her breasts were running away from each other. And she had a fuzzy hat. Also white.
Classy.
No. I'm talking about literal whores. As in pay for play. The oldest profession. The happy hookers. There can be no doubt. Skirt to the cleft. Animal print. Hair just a tad too big. Makeup just a whole lot too thick. An inability to keep their hands above the Mason-Dixon line of their dates' waists but as soon as the boys were out of ear shot, on the phone with some other person. Making crude but excited fun.
They made my night. Forget the party favors in the guest house closet, this is what we need more of.
"I've finally got a New Year's resolution," I declared as we drove up Outpost to party number two, "More whores at parties."
Now I just have to figure out how much that's gonna cost me.