He strides into the party with mirth and fanfare, as generous with his beer as he is with his condescension.

He has travelled far and wide, to mysterious Eastern lands and exotic European capitals. He has gathered a treasure trove of knowledge and wisdom, which he makes no attempt to hide from you.

If he didn’t talk down to you, he wouldn’t be saying anything at all.

So there you are, in his massive apartment on Saturday night, watching him sink into a frantic guitar-plucking trance.

The girls with long hair and gypsy skirts whirl and dreidel around him, hipster ballerinas shitting their small-town angst. He ignores them.

The others languish on the couch, heads propped up on cushions, on shoulders, on curiosity. He ignores them too.

Like this, he’s caught up a zenlike blissful dismemberment. His body fades into nothing, just hands and ears, whipping everyone around him, hornists and dancers and bored onlookers, into a froth of masturbatory coolness.

But you’re getting into it too, and he doesn’t sound half bad, actually, and maybe you could party even longer, maybe even forever, just as long as he doesn’t open his mouth again.