The hour badly spent

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.

Let us be clear on a few things I like. A lot:

1. enormous swank apartments.
2. travelling abroad.
3. kitschy Asian products.
4. food.

1. kids with enormous swank apartments.
2. kids who have travelled abroad.
3. kids with kitschy Asian products.
4. musicians.

Such was my dilemma, at a Saturday evening birthday party, in a massive swank apartment occupied by Daniel, Andrew - a guitarist with a huge wound on his elbow; the Spy; the Man Who Travels With the Spy; assorted acquaintances dressed up like flags, and of course, various Asian tchatchkes: a sushi kit, lacquered chopsticks, and scary Japanese desserts.

"It’s so vaginal," said Andrew, introducing everyone to his elbow slit.

In Russia, vagina wound YOU!

I didn’t really say that. Actually I don’t even know what a vagina looks like.

The food was still being prepared and the kitchen looked like the set of Iron Chef. I feel weird in other peoples’ kitchens; I want to help with the slicing and cooking, etc, but I don’t know where anything is and would probably just look inept (actually I really am inept!), so instead I stay out of the way and just knock back the beer someone offers, which in this case was Tsingtao, by the grace of Daniel. Then Greta finished making her sushi rolls. (How do you make sushi in Kansas? Canned tuna. Mmmm, but yech). The eggrolls the Spy had been frying were ready. Mmmm, no yech. Katie’s curried veggies were ready. Mmm, no yech. The Spy also fried some orange chicken. Mmmm, more mmmm. So I guess there are advantages to obnoxiously young people who have travelled to China and come back with trendy sinophilia. They cook for ya! And if you’re good they’ll even give you a tour of the swank apartment, which is what Slender Starrypants did.

"This shower is ridiculous. It can fit fifteen people. Seriously, we’ve tried squeezing everyone in here just to see if it would work."

"Shower scene?" I didn’t really say that. Err, actually I did.

After the shower scene I floated around for a few minutes, eventually landing on the enormous white couch, and partook of these obnoxiously young kids’ 5000-inch flatscreen TV. The game was on. I’m pretty sure it was basketball. I was getting really really into it when the Spy disrupted my reverie by offering second helpings of friendship (see what I did there?):

"What are you doing over there? Come mingle with the rest of us."