Party Photos, Part II

party people: still partying.


notice his double fisting: Alex and Abel went into the stable to fetch a pail of vodka. a minute later, i created this fable and, and, and -- ah, fuck it, i'm out of rhyme.


dave and his finger: i'm guessing he used it to tease that pompadour he was sporting the whole night. i believe someone at the party referred to it as "John Larroquette hair."


avi and his two fingers: peace is best achieved at 2 in the morning after a few screwdrivers.


another cute couple: Jason and Katie make cutesy poopsey for the camera.


if you haven't figured it out (you might be retarded): Momo and i reconciled soon after i posted the big, dramatic breakup entry. and nowadays, things are terrific.


bitches brawl: i put my money on juice.


yet another cute couple: zee and nick sitting in a hammick, with a love so sweet it might make you sick.


that finger again: oh where will it land and why was it up so high?


no one likes a quitter: which is precisely why i'm still smoking (socially). Ann, Raidis and Damien join me in my debauchery on the couch.


two beauts: Juice and Zee share a calm moment after the roughhousing.


two breasts brains are better than one: Momo and I did some collaborating on how to fix our communication misfires, and we figured that i should wear low-cut tops to keep him distracted and he should create new commentator characters for this blog to keep me entertained. with that in place, i've resumed the bowl-of-jello state i was in when we first got together. in short: i'm in love; i can't help it; he is a star.


stare at this picture: there's just something about it -- polly the anachronism in her bright dress, chad with his raised eyebrow as if he knows some special secret, and corey's beautiful face as the apex. just kinda weird, but i dig it.


still going: dave's finger seems to have lost much of its momentum as it races up his nose and into his brain.


honey, not right now: but definitely later.


i'll have what he's having: like a cherub, that face.


make it a double: or even a triple.


think she likes him? Raidis and Damien actually went to prom together when all of us were in high school. class of '94, represent!


ice cracks your teeth: but in this photo it's harmless.


pet the pompadour: Dave and his finger finally came to rest on the porch, where they remained at rest for a good hour while his gorgeous wife Corey was inside getting hit on by a twentysomething. when i asked Dave if i could bring him anything while he sat on the porch, his reply was, "it's all your fault."


limeye: you can hear the ocean if you put it up to your ear.


this could be his album cover: Jason kicks it in the hammock.


game over (with spooky juice eyes in the background): thanks for playing, Dave (and love you much, please don't kill me for this).


the money shot: speaks for itself.

Still Partying Like I Used To

i had a party over the weekend. just because i could. i won't allow one stinkin hangover to bury me and my youth, so i threw something together very last moment and the people came. and they consumed alcohol and socialized and stayed very late. one of them even threw up on my porch. with that, it felt like a proper party and i had a terrific time playing hostess. here are some visual souvenirs. this part I of II.


bow to your hostess: i said bow, bitches!


this is my good friend (and hairstylist), Stevie: here you see him demonstrating the effectiveness of the nicotine patch.


The Milla Times salutes one of its newest commentators, Wade: visit him and his blog at juniorbird.com.


the bitches i bow to: Ann and Raidis being their radiant selves. i am the missing filipino triplet in this shot.


mr. laca: Chad is rad, dood, with a killer musik collection.


friendly beaver trailer park: Tim and his 40 have the kind of fun that only a man and his 40 can have at a Saturday night sausage fest hosted by a girl he went to high school with.


ditto the above: but apply it to Damien and his 40.


the triumvirate: ditto, now with Deo and his 40 (at left). by night's end we had the following stats: one 40 finished; one almost finished and the last one (a quarter remaining) kicked over accidentally by the partygoer who upchucked on the porch.


blue cups: other alkie was a-flowin as well, mostly of the vodka variety.


make my funk the p-funk: Polly won the best-dressed award in her cute retro thing.


the best smile award: went to my old college buddy Abel, who now runs the ultracool Livity Outernational clothing line.


avatar: me and the Avi-ster, my old grad school buddy whom I TAed a class with. (leave a comment someday, whiggah.)


three-headed monster: high-school mainstays Ann, Raidis and Damien doing their collective impression of The Blob on my couch.


pour out a little liquor for your homies: high school hunks Momo, with his whiskey, Deo and Damien make a toast to the host(ess) -- me!


why are they wearing the same shirt? Momo satisfies his munchies with Cherry Garcia while Damien visits the happy place in his head.


the night's lone tragedy: Dave was trashed fratboy-style -- and it was totally endearing. really.

more photos forthcoming.

I Can't Party Like I Used To

years ago, i received one of those "You Know You're Old When..." e-mails, and one of the criteria that ages you was when the words "i can't party like i used to" replace "man, i think i drank too much last night." another criterion was when you realize you prefer VH1 over MTV. check and check.

my body hated me on sunday, especially my head, which was gripped by a killer headache. i didn't mean to drown it in so much red wine the prior night. i want to say that i never poured myself a single drink and that my glass miraculously refreshed itself the whole night through, but i doubt that's true. i also want to say that i never bummed the cigarettes that compounded my hangover the next day, that they magically flew into my mouth and lit themselves and the only way i could wrestle free was by smoking them down to their butts, but that's probably not true either. the truth is: it was my evil twin sister. yeah, it was that bitch. i can't take her anywhere. man, i should be able to do better than that.

ah, fuck it. i got smashed saturday night -- me. i did some party hopping. ended up at juan's fabulous fete downtown. he had a pinata. he also had a bunch of beautiful people there, most of whom i didn't know. i did get to know his stash of red wine very well, however. we got to know each other so well that it spilled itself all over my crisp white shirt, which i promptly removed -- very clever ploy, that sneaky bottle. then i began dancing around like an idiot in the black tank top i had on underneath. i think i started quite the flirtation with a sexy asian girl on the dance floor who was dressed like a pirate in black capris and a striped shirt. i asked her if i messed up my party dates and it was really halloween (i'm smooth, ain't i?). she said no, that she had come from a theme party and that no one else was in costume so why would it be halloween? i countered with the brilliant: "i like your tattoo."

the straight women in the world can be thankful i wasn't born a straight man. i would be the 40-year-old virgin with absolutely no game. the one who would assault them with trite lines. and with my luck i'd probably also be born with sweaty palms. talking to women is as complicated as performing brain surgery -- one misstep causes paralysis. talking to men, however, is as simple as window shopping, where there's always that option to buy.

i had made my purchase earlier, so i shuffled across the living room dance floor toward my mystery date and away from the sultry pirate. i figure by then she had grown sick of my insistence that i should be the one wearing her rhinestone-encrusted eye patch. yep, i'm nothing if not smooth. mystery date shakes his head at me and sips his whiskey on the rocks. through my blurry vision he looks a lot like Momo. he drives me home, throws some covers over me and lets himself out. i think it was close to 4am. i awaken the next day with killer headache and raccoon eyes.

sunday held a day of suffering. no amount of water or B vitamins or juice suspended the grossness entirely. and the litany of other quick fixes i found when i googled "hangover cure" were too much for my bloodshot eyes to focus on. so i spent the day mostly bed bound, in my baby blue jammies, eating spinach soup and watching the second season of Ali G on DVD. i can't party like i used to.

respek.

Where I'd Rather Be

this is actually where i would be -- hawaii -- had i not been my glorious retarded self. i was offered a last-minute opportunity to fly out to hawaii by my flight-attendant friend kiana, who flew in last week and was awaiting my arrival. she's got buddy passes for flying standy, which means get to the airport early and stand the fuck by for an available flight. my best chance, she said, was the friday 8:30am flight out of LAX, the flight plenty of bozos miss because they oversleep, leaving many empty seats to be snatched up by standbyers like me.

"get there early," kiana advised. so what do i do? i get there late, and miss my check-in cutoff time by about four minutes. i became the bozo i was trying to beat. i also became quite flustered and nearly belligerent with the clerk who couldn't seem to comprehend why i should get special treatment.

"you missed your check-in. go see about getting on the next flight out," the clerk says and points at a long-ass line with her acrylic nails. "no way am i standing in that line. i need to get on the 8:30 flight or else i won't make it out at all today, so i need to talk to someone who can help me go through security and get to the gate," i tell her with great confidence. "you missed your check-in," she replies, unimpressed.

not one to be deterred, i bypass this clerk because, of course, i know more about flight policies than she does and i will allow no woman with a bad attitude and acrylic nails to ruin my one shot at a weekend in hawaii. i find another clerk and explain that i didn't really miss my check-in because it was only by four minutes, so it's too negligible to consider "missed." and i go on and on about how i don't have time to go on and on because i really need to be at that gate, so just let me through to the gate and help me get to the head of the security line because it's far too long a line for me to stand in right now because i'm running late and need to just get on the plane already, because i am a non-paying customer flying standy on a buddy pass, and don't you know who i am? i am a legend in my own mind, so you should really give me a break.

next thing i know, i'm standing in the long-ass line clerk one pointed me toward with those acrylic nails. an hour later i'm at the front with a new clerk who seems to have painted on her eyebrows with a sharpie pen. (why are these airport clerks so ghetto?) "the next flight is at 12:30pm. it's oversold and there's already a wait list for standby. you will be 31st on the standby list." i turn around to leave.

the weekend didn't end up too bad. i spent some of it at resfest, had dinner with my girlfriends and went to the gym, where i sat in the steam room. it's been humid in hawaii so it was similar. well, not really.

:-(