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muckefuckI got back to the house right around ten o'clock and found a crowd of people in the alley. I couldn't tell what they were up to; there were about six of them, well spaced, pretty much smack in the middle accompanied by the intermittent sound of something crunching. I thought about investigating, but went and opened the gate, only to stop and reconsider. Were they crushing beer cans at this hour? Even on a holiday weekend, that's kind of uncool.
As I came closer, it dawned on me that a game of cornhole was in progress; the noise I heard was the sound of the bean bags hitting the boards. There was a moment of quiet when I drew near, even before I made some remark about being surprised at seeing so many folks in "my alley". They were immediately apologetic and offered me a beer, which I refused with the explanation that I'd had quite enough today already. Once I'd indicated I was a condo-dweller from the corner, the hosts identified themselves as "lowly renters" and introduced me around.
I hung out for about forty minutes, discussing racist cartoons and small towns in Illinois. Finally I fell into talking with the oldest person there--like me born in Maryland and then transplanted to Midwestern farm country--about airport security and farmers markets. Frankly, he was just about the hottest daddy I'd seen in a day chock full of them. As if to turn the knife, another partygoer summoned him for a game of euchre, explaining, "That wasn't a sexual 'come here' gesture", prompting a bit of homoerotic bandinage. That was my cue to call it a night.
The whole experience was oddly parallel to one I'd had a week before almost to the day and hour. In Canada, Victoria Day is mutatis mutandis our Mem Day: no one really knows why it exists, they celebrate it by drinking and barbecuing, and it functions as the social launch of summer. They only difference I noted is that the Canadians toss in fireworks as well. So Sunday night, the twentysomethings next door to the b&b were tying one on on the porch next door.
I was a bit annoyed, of course, but a holiday's a holiday and expectations aren't the same. It was only when I glanced over and saw that the blaring speakers were aimed at an empty porch that I got peeved enough to march over and say something. The reception was the same: apologies and offers of alcohol. And my response was the same as well: I politely declined and stayed to chat. (Although in the absence of any white-haired cuties, I ended up talking to a lovely young blond woman who was more than happy to suggest restaurants and night spots.)
When I finally left, they had turned the speakers inward, shut the window, and a woman was offering tequila shots from a glass tucked into her cleavage. (Sadly, I returned to my room to discover that the really annoying bass boom was actually from a party on the other side of the building, and I wasn't about to go try to break up that one.) The next day, I spied a rump group of four on the deck cooking out and traded waves with my blonde. I imagine it will be the same some night when I see Shayda and Sean grilling outside their apartment; if Dan the Hottie is there, I might even invite myself up.
As I came closer, it dawned on me that a game of cornhole was in progress; the noise I heard was the sound of the bean bags hitting the boards. There was a moment of quiet when I drew near, even before I made some remark about being surprised at seeing so many folks in "my alley". They were immediately apologetic and offered me a beer, which I refused with the explanation that I'd had quite enough today already. Once I'd indicated I was a condo-dweller from the corner, the hosts identified themselves as "lowly renters" and introduced me around.
I hung out for about forty minutes, discussing racist cartoons and small towns in Illinois. Finally I fell into talking with the oldest person there--like me born in Maryland and then transplanted to Midwestern farm country--about airport security and farmers markets. Frankly, he was just about the hottest daddy I'd seen in a day chock full of them. As if to turn the knife, another partygoer summoned him for a game of euchre, explaining, "That wasn't a sexual 'come here' gesture", prompting a bit of homoerotic bandinage. That was my cue to call it a night.
The whole experience was oddly parallel to one I'd had a week before almost to the day and hour. In Canada, Victoria Day is mutatis mutandis our Mem Day: no one really knows why it exists, they celebrate it by drinking and barbecuing, and it functions as the social launch of summer. They only difference I noted is that the Canadians toss in fireworks as well. So Sunday night, the twentysomethings next door to the b&b were tying one on on the porch next door.
I was a bit annoyed, of course, but a holiday's a holiday and expectations aren't the same. It was only when I glanced over and saw that the blaring speakers were aimed at an empty porch that I got peeved enough to march over and say something. The reception was the same: apologies and offers of alcohol. And my response was the same as well: I politely declined and stayed to chat. (Although in the absence of any white-haired cuties, I ended up talking to a lovely young blond woman who was more than happy to suggest restaurants and night spots.)
When I finally left, they had turned the speakers inward, shut the window, and a woman was offering tequila shots from a glass tucked into her cleavage. (Sadly, I returned to my room to discover that the really annoying bass boom was actually from a party on the other side of the building, and I wasn't about to go try to break up that one.) The next day, I spied a rump group of four on the deck cooking out and traded waves with my blonde. I imagine it will be the same some night when I see Shayda and Sean grilling outside their apartment; if Dan the Hottie is there, I might even invite myself up.