So, mid-December, Mrs. Grand Poo-Bah and I attended her workplace’s Xmas soiree. Normally, I jump at the opportunity to be in a room full of otherwise sober folks who, when given the convenient excuse of a holiday staff party, get rip-snortin’ hammered. And in years past, we two have been amongst the last to leave, savoring the steady increase in slurred speech and decreased motor functions of her professional peers. However, this time around I could only take it for a few hours. As yet another sign of “Oh Crap, Ah’m a-Gittin’ Old”, it was waaaaay too loud and waaaay too small a space with waaaay too many people who don’t drink very often. Furthermore, instead of the oh-so-hilarious slurring, these folks seemed to lose the ability to control the volume of their voices. Cue the migraine, and we bailed early like a couple of Puritans. It was just all too much.
Fast-forward to this past weekend, where we attended the wedding of some good friends of ours at one of the venerable Pioneer Square bars. To give a little background, said friends are pretty much royalty amongst the bartenders and cocktailers in that neighborhood, as well as a decade-long couple who just now decided to get married. So, a huge party was planned, much imbibing and revelrie ensued, and this time I enjoyed myself immensely and never once felt like gnawing off my own arm and running screaming to the hills.
My recent encounter a handful of weeks ago with the staff party had me worried going in– what if I’ve suddenly become one of those people who doesn’t like parties anymore ‘cuz them’s just too durned loud? Have I reached premature Fuddydudd-itude? Do I now officially suck? Well, fret not, True Believers, for the party was booze-soaked and I had a blast through to quittin’ time. So why was this shindig different, and why did I run for the hills at the former, but close down the joint at the latter?
First obvious difference is that the space was much larger, and actually designed for large groups of people to destroy their livers all at once. Not that the staff party host’s house was small, but just didn’t have the right flow (every path around furniture and every doorway had a mob of people loitering in ‘em…) The real difference was the fact that the wedding was populated by what I now refer to as PROFESSIONAL DRINKERS.
Disclaimer: this does not insinuate that I was in a room full of chronic alcoholics. Rather, I use this term to differentiate from the amateur, maladroit drinkers at the staff party who got much too drunk far too quickly to be able to maintain any sense of cool. Instead, this was a room full of bar and restaurant veterans who know how to drink and socialize at the same time, without screaming or breaking shit. We’re talking career bartenders and cocktailers and their long-time patrons who know how to get properly soused without acting like a bunch of college kids at a freshman year kegger. A good time was had by all, and it was rowdy and bawdy, but everyone was still able to act like adults and NO ONE WAS YELLING UNCONTROLLABLY WHEN THEY WERE HAVING A NORMAL CONVERSATION.
It just seemed to me that when people only really DRINK-drink once or twice a year, they just aren’t able to a) pace themselves properly, and b) maintain shit-facedness with any kind of control. Compared to those who partake regularly and with gusto, most of whom earn their living through cocktails, and it’s like pee-wee football versus the NFC All-Star team. (And as a side note, how hilarious would that be? Like the rugby scene in Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life…)
To sum up, I have not in fact morphed into a geriatric tee-totaling curmudgeon. I’d just prefer to drink with the pros.
PS: already loused up trying to get at least one blog entry a month. BLOG FAIL.