So this house on Oakland Avenue throws a party Friday. It’s a good time, lots of people spilling out onto the lawn, including two – how else do I put this? – dope addicts that wandered in. (“They were nice enough people,” reasons one of the housemates.)
One of the hosts runs down to the corner store with one of the new strangers, the latter declaring that he’s “carrying H and cocaine” on him. (This is a pretty bad sign.) The guy parks in the middle of the street, police start approaching, and our humble host books it afraid the no-longer-welcome guest is going to be arrested. But he’s not – instead Questionable Guest returns to the house to pick up his lady friend, and, apparently, one of the hosts’ laptops. Wonderful.
Thankfully, the one good thing that comes out of that bizarre initial jaunt with the dope fiend is that the hosts found the car and retrieve the laptop just before the couple took off. Scare over and electronics saves, the party goes on well into the night.
But this isn’t a police report – so let’s get back to something much more silly and superficial.
Continuing with the theme of semi-nude bathing at 3 a.m., a few High Society readers started the weekend early with Wednesday-night karaoke at the Heidelberg and ended up swimming in the fountain outside the MLB. Orientation leaders tell you to take off your shoes and wade with Poseidon, but they forget about further advice – you know, for when you end up biking home across campus in your (wet) underwear.
On to the weekend proper, a friend and I drop by a colleague’s house party early Friday. Our host shows us around, then disappears to find us drinks. We’re waiting for him in his bedroom – the friend rolling cigarettes, me judging the room’s choice of posters – when someone throws open the door.
“Oh my god – sorry!” she says, inordinately flustered. “I was just looking for the bathroom. Sorry!” I look over at the friend. He’s sitting at the desk, several feet away from me. There is not even the slightest illusion of coupling. The girl disappears, then cautiously pokes her head through a crack in the door two minutes later: “Sorry, but where is the bathroom? Just so, you know, this doesn’t happen again.” I make some general directional hand gestures. “Thanks” she says and disappears, still looking sheepish. I look down to see if my dress has fallen down, or if the bed I’m sitting on is questionably rumpled. “Weird,” the friend says. But the host reappears, bearing beverages – and, we all know, those fix any situation.
On Saturday, several of our neighbors down the road came in from Ypsilanti for the Eastern Michigan game, and quite a few stayed for the parties. Someone keeping an eye out for High Society ran into a couple of Eastern dudes trying to impress at a party on South Forest Avenue. “Me and my friends stole the ‘D’ from Kid Rock’s house!” one claimed, referencing the giant Olde English “D” for Detroit fastened on the gated entrance to Rock’s Ortonville, Mich., estate. This brought up questions of how one would manage to remove a giant brass marker – blowtorch versus power-sander – and of whether these guys realize that Kid Rock is over. (But relevant enough to mention in this column.)
Also seen and overheard this week:
– A pack of 100 motorbikes honking down South Division Street at 8 p.m. One hundred motorbikes. Critical Mass with motorcycles?
– Most literate theme party: “Dress as an author,” at a co-op north of Huron (henceforth known as NoHu) Saturday. Reports a friend: “There were a lot of Sylvia Plaths.” Sigh.
– Other advice: When someone comes up to you outside your house and says “Hey, I just found this girl laying on the cement. I am from Kansas City, and I thought this shouldn’t happen. Can she crash on your porch?” there’s a good chance he’s not from Kansas City and the girl is actually a younger sister of someone your friends once knew.
– Tell us about your own debauched or just bizarre nights. E-mail firstname.lastname@example.org.