7/27/02 Don’t know why this

7/27/02

Don’t know why this is true, but it seems I can’t really get drunk anymore. I figure the Celexa is having some inhibiting effect, but it might just be age: I’ve long had a theory that there should be an age limit for drinking, but on the upper end. Teens getting drunk is basically fine with me, but nobody should be allowed to get wasted over the age of 35. As for me, I did two giant tequila shots and went through three “cape cods” on the boat tonight, and I skipped the “pleasant buzz” part and went straight to “already hungover.”

The boat ride, like all of the planned events for this get-together, was a blast. We parked out in Lake Michigan just in time for the Venetian Night fireworks, then danced all night to Duran Duran whilst wearing our 80s best. Tessa and I went for the “pledge formal” thing, but a lot of folks went as preppies, punks, and Madonna-wannabes. I try not to get too twee about the ’80s – I detested being forced to digest a massive diet of the ’60s thanks to the generation right above us but I really do think our music is better, and the fashion faux pas are much more subtle and interesting.

What was stranger about this 80s party is that the same crowd attended the same party in the actual 1980s, giving it a meta-event sheen that our planners didn’t intend. I mean, I wore the exact same tux tonight that I did to a Chi Psi function in 1988, meaning that irony is just a matter of timing.

Tessa and me on the boat, against the backdrop of Chicago

Highlights from the evening: Tessa’s hair was done up like a hood ornament, earning us the Big Hair Couple award; Wendi’s dress was downright Nagel horrible; Walt Boyle had three costume changes, one of them being a giant rabbit; we got 2nd-place in the scavenger hunt, even though we took the most pictures; and best of all, the lake was choppy, meaning that the most seasick of the brothers were forced to stay upstairs and dance to the Smiths.

Chip didn’t show up, which earned him a rousing chorus of “you suck”s and “PBD!”s on his voice mail (PBD = “pussy broke-dick” for those not on the 2nd floor of the Lodge circa 1987). He went to the White Sox game instead, which kind of blows the White Sox play like 95 games every year, and a boat ride like this is a genuine rarity. I’m sure he’ll field his fair share of rancor by the time tomorrow rolls around.

The evening would have ended nicely back at the Hotsie Totsie bar if I hadn’t engaged in a conversation with Alec McNab about the relative chance of someone setting off a radiological bomb in Manhattan. His brother, as well as mine, lives near Times Square, and he has some of the same fears I do. Leave it to me to talk about the same fucking bullshit at such a happy occasion. My knack for self-sabotage is incredible, like a moth to the flame. This was after not really worrying about it for weeks it’s quite disheartening to think I can still ruin a night. I mean, if the Celexa won’t let me get drunk, can it at least help me quash these thoughts as well?

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