I am standing beside the pool in a 4 million dollar house, cursing what is the most busted “kegger” I’ve ever attended.  Pony-sized a kegger does not make.  A dozen shirtless homo-erotic splash-wrestling 21-year-old jock douchebags, zero females.  Fuck it, let’s play some beer pong.  If that kid firing off the bee bee gun gets one anywhere near me, I’m going to pick up the nearest planter, throw it in the pool and excuse myself.

Out of the possibility it was actually a real party, I didn’t bring a joint because my self-restraint to prevent TKOing myself is near zero.  God dammit I wish I had that joint now to dull the party let down.

The backyard with the pool is lined with immaculately trimmed 10 foot tall hedges, framing a small gate to the back alley.  Two minutes after I express my regrets at not bringing dope, an 18 year old girl walking by randomly opens the gate, strolls up to me and asks if I have a lighter so she has someone to smoke a bowl with.

These things don’t happen.  Perhaps I willed it to occur with my mind?  All this talk of self-actualization and personality amplification I discuss conceptually is now starting to seem like when Keanu Reeves Matrix powers transferred into the real world.  There is no spoon.  But there is pimp hat.  This is the second time I’ve worn the fedora, I am now genuinely frightened of its powers.

Soon enough I’m back to beer pong with the girl I just made materialize out of thin air on my team and arm, and am being watching intensely by the douchefellows I never bothered to introduce myself to.  They decide this is a good time to take the initiative with a shout of “hey fedora guy” from somebody in the pool taking a break from man-wrestling.

“Sup dawg” is all I shoot back while glancing over my shoulder, almost chuckling at my reflex-action stoner speak.

“My name’s Craig, not dawg, DAWG.”  Well I’m not your guy, buddy or your friend, pal, but I’m afraid I’ve seen better posturing in my day.  But being a stranger in a foreign land, and understanding anyone who’s man enough to get in a splash fight is in a position to command respect, I reply “OK Craig”, turn around and completely ignore them the rest of the night.  This seems to defray some of the tension and eventually one of the less amped, normal type fellows come over to try and engage the party’s star lady.

“Hey, uhhh, hey I just wanted to, umm, to say you know, if you need a drink, like we…uhhh…in the house we got some dri…but I’m, I’m not tryin to be like, I’m not that guy or nothing I was just….” and so on.  For reference, anyone who says “I’m not that guy” most definitely is.  I’m not rapidly crumbling into a hedonist either buddy, honest.  But you might want to get a couple more years under your belt and a pimp hat so you ain’t AAA son.

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