Anyone who truly knows me also knows I wish that 99 percent of people with a vas deferens would get it severed. I had mine severed after the birth of my beloved child, because (1) Iām financially unstable, (2) I love my child too much to offer any attention to a secondary larva, and (3) sperm is poison. Point being: It was with great joy that I attended a friendās post-vasectomy celebration.
I should mention that the friend in question is a bit of a local icon for their rollerblading prowess. Theyāre also younger, cuter, and funnier than me. So I was extra relieved they picked the snip, and extra amused to learn they had recently wiped out in a confrontation with a parked car. Today they were pantsless on their couch, wrapped in a blanket, blaring tunes from the aughties. For the sake of modesty, they threw on a PokĆ©mon hoodie and a pair of pink sunglasses.
Though thousands have flocked to Portland over the last few years, the cast of characters in my life is still remarkably small. So it was no surprise that I knew all the other attendeesāa virtual whoās who of Portlandās Black and brown creatives and activists. Food contributions included chicken, spaghetti, garlic bread, and a variety of chips and donuts. Those of you who read my St. Patrickās party review may recall I have a knack for mixing partial bottles of liquor. Todayās blend featured two varieties of Jack Danielās left over from a party at a different friendās house, who insisted we stop by a convenience store on our way to the vasectomy party to supplement our sad donation.
The convenience store didnāt yield much better. Disappointment was to be expected since the store marketed itself as a āfood mart,ā which is a ghetto euphemism for āall we sell is cheap beer, candy, and cigarettes.ā This particularly classy food mart had detailed parking instructions posted on the door, barred windows, and the following occupancy restrictions: a maximum of four children, no large dogs, and small dogs must be carried at all times.
Back at the party, the pantsless patient challenged my kid to a round of Peggle 2, a video game in which the two-player battle mode is called a āPeg Party.ā (I look forward to someday reviewing a peg party, but for that, my child will most certainly not be in attendance.) The combination of Kirk Franklin and video game music beautifully showcased the roomās masterfully wired surround sound. Music seemed to wash over us from every direction with only two speakers in sight.
It was around this party point that another guest offered me a gig and patiently waited for contact information as I looked around the room for speakers. They finally asked aloud for my email address or a business card.
Why do people still use email? Why donāt I have a business card? I donāt have all the answers, but I know this party scored 10 points out of 10.
Want me to review your party? Send your invite to partyreview@portlandmercury.com