When somebody tells you No good party story starts with, "First, we put on name tags. "...
...so after leaving the pool hall wearing the t-shirt I was given and a name tag reading HELLO I'M Gonna Shank You, I went to my favorite local Chinese joint for Cashew Chicken, white meat. I haven't been there since the night I talked culture and politics with the owner, Yen, whilst I drank tequila. That night I also rode my bike into a bush because I couldn't stop laughing. Neither I nor the bush were hurt .
Tonight I brought in my book to prep for tomorrow's book club discussion while I ate. Yen recognised me, and was possibly overly polite and professional, making me wonder if he would have preferred to have another excellent conversation.
"It's good you have a book," he smiled. "Everybody reads their phones." It didn't seem right to ask him to sit with me in the booth, even though the restaurant was nearly empty. Maybe next time.
Then I remembered I wanted to gift my friend a voodoo doll to decorate work-space at his new job. Instead of going home, I went to the little cemetery near the pool hall. I creeped (not crept) through the headstones, looking for one that was really old; this was ridiculous without glasses in the dark. Along the back fence I dug up some soft sand over a grave under a tree; this isn't meant to be real magic, after all, but if you're going to do a thing do it all the way. I followed the fence toward the gate to the parking lot - here was a pretty decent patch of dirt next to a very old-looking marker.
As I crouched closer to the ground, though, I found a jar buried there. It was glass, and the lid was plastic; it surely had been buried there for a long time, as the dirt was hard-packed around it. I thought about scraping some dirt off it but didn't, just in case: this isn't supposed to be real magic, after all, but it's never a good idea to mess with someone else's woodoo.
Huh. I think I just turned this into a good party story that began with people wearing nametags.