Derelict

This weekend was kind of like one big impromptu salvage operation, trying to make the best of the fact that I stayed in town instead of going to the Captain’s Alien trilogy marathon.

Since Dean and I canceled our Halloween plans, we decided to save that money for Friday night instead (this would probably have happened regardless of whether I left town, because I would have left Saturday morning). I was easily talked into yet another last-minute revision of our itinerary. Dean just bought new equipment, and we decided to “break them in” by sparring Friday night instead of going to P. Ott’s.

We met at his brother’s house near my office. Being barefoot in the backyard at dusk in November provided some environmental challenges. After some drills with the pads, we moved on to sparring, which was very tricky in the dark, especially with the neighbor’s porch light blinding us from certain angles. We decided to just do grappling for about another hour.

After sustaining a few cuts and bruises, and a couple of slightly aching testicles (we won’t tell you which ones), we changed clothes and happily headed over to Charlie Hooper’s for a late dinner and a little bit of the gin and tonic (‘tis the season to drink something that tastes like a Christmas tree).

We went our separate ways around 9:30 or so. Back at the house, I polished off my Sailor Jerry while watching my recently purchased DVD of Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country.

Saturday morning, I got up earlier than I would have liked. I had some errands to do, and I took my sweet time doing them. I bought a wedding present and a gift card, but that’s about the only thing I really “accomplished” before going to karate after lunch. At karate, I was already exhausted from the previous two nights. After another two hours, I was ready to have my legs amputated. But it was great. I also volunteered to assist with the upcoming women’s self-defense courses in December.

After karate, I rushed home to watch Ocean’s 11 before meeting Dean for another impromptu dinner—also at Charlie Hooper’s. It was at this point where the weekend took a turn. Dean and I embarked on a series of poor decisions and unexpected twists that ultimately led us to places we didn’t intend to go, under circumstances we didn’t intend to be, on a time frame we didn’t intend to have. And we gained an hour to our evening, which really only screwed us. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain this any more clearly, but let it suffice to say that we were over-dressed for where we found ourselves, and we garnered the negative attention of several female specimens of the species. Bad vibes, enough coffee to kill a family of hummingbirds, and a complete failure to achieve what we set out to do. And my car still smells like isobutane.

Sunday I went to a wedding in Prairie Village. I was friends with both the bride and the groom from church. It was a beautiful ceremony for a beautiful couple, with a very autumnal theme to it. There was a short reception with pie, cider, and coffee while everyone waited to blow bubbles at the newly-weds. You know the drill.

After that, the private reception was held in Westport. Unfortunately for me, my name wasn’t on the list. Why? Because I didn’t RSVP. Before you go berating me for my stupidity, let me explain. I didn’t RSVP, because I didn’t actually know I was invited until seven days before the wedding. At that point, the groom-to-be handed me the invitations to both events in person, saying that he really did want me to come. I guess I need to give out my address more, huh?

So I’m standing there like a pariah, on the candle-lit fifth floor of the whatever-building, with dawning recognition that I was totally screwed. The hostesses were less than sympathetic, I might add. I was told I could come back in an hour or so, after everyone had eaten, to rejoin the party for cake and dancing. I left, unsure of what to do. I stopped by where else but Charlie Hooper’s on the way home, just in case I did decide to gamble and try to return.

It seemed somehow cinematic, imagining it from the bartender’s point of view. It’s Sunday evening at the bar, and there are a few handfuls of boisterous locals in Chiefs apparel (there was a game that afternoon), and in strolls yours truly with a loosened tie and rolled-up sleeves, wearing a distinct look of defeat. As I waited for my burger, staring at and fidgeting idly with my bottle of Killian’s, the bartender/waitress asked, “Do you want a newspaper to read? Or do you want to sit and think?”

I have to wonder what she thought my story was. At that time, the Beck song Derelict came on the speakers. I had to smile at how perfect an ending it was to the weekend.

Let me recap this, because I’m still trying to grasp it myself. I spent probably half of the weekend wearing a tie, rolling with the punches (sometimes quite literally), and spending more money than I actually saved by not driving all the way to Mexico, MO. Three meals at Hooper’s and a gift card from Bed Bath & Beyond.

In retrospect, I probably would have been better off going to the Captain’s Trilogy Day rather than spend an entire weekend playing cat-and-mouse across an entire city. As I lay on my bed Sunday night, scrolling through my cell phone and still wearing my dress pants, I pondered the number of things that went wrong and couldn’t figure out why I still had a mild sense of satisfaction from it all. Hey, at least it was a variety. The spirit of misadventure, I guess. Folly.

Sorry, Captain. I gave it the old college try.