Not your basic accordion player

Every time I go to a party, the same drunken asshole shows up... me.

I don't go to many parties. But the other day I got an e-mail from Ric, the drummer from my old band (John Cougar Rabinowitz). The e-mail said, "It's the first party of the New Year!!!! And you're invited!!!!"

That's why I don't go to many parties. I'm usually not invited.

Ric, recently separated from his wife, lives in exile in Round Rock, Texas, about 30 miles out of Austin. Most of his Austin friends refuse to go to Round Rock and understandably so. Round Rock sits in Williamson County, where possession of marijuana carries a 20-year jail term. I'm not trying to tell you that most of Ric's friends use drugs. I'm just telling you that most of Ric's friends are musicians.

Draw your own conclusions.

So we get to the party and walk into a lavish two-story house and right away I can tell I don't fit in. Normal white people everywhere. People with jobs and checking accounts. People with responsibilities and values. People with children, close family ties and clean arrest records.

Where are all the musicians? Where are the fucking musicians?

Karin -- my girlfriend and designated driver -- fit in just fine. After pouring us a glass of sparkling cider, she headed straight for the artichoke dip. Me? I headed straight for the backyard where smoking's still legal.

Ric came out and joined me. He doesn't smoke, but being a drummer he likes to hang out with musicians.

"There's some scotch you're welcome to," he said.
"Naww, I'm on the wagon. Too many parties over the holidays."
"Hmmmmm.... Karin's idea?"
"Pretty much. Maybe you can sneak some out to me."

Ric called his girlfriend on the cell phone (even she wasn't coming to Round Rock) and the wind chill factor kicked in, so I reluctantly went inside. At the table, several people played dominoes. Seriously. I have a theory: Ninety percent of the men who've tried dominoes still prefer Viagra.

I went to the corner of the kitchen where I wouldn't be noticed. Karin joined me.

"Who's house is this?" she asked.
"Some guy named Vern, I guess. Ric's just renting here."
"Vern's got a lot of friends," she said.
"And Ric doesn't, apparently."

Just then Vern showed up and introduced himself.

"Hi, I'm Vern. I don't believe I've met you."
"This is Karin and I'm Jasper."
"Mike Jasper? The one who writes the column on the Internet? Do you know what I'm talking about?"
This had to be a setup.
"Yep. That's me."
"All right then," he said and quickly left the room. Huh, I thought, I guess he HAS read my column.

Karin and I went to the living room to get away from the dominoes crowd. Seven people sat around the fireplace and since two of them looked like hippies, I felt more comfortable.

Vern fiddled with the stereo.

"I've got a lot of country or I can play some of Ric's new age music, the Happy Valley CD?"

Happy Valley? Spare me. No Foo Fighters or Days of the New tonight, I guess.

Vern put on a country album, some sappy ballad from some sappy Nashville singer. He danced with his girlfriend. People are always doing that, playing the last song they heard the last time they got laid.

"There's always dancing at my parties," Vern said.

I turned to Karin. "At my parties, everyone takes off their clothes, then they drink until they vomit. Eventually the cops show up."
"I don't think I've been to one of your parties," she said.
"Well... I haven't thrown one for years."

After his dance, Vern joined the rest of us at the fireplace.

"So," Vern said, trying to be a good host. "I understand you used to be in a band with Ric?"
"Yeah. It was called John Cougar Rabinowitz."

The hippie-looking guy on the couch, Lee, started to laugh.

"You know what scares me Lee? People who don't laugh. I imagine they're thinking, 'Hmmmm, John Cougar Rabinowitz. Sounds familiar. They have records out, don't they?'"

"Did you ever do any Mellencamp songs?" Lee asked.
"No, but I wanted to do a couple in Yiddish. You know, 'This is a story of Sylvie and Jan. Two little shiksas, do the best that they can.'"

More laughs. Hey, maybe I like this party.

I noticed people kept going upstairs in pairs, usually male and female. Thirty minutes later they'd return. Hmmm.

I whispered to Karin, "What's going on upstairs?"
"A woman's doing psychic readings," she said.

Great. Psychic readings. That figures. In the good old days, Vern would have been a drug dealer and everyone would be going upstairs for lines of coke or a quick fuck. But nooooooooo. It's the '90s and we're old.

On the upside, no one's hogging the bathroom.

"So, someone's doing psychic readings, huh?" I asked Lee.
"Yeah, her name's Karen."
"Does she do past-life regressions?"
"I think so," Lee said.
"Does that include the '60s?" I asked. "I'd just like to know how I got here."

Vern overheard this and laughed hysterically. Now it was his turn.

"I've got a story for you," he said. "I'm on the phone to my priest..."

Not good, I thought.

He's laughing as he continues, "I'm on the phone to my priest. Meanwhile, Mary Jane (Vern's girlfriend) is doing these, well, how can I explain, she's using her lips on a part of my anatomy while I'm on the phone to the priest."

Wait a minute... Maybe I DO want to hear this story.

"Anyway, the priest, and he's a cool priest, one of only four married priests in the world..."

Translation: One of only four heterosexual priests in the world.

"Anyway, he's got a great sense of humor and he says, 'Vern, you sound a little distracted.' And I say, 'Well, yes, I guess I am a little.' And he says... and I'm telling you, this is one cool priest, he says, 'Male or female?'" Vern laughs hysterically, as does everyone else. "Male or female! Can you believe it?"

I took a long, hard look at Vern. Yeah... I can believe it.

Karin left the room to go upstairs for a psychic reading. Turns out Ric the drummer was a psychic too. I guess he handled the women and Karen, the other psychic, handled the men. The house smelled like a bordello.

It didn't take a psychic to figure out what I was going to do once Karin left the room. I headed straight for the scotch and poured a big glass when a woman named Jean said, "Do you like that scotch? I'm the one who brought it."

Holy fuck, set up again.

"I'm sorry, I thought it was Ric's scotch."

She didn't mind. She just wanted to meet the funny guy. Fueled by the scotch, I hung out in the kitchen and met a few more people. A few musicians showed up to the party after all, including Mike and Harley from Chicago. Mike's a singer-songwriter and Harley isn't a drummer. I also met Lee's girlfriend, Cidneye, and Allison (who said I could remember her name by remembering, "All is on." I love that kind of enthusiasm in a woman.) And I can't forget to mention old Jimmy don't-use-my-last-name-if-you-write-a-column.

Jimmy told me, "I should have never said anything to you." Well, I'm here to tell you... he didn't say shit.

After my second glass of scotch, the party improved and nobody seemed normal anymore. I decided to let Vern know I was having a good time, cause I'm sure my opinion is soooooo important to him.

"You know, Vern, I once saw a show that opened with an accordion player and I thought, 'Holy shit, this is really going to suck.' But it turned out he was a stand-up comedian and funny as hell. Well, that's sort of how this party went for me. I walked in and saw an accordion player, but it turned out to be a riot and I'm glad I came."

I'm not sure Vern got the analogy. He turned to his girlfriend.

"That's funny, cause Mary Jane plays the accordion," Vern said.

"Hmmmm," I said. "I would have taken you for woodwinds."

Five minutes later the cops came to the door.

It was my kind of party after all.

STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into it, you're on your own. Copyright 1999 by Mike Jasper.