Where the pretty boys grow

This weekend, I went to my friend's 40th birthday party. It was a blast -- Neil is from Venezuela and cooked up a whole slew of dishes from the region. The company was also fun -- we had a good time hanging out. Tom managed to stay up later than 9:30 which is a major feat for him.

Afterwards, I got more or less dragged ("No, No.. Okay.") to a party in a very rich part of town. The house was amazing - and amazingly trashed. I was a gape with the idea that someone that had that nice of stuff (ex: the huge Persian rugs were squishy with liquor and soda) ruined. For the first 30 seconds, I had the rush of "Ooo. I am at a "in-the-know" party" (There was even a photographer taking pictures of the pretty crowd. But then my standard dislike of big crowds, excessively drunk people (A trashed guy petted my sideburns) and the overwhelming noise quickly surpassed any novelty feeling.

So I grabbed a candy cane in a basket at the door and headed home.

All of this makes me feel more and more like I am walking the line between geek and gym bunny and at times like that, it seems like the gulf isn't really spannable. At least by me.