Night of the Living Mind(s): A Recollection

Feels like it was a decade ago, at the least. And, my inner-calendar being a bit loopy at times, it very well could've been that long ago. My greater sense insists that it was only four or so years in the past, so I'll just accept that as the proper chronology.

It was one of the best nights I've ever had just hanging out with friends. The funny thing is, though, I know for a fact that several of the others present that night would disagree and laugh at that statement. They hated it, or were just plain disinterested. Much rather be dancing on a chick, or pounding some Coronas, they were most likely complaining internally the entire evening. Not I, says the fly. More than content, I was in my total element, the scenario that best suits my preferences but rarely, if ever, surfaces.

There were six of us in attendance. The location, a friend's rather-nice, cozy apartment in an otherwise-seedy section of Jersey City. Starting out, it was one of those nights, those weekend darkness-falls time-killers when there's zero plan, futile options, and all that's left to do is hang around one generous (or desperate) friend's nook and shoot the shit, Russian Roulette style.

So, that's exactly what we did. In her living room, spread out on a couple of love seats and one large couch. If Quentin Tarantino were there, he'd have grabbed his camera and spun it around the room, Reservoir Dogs diner scene revisited. Never-before told stories from college experiences were shared (we all went to high school together, so college stories were, and even still are, the best ways to inform each other of new details); hypothetical, and simultaneously revealing, questions were fired away, the likes of "If you could either marry a beautiful, model-like woman but live unhappily ever after, or wed a plain-looking, humbly-pleasant-faced-and-bodied gal but have the greatest chemistry and mutual joy together, which would you choose?" (Of course, one friend in particular opted for the former, which surprised nobody but still managed to disgust everyone.)

The back-and-forth, get-to-know-each-other fest lasted a good four hours, and I loved every second. Is it odd to enjoy the presense of good friends, and do nothing but learn more about them, rather than simply avoid all personal connections, knock back some shots, and dance it up to overplayed radio hip-hop? This feels like I'm on a therapist's couch, it sucks, moaned one friend (or something to that effect, not a direct quote). Voiced by another: What a fucking waste of a Saturday night?

Obviously, that was the last time anything like that night ever happened. Granted, some of the people present then soon met their future wives, or longterm significant others, leaving the opportunity for repeat performaces at the mercy of peel-away-from-loved-ones discretion. Which doesn't exist, contrary to whatever your now-tied-down chum says to the effect of "We'll still hang out, man, I won't become that guy." A noble, appreciated, yet never-true statement. Don't believe the hype.

A fluke? Indeed. The product of boredom by some, and I'll-have-fun-doing-anything adapatability by others? Deinitely. But damned if I don't wish there were more time like it. The allure of hitting bars and inducing hours-later-hangovers disintegrates by the weekend, and so many time I wish I could just call some people over to the apartment, keep the big-screen TV shut off, and just talk all night. One or two beers in hand each, sure, but not to the point of "Shit, I'm fucked up, son. We need to make moves, find some bitches, get wild. Where we at?"

We're nearing our thirties now, son. A time when we should try less drink and more think amongst each other's company, don't 'cha think? No? Fuck it then, pass me that Bud Light Lime, and let's get it started.

If you can't inspire or engage them, join 'em.