For reasons of Bram back from Hong Kong, last night a Pink Party uptown.

There were pink streamers criss-crossing the ceiling. A pink flamingo. Pink balloons on the walls, on the floor, on the sofa. Bowls of pink jellybeans. A rummy pink punch. A plate of pink wafers. A PYRAMID OF PINK SNO-BALLS. I’d never had a Sno-Ball before, and I eyed the tray for several good minutes before I said, “Mmmm. Maybe I need a Sno-Ball,” and Tom edged his way through the crowd ’round to the snack table to get me one, and I said, “You’re my favorite,” because it’s true.



Me, I was in a pink dress, and arrived brandishing a bottle of rosé. The wine store guy’d been trying to sell me his favorite Spanish Grenache, but I had to tell him I wanted the bottle of Californian Ca’ del Solo because the label said “Big House Pink.”

Matt Z marveled at my sticking to the theme, but the thing is, when we are talking about the conjunction of me and a Pink Party, it is not hard to stick to the theme.



Matt Z himself was in a two-dollar pink shirt from a DC thrift store. Pink shirt was a deep, bright pink, with Santa Fe silhouettes of horses and also, possibly, cactii across the chest. Matt Z wore it with pride, which is the only way to wear such a shirt.

Chad was in suspenders and a bowtie and the furry bottom half of a pink bunny suit.

Sally was in a pink bobbed wig and gold Chorus Line shoes.

For a sociology professor, Duncan sure is built like an action figure. Under his sociology-professor clothes, no one is aware of this. Squeezed into a small pink T-shirt that says “Itty Bitty Kitty Committee” across the front, he is a sociology professor action figure who makes the ladies swoon and the boys’ jaws drop.

Jake and Scott came in a full-body pink pig costume and a full-body pink dinosaur costume. Later, Mateo absconded with Jake’s headwear and found me and Tom in the hallway. He was yelling something about something, I don’t know what now, it was just words, and muffled, and it was dark, and he had on a large furry pink pig head, and we couldn’t stop laughing, and all I could think was “Mmm...bacon.”



Tom was wearing a red shirt. Tom! But then Bram came through for him with a preppy pink tie.

And, oh, Bram. “You can get anything made in China,” he said, and clearly this is true, because Bram was in pink with white piping, a breathtaking miracle of custom suit-making. When he peered in through the curtain of pink foil strips, I may well have shrieked a little shriek before jumping up to hug him hello.



There was drinking wine out of the bottle, and ex-girlfriends galore, and a guy trying to score some pot. There was talking with Gregory about an upcoming motorcycle trip around the world, about boats, about understandings between bikers. There was making plans with Ryan to maybe find each other in Paris this summer.

Somewhere in the one o’clock hour, I found myself in a conversation with some guy in architectural glasses, who lunged toward me saying, “Kraftwerk, they’re fucking genius.” It was time to go, then, so Tom walked me down six squeaky flights and out into the night. We were arm-in-arm to the train, and there was a drizzle, and a little shiver, and the smoke from the boy’s cigarette. Something about it was the good ol’ days, but something about it, too, was everything changing.