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I went to a luau at a home off Murray Ridge. As I was getting ready to go there, I got a call from a guy driving to San Diego from Phoenix. He had a Reader with him, saw my voice mail, and called to ask me if I knew of any good parties or clubs that he could hit while in town. He told me he was rich and would pay me for my time. I laughed and said, "I'll just rattle off a list of nightclubs and bars; you don't have to pay me for that." We talked for a while and then I told him I had to leave for the luau. He asked where that was, and I invited him to come along with me.

He was a thin guy, about 6'5". We got to the party, and there was a $5 charge to get in. He didn't have his wallet with him. (Isn't that always the case with "rich guys"?) I paid for both of us, but when I met the woman who invited me, she said, "I told the guy at the door not to charge 'the crasher.'"

There was a band playing Sublime tunes in the living room. I didn't catch the band's name, but the following band was called Clockwork Army, and they had this little female Asian singer who could belt it out.

There were girls walking around in grass skirts and guys in Hawaiian shirts (two with white ties). There were kegs under the patio by the pool. People in the back yard had a bong going. A few others smoked joints.

I recognized one girl from a previous party because of a birthmark she had on her arm. I asked her, "Do you work at SeaWorld?" (Hey, if I can't remember the name, the job is the next best thing.)

The Phoenix guy was in his late 40s and was the oldest person at the party. He had a good rap and was making a lot of people laugh. At one point, he was on a couch with two girls who mentioned being at a Dukes of Hazzard party I went to.

This luau didn't have a pig; they had hot dogs. A guy who had two in his hand said, "These have pig parts in them. That's close enough for me."

There was a bar set up in the back yard. A UCLA student made me a Jack and Coke. She told me about her travels to Europe and that she's studying to become a doctor.

A blonde woman named Robin told me she was flying out to Europe soon. I asked her how she was able to take the time off work, and she said her bosses weren't that happy about it.

I heard the band start to play the Police's "So Lonely," which is a song I love. It wouldn't be the only police we'd hear at the party. San Diego's finest showed up in the early evening because of the noise.

As I watched the band, I heard a short guy ask a tall guy, "Do you play basketball?" The tall guy responded with, "Do you play miniature golf?"

There was a drinking game being played on an outdoor ping pong table. As one guy tried to bounce the ball into a cup of beer, it flew four feet from its target. He yelled, "Damn! It's too windy to be playing this out here."

There was an ice luge. One guy said, "Who would want to put their mouth where everyone else has? That is so gross." His friend said, "Stop being a chick." I watched one person put his mouth to the ice and take a drink. He then ran to the pool and dunked his head in. I thought he was going to barf. He held his head underwater for about a minute and then got up and walked away. I'm not sure what that was about.

One guy told me it was his last day in San Diego before moving to Michigan. I asked what he'd be doing there. "Mostly, I'll be cold there." Another guy told me he was leaving for San Francisco. He's going to attend Berkeley.

A lot of people weren't dressed in Hawaiian clothing. One guy had a shirt that read "My other shirt is Hawaiian." Two guys had Jimi Hendrix shirts (and were often standing by the Hendrix poster on the wall). A guy with a beer belly had a shirt that said "I'm here for the lap dance." (I'm sure that gets the women.)

Since there were bands playing, I wondered about the neighbors and the noise. One guy said, "When I have parties, I usually invite my neighbors. But I've heard of people giving dinner gift certificates to the neighbors on both sides. They can go out and have a nice dinner and not be bothered by the noise. And if they get home early and the party is still going, they won't call the cops. They'd feel guilty since you just paid for their dinner."

Two girls were taking photos, and one backed up and spilled beer on my shirt. I discovered one of the girls was a model but was reluctant to tell anyone. The other girl looked like Jessica Simpson with short strawberry-blonde hair and freckles. As I talked to them, the tall guy from Phoenix came over. He asked me if I read the New Yorker. I told him it was too esoteric for me, but if they ever published a Cliff Notes version I'd check it out. He had a lot of interesting things to say, but as one woman said when he walked away, "Half of what he says is bullshit, isn't it?"

I ran into one of the many girls who lived in this house. Her name was Courtney. She said, "You better stay long enough to see the Antiques play. They're great. And if you drink too much, you can sleep here. We have plenty of rooms."

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