Shotski!

I went to a pool party in San Marcos in August that began with a morning visit to a Stone Brewing Company beerfest. I showed up after everyone had made it back to Heidi’s house.

I walked into a room completely darkened except for a TV on which the video game Rock Band was being played. I watched a few people playing along to the Go-Go’s before heading to the backyard.

A bartender had been hired and was busy serving the crowd. One woman walked up to throw something away and was confused by the various recycling bins set up.

I was confused when someone yelled “shotski!” I thought there might be a Polish guy at the party until I saw a ski that had shot glasses glued to it. They were filled with tequila, and six people downed the shots at the same time, as the bartender tipped the ski.

I heard that Heather had hired the bartender after seeing an ad on craigslist. I asked him about the laws involving private parties. He said, “I’m licensed through the ABC.” He started to explain how it works when a party has people under 21, but he had to make margaritas for a group of women.

I wanted to ask him about the tip jar he had set up. It seems to me, if they hired him to make drinks and paid for the alcohol, partygoers shouldn’t feel obligated to give a tip.

A guy was doing flips into the pool. His wife kept telling him not to. A few others did cannonballs. And since this wasn’t the biggest backyard, a lot of people got soaked. One guy yelled, “You’re getting my hat wet!”

I was worried about my cell phone and camera, and a person nearby said, “I had my cell phone ruined a few years back when I got thrown into the pool. It was $100 to replace it.”

A few people were sitting in the Jacuzzi while one person brought them beers.

I told Heidi this was the perfect house for a party. She said, “Yeah, that’s what we thought when we moved in.”

A few other women came up for margaritas, and a guy that appeared drunk started talking about all the calories in margaritas. He then talked about the dangers of alcohol. After a woman gave him a weird look, he said, “Hey, I just want to help you. I love people.” He stumbled away.

One guy without a shirt approached me and sarcastically said, “Cool shades.” I had a pair of clip-ons attached to my glasses. I started to talk about how I usually wear my contact lenses, but before I could explain more, he interrupted, saying, “I have one word for you: lazy.”

I asked, “What’s lazy about that?” He said, “No. Lasik, not lazy. I got it, and now I can buy these five-dollar shades and life is good.”

Me and another guy started talking about the Lasik horror stories we’ve heard, and the guy who’d had the surgery said, “That’s BS. It’s just like vasectomies: they go well for everyone, but you meet that one guy who had a testicle swell up the size of a beach ball and you say you’re never gonna have it done. Yet, you can talk to a thousand guys that have never had complications.”

I heard the women in the Jacuzzi yelling to a woman named Rose. I thought it was someone that had just shown up, but it was the person closest to the bar. They needed more drinks brought to them.

There were a few canopies set up for shade, and they had a ping-pong table. A funny list of rules was posted on the back door; it stated that no furniture was to be thrown into the pool, no throwing ladies into pool, no hanging out in the front yard...and something about immoral behavior. One woman told me, “That stems from an incident last year. We had a bunch of girls making out in the pool. Somebody may have been bothered by it. I think the guys were just staring in amazement.”

I met one guy who’d thrown a party I attended in La Mesa. He reminded me about his greyhounds. He told me he had a Cuban cigar he’d give me. I asked how he got it, and he said, “I stuffed them in my hiking boots. I took all the rings off them. In customs, all they said to me was, ‘Welcome back.’” I told him I’d drive to La Mesa to pick up the cigar.

The most interesting couple I met was a deaf woman and her boyfriend. He told me that they met at a bar in North Park. Because he’s a translator, they were able to communicate. I looked at her and said, “You’re lucky he’s good-looking. The one guy in the bar that you could have a conversation with...” She laughed, interrupting me to say, “I can talk and read lips. And there’s nothing wrong with writing notes back and forth, either.”

We ended up talking for 45 minutes about movies, parties, and other topics. At one point, he said to me, “I went to a party that these deaf people were having. I showed up, and you couldn’t hear a thing. They didn’t have music playing. It was so strange.” She smiled and told me, “I do go to concerts. I can feel the bass.” She also mentioned a reggae artist that does sign language while he sings. An hour later, as I was eating peanuts at the bar, she walked by dancing perfectly to the beat of the music that was playing.

I met a woman who talked about her husband, who worked for a company in Carlsbad called Gunnar Optiks that does a lot of work with famous musicians. She talked about parties she’d been to with clients of theirs, like 50 Cent. When I asked her what it was her husband did exactly, she said, “Ask him yourself.”

I couldn’t, though. He was in the room playing the Rock Band video game.