Sunday, August 05, 2007

Tiki Master #2 says tiki is alright for me

Can you tell I’m on vacation? I can.

Last night I go with Skimmel and we head towards a tiki party. It did not rain as we left and so we throw care and designated driving to the wind and walked the streets towards the third floor apartment that would host the house warming luau. I did not know we were going to a tiki party when we left, only that it would be fun and the alcohol would flow freely.

We climbed up easily to the third floor to the smell of cooking pig and people with tiki glasses, the blender purred in the background and we were told to choose our glass. The mugs lined the shelf around the ceiling, hundreds of tiki mugs, different sets and styles to choose from. Does the tiki drinker choose the tiki glass or does the tiki glass choose the tiki drinker. I wore pink to the party so I picked a blue parakeet to be my erstwhile companion in my dive down rum lubed lane and filled a glass from a pitcher which was cheerily called Blackbeard’s Punch.

Tiki Master #2 worked hard to concoct the next round of drinking devilry entitled “Never Say Die” which was most parts alcohol and some parts well wishes, with a few parts prayer for the hangover it might inspire on the morrow. I sipped from the parrots skull and he remained blissfully silent, while Skimmel chugged from her tiki barrel stolen from so long lost tiki bar that had fled the city looking for a more affable local.

The place is cool and we find seats, we mingle, we move towards the small balcony. To get to the balcony you must climb out the window. I succeed the first time in one feel swoop, swinging my leg across the ledge, straddling the frame and hooking over my other leg. I manage to make it look graceful at first. That was when Blackbeard commandeered my stomach and posted and “Ahoy matey” to my brain that the party was started and I would no longer be allowed to remain a sober scurvy dog.

At bathroom time I tried to repeat my earlier performance with the window but instead scrapped my arm rather hard. No skin pealed back but I feared a bruise. On my second attempt out the window I knocked my shoulder hard enough to make my head shake and the drink in my belly, at this point a Black Zombie, roll around and scream for brains. Or at least scream that my brains stop rattling. On the third attempt at the window I went more slowly but have still managed to my dismay to bruise rather badly the inside of my thigh. Fortunately that Mosquito that was now floating round in my blue parakeet numbed me so well that I did not feel the pain.

“We got the recipes from these old tiki books from the 50’s” Explain Tiki Master #2 while Tiki Master #1 (Ziki Tiki) manned the blender to concoct some other master work of liberal libation. He shows us the books with pirates and dancing caribbean women and implores us to choose a drink. “Something more to the juice end, we need to slow this party down a bit.” At that point the party was a rum fueled mellow layback, so I think it was more a concern for no one being overboard drunk. We walked the plank, a fine line between drunken unhinged and mellow enticement, it was perfect.

The nipple pierced islander in the red sarong starts to play a drum. I call for a wind instrument, a flute, a recorder a pipe, and someone puts a long piece of plastic to my lips for me to blow. I test it with my fingers and find all the right spots, lick my lips and lay into it, pushing air down the plastic shaft and finding a rhythm to match the drummer. I close my eyes and just feel it, let music happen. I don’t make music, I’m a vehicle for music, I’m the blue parrot singing his song with his belly full of liquid illusion. I find the notes in the air that want to be played and weave them into a tiki transition that is joined shortly by one, two more drums. The party sways and my eyes stay closed seeing the notes in my head, bending and breaking and spinning on a dime. We play for days, we play for years, we play for a minutes and when I finally release my plastic toy there is applause. I blush to match my pink blouse, and go to find where my parrot as perched and the party continues.

We move back and forth between juice and drink until finally after a few minutes on the third floor deck it is obvious the rain will drive the smoking inside. We sit a few minutes and Skimmel and I wonder if it’s going to rain, and then the sky claps for us and the rain starts to come down. We go in search of something to munch on to cool the rum barrels in our belly’s and I find bread and cheese and she cold pork that “is exactly how cold pork should be, the sauce doesn’t over power it and the meat falls off the bone.” I appreciate the description and eat my bread and cheese. We realize after sustenance that we have to walk back through the rain. Food makes us realize the tiki terror in our future waking and it’s time for going.

I say goodbye to my parrot, which now I will miss. We grew to like each other, blue bird and I. He told me stories of all the drunken girls whose bosom he had filled with sweet liquor and I was memorized by his tales of island wild nights in the middle of the urban jungle.

We stumble down the stairs and I think about the bird. I turn to Skimmel. “I’ve never been to a tiki party before,” I say. We giggle like schools girls while we skip in the rain, with our rum fueled brains working overtime in the 3 am darkness of the city.


Roger said...

Sara you love to party don't ya ;D


Your posts are becoming tedious and boring. "less art and more matter."

Saradevil said...

Life is art.

Jill said...

Sounds like FUN!!!!!! Parties you can stumble home from are the best!!!!!!

How do you know if it's a tiki party? Is it because of the tiki mugs?

Mike Bohemoth said...

This happens in Seoul? Nah, you must be at home...where ever that is. Not many Tiki parties in Korea, I bet.

Did anyone get a Greg Brady unlucky Tiki neclace?