Summer Recess Entry 1: Everyone's Special Boy

An ancient and obscure French blowhard once said that a person's worth in the world is estimated according to the value they put on themselves.

In accordance with this (because I'm in no way doubtful that he is well-versed in the ways of ancient and obscure French philosophy), Timothy "Kinger" King throws an annual party at his parents' house to remind everyone he knows that they should love him more than any of their other friends.

And just to make sure that all those invited know that these parties are about how awesome he is and nothing else, Kinger has dubbed every single one of them "Timapalooza."

And here, we must pause.

"Now, Bob," you might say. "You're being awfully harsh about his motivations."

This could not be any further from the truth. I fully support Kinger's actions. To tell the truth, if every other young person on the planet planned a festival of drunken debauchery in their own honor once a year, I'm pretty sure we'd all feel a lot better about ourselves.

Of course, now that Kinger's done it first, every other party would obviously tank pretty hard in comparison and cause a nationwide epidemic of erectile dysfunction. So, if you were already trying to figure out how much to save for beer after that last paragraph, I would advise heavily against trying this at home.

Now, to get back on track, I have been to two out of three Timapalooza's, and both of them have been flame-headed successes. Unfortunately, being that both me and my ladyfriend guest had to drive home last year, I did not get to experience the full glory of self-indulgence until this past Friday.

To say the least, it was absolutely magical.

I arrived on the scene at about 9:30 pm, and things were already very much underway: Over 50 kids, a Beirut table, a fridge full of beer, a more or less full bar (tended by the illustrious Collin Gately,) and plenty of French techno. An overly red-faced and jovial Kinger flitted about the scene, clearly very pleased.

Whether he was capable of intending to do this or not, Kinger was the absolute center of attention. This was an evening that he had to ask no one if they knew who he was. He made sure to talk to nearly everyone, yell at the top of his lungs (garnering copious amounts of laughter and applause,) and sing a Blink 182 number with the evening's cover band, all within the first hour of my attendance. He was on fire, literally (he had procured quite a sunburn) and figuratively.

I spent these first few hours sober, as I had agreed to drive a lovely young woman named Colleen O'Keefe home at 11:30. Surprisingly, even without my dranking goggles on, everything was just as mystical as it was promised to be. In fact, I think I was happier to have witnessed this portion of the evening's antics with my senses fully intact. I may rag on our dear Kinger here and there for overstoking his own ego and legend, but the boy sure knows how to bring a bunch of people together and show them a good time.

So, I enjoyed a solid 2 hours of "not drunk" before driving the little lady home. I was pretty optimistic about my return to the party. Things were going absolutely swimmingly, and I couldn't wait to legally impair myself amongst many of my dearest friends in this most delightful of Kinger-produced environments.

I will have to take a raincheck.

So, when I kicked (see also: gently opened) the door to the King household at approximately 12:15 am, I was informed of a few things very quickly.

One: there was no more beer.

what the fuck.

Two: there were some crashers. they probably took the beer (I'm thinking this is where "kids who don't even fucking know the words" got their revenge.)

What the fuck.

Three: Kinger had already passed out in his room.

Okay, fucking seriously?

I mean, what I saw before me was far from a mess, ladies and gents, but it was also far from what I had been in the thick of before. Honestly, you could paint scenes from that golden two hours, 19th century style. This? Not so much. I was floored. My drunkety drunk time with Kinger and co. had simply become.... drunk time with... and co.

Thankfully, the evening ultimately proved to be far from ruined (in addition to all the other things it was "far" from.) I ended up meeting quite a few nice people that I had only been vaguely familiar with, and the evening ended with some marvelous quality time with two acquaintances who I now hope to consider pretty good friends. The evening may have fallen apart to a certain extent, but thankfully things were set on a nice slow burn and we could all watch the evening smolder together. It was like a bonfire, except with Tim King's hopes and dreams.

So, in a very sincere turn for my study, I've realized something. As much as I give Kinger shit for his self-declared epicness and importance, he really was keeping that party together. The post-passed out party was still a good time, but it didn't have that distinct spark present when Kinger was up and stumbling about. I have come to the conclusion that we all really need Timapalooza to remind us that there's a little Kinger (re: drunken loudmouth) in all of us, and fuck me if it's not liberating.