So Dani’s company had a little get together this evening at the A’s v. Angel’s game in Oakland. At the last minute, it turned out they had an extra ticket for me. So, after my interview with a recruiting company in Oakland (keep your fingers crossed!) I rushed home to meet her and catch BART to the game.

And we never even entered the stadium.

See, Dani’s in the opinion that it’s not about the game, it’s about the tailgate party. To some degree I agree (a beer, a Jack and Coke and Smirnov Ice later, that is) but I haven’t been to the stadium since they put in the new bleachers. And, though our tickets are bleacher seats, let’s face it — that’s where the TRUE fans sit. Plus, my home team was playing.

But, it’s hard to argue with a woman who is constantly arguing that she “needs to pee SOOOOOO bad.” Besides, she has work tomorrow. So, she won this round. Next dollar day at the park, though, we’re putting in all nine.

All in all, I had a terrific time. I drank WAY more than I usually do but, as usual, not so much that I lost any of my facilities. Just enough to be comfortable chatting amicably with a bunch of near strangers. The taste of Jack and Coke takes me straight back to my freshman year in college, when I had my first real alcoholic drink.

David Pearson has the dubious honor of introducing me to literally every vice I have ever had, and he introduced me to John (as close friends know him) mixed with Coke at my first college party at good ol’ Cloyne Court. At Berkeley, there are generally three types of partiers: those who frequent the co-ops (Cloyne, Casa Z and Castro, home of the Food Orgy), those who frequent the frats (usually refugees from SoCal who regret their escape) and those who don’t care where they are as long as they’re intoxicated. I fell into that first group. The co-ops were the only place where you could dance like a mad man in the mud listening to bands that would someday become legendary. I had never heard of Green Day, Mother Hips or Skankin’ Pickle when I first heard them at Cloyne, but I loved them. Now, they’re legends. That makes me feel just that much more hip.

Weird foods, otherwise innocuous but for the knowing look in the eye of the hippie offering them to you, were passed from guest to guest, sometimes promising to get you “all kinds of f—ed up.” I passed — there’s a big difference between a pot brownie and an acid brownie, and I had no desire to find out that difference unknowingly. But the idea of that happening was cool in and of itself. And the weird things that happened there, like the aforementioned Food Orgies. They were exactly what you think — guys and gals would gather in a large room and rub all kinds of food on each other’s sweaty, nude bodies, licking it off each other and grinding to the transient beats bellowing in the background. Again, I never partook, but the entertainment value alone was worth the price of admission.

I’m now 27 years old. I’m not ancient by any stretch, but the freedom of youth is already being translated by my aging mind as so much folly. And that’s just wrong. There are tons of folks my age who hang out at raves (now THOSE are fun — who needs X when you’ve got those groovy lights? Natural highs are the best) and, though closing quickly on the age of creepiness, are still accepted. I’ve mellowed out in my old age, which is saying a lot considering I was never that wild to begin with. I attended raves, but never dropped X. I was a co-op rat, but never took anything harder than alcohol. I was an observer, and in that role I often got a greater buzz than the guys pounding beers from the red cups. I miss that role. I’m 27 but look closer to 33.

I wonder if the kids would find me creepy?